Bobby ran along the hedge, stooping so as not to be seen by the man on the wagon seat, and came around to the front of the house from the direction opposite that which Jim Varey had taken.
Just as she reached the front porch there was a wild scream from Miss Carrington, and Bobby saw the man leap from the far end of the porch with Margit in his arms.
Margit did not scream; she only beat the man about the head and—perhaps—left the marks of her nails in his dark face.
It was plain that she was being carried away from Gee Gee against her will. She had no desire to go back to the Gypsies.
Now, Miss Carrington could not run. She had been brought up in no athletic school, that was sure. She followed the kidnapper clumsily enough, and he would have gotten well away in the covered wagon with the girl, had it remained to Gee Gee to intervene.
But Bobby screamed, dropped her books, and went at the fellow as though she were playing football. She “tackled low,” seizing with both arms about the knees, and Jim Varey, screeching and threatening, fell forward on the sward—and Margit escaped from his arms.
“Oh!” gasped the girl.
“Quick! get into the house!” cried Bobby, bounding to her feet.
Margit whisked past her, and past Miss Carrington, and fled indoors as she was advised. Jim Varey leaped up and confronted the little girl who had overturned him. His fists were clenched and he gabbled in the Romany tongue a string of what were evidently threats and vituperation.
“Now, it isn’t me you want to carry off,” said Bobby, bravely. “I wouldn’t be any good to you. Get away, now, for I see Mr. Sharp coming down the street.”