“Well, whose chicken roost has been raided now?” demanded Big Jim, approaching with his smile and his impudence both in evidence.
“No chicken thievery,” snapped Stryker, flashing his electric light into the big Gypsy’s face. “Where are those kids?”
“What kids? I got my own—and there’s a raft of them. I’ll give you a couple if you want.”
Big Jim seemed perfectly calm and the other Gypsies were like him. They routed out every family in the camp. The constable and Neale searched the tents and the vans. No trace of Tess and Dot was to be found.
“Everything you lay to the poor Gypsy,” said Big Jim complainingly. “Now it is not chickens—it is kids. Bah!”
He slouched away. Stryker called after him:
“Never mind, Jim. We’ll get you yet! You watch your step.”
He came back to the Kenway car shaking his head. “I guess they have not been here. I’ll come back to-morrow when the Gypsies don’t expect me and look again if your little sisters do not turn up elsewhere. What shall we do now?”
Agnes was weeping so that she could not speak. Neale shook his head gloomily. Mr. Pinkney sighed.
“Well,” the latter said, “we might as well start for home. No good staying here.”