“Then what makes you bring it to me to read, just as if you felt dead sure this little dark-faced child in the gypsy van might be the golden-haired Effie Elverson?”
“Now, hold on, Frank,” interrupted the other, with a sudden change of front. “You know I didn’t say a word about that. Fact is, I explained in the start I only fetched this paper for you to see that what Bones said isn’t true. Right in these up-to-date times children do disappear once in a while. Yes, and I wouldn’t put it past a gypsy tribe to steal a little girl, and even dye her hair! Laugh, if you want to, Frank.”
“No, I’m not laughing, Lanky,” replied the other. “To tell the honest truth, somehow you’ve gone and got me worked up more than a little about this business. And since I promised to help you out, if I could, I’ll go along when you visit that gypsy camp. But we must lay our plans first.”
“How’s that?” demanded Lanky, eagerly; for when it came to mapping out a campaign he was always willing to yield the palm to his wide-awake chum.
“If you go to nosing around that camp without some good reason, I’m afraid you’ll get in a peck of trouble right away,” Frank went on, quietly. “Those gypsies are a hot-blooded crowd, and they don’t like being spied on. And it would be all the worse if it happened that there was any truth in what you suspect, and the queen kept a stolen child inside her big painted van.”
“Yes, you’re right there, Frank. What had we better do?” Lanky asked.
“I’ve been thinking that part of it over, and struck an idea that might pan out all right,” Frank remarked.
“I’d wager it was a good one before you said a word; but put me wise, Frank.”
“Why,” Frank began, “I remembered that the gypsies always made their camp at Budd’s Corners every year; and I hear they’ve settled down for a week’s stay this time at the old place. So I went over to see Mr. Budd.”
“Yes?” Lanky observed, in what he meant to be an encouraging tone.