“Aren’t we gettin’ pretty near that little rise, Frank?” asked Lanky, when they had been making progress for some time.
“Be there in five minutes or so,” was the confident reply; for Frank had the happy faculty of taking note of distances, by objects to be seen along the way; and as a rule he was able to tell to a fraction just where he was, when going over a route he had traversed before.
He turned out to be a true prophet, too; for about the time that limit had expired Lanky remarked in a thrilling whisper:
“I can see the rise right now, Frank; we’d better turn off the road, too, because there’s somebody coming with a rig. It might be one of those jockeys from the camp.”
Frank hastened to comply with the suggestion, and they were soon making their way through the woods that led up to the bare mound, which the boys had selected as a place for making their observation.
They crept along with extreme caution, because the camp was not far off, and both of them feared lest a gypsy man might be wandering around about that time, and would discover them unless they used unusual care.
Presently they ascended the little rise.
“Say, this is a good place to see from, all right,” commented Lanky.
Frank, instead of replying, was starting to focus the field glasses on the camp of the nomads, plainly seen through the open lane. Although night had by this time fallen fully, several fires were burning in the camp, and these lighted up the entire place where the wagons and tents were.
The gypsies were either moving about, or else sitting near the fires, evidently eating their supper. Lanky almost held his breath while Frank looked.