“Don’t you fool yourself. She reads. She knows. But she never seen one.”
“Well, we ain’t on exhibition now,” spoke up Lafe. “You and the old lady have your pay. We’ll excuse you.”
“What you so sore about, Lafe?” interrupted Bud. “I don’t see that they’re doin’ any harm. I think we ought to thank ’em for makin’ us a pot of coffee at midnight.”
Before Pennington could make reply to this, Zecatacas, the Queen of the Gypsies, took a step forward. Something seemed to make her look bigger—perhaps it was the light, which now fell full on her face. Bud stepped back. It was a face full of creepy power. Chanting, the woman spread her long fingers before her and mumbled:
“The old Gypsy Queen has read the Book of Fate many years. Across the seas, she foretold how man would soar like a bird. What she foretold has come to pass. Not for gold nor silver did the Book of the Future open to her. She dreamed the dream of what would come to pass. To-morrow Zecatacas will look upon what she foretold across the seas.”
“Sure,” interrupted Bud, anxious to change the subject, “come to me, and I’ll get you a front seat—free. When did you predict that there’d be airships?”
“Rubbish,” exclaimed Lafe, glaring at the old fortune teller. “If you feel better now, you’d better duck and get to bed.”
To neither of these speeches did the gypsy seem to give the slightest heed.
“What is written in the Book of the Future will be. I see men flying over forest and mountain. Faster than birds they mount into the clouds. The clouds are dark, the sky is black. I see—the Gypsy Queen sees death.”
“Get out, you old hag,” roared Lafe, angered at last beyond control, “or I’ll fire you out.”