“What won’t they be a doin’ nex?” exclaimed a fourth.
Bud smiled and said nothing. But, just at this time, seeing a familiar figure in the crowd, he sprang forward, lifted the rope and beckoned Madame Zecatacas, the Gypsy Queen, to come inside. She did so, and, while a hubbub of protest and inquiry arose from the crowd, Bud led the picturesquely bedecked fortune teller to the airship shed, lifted the canvas flap and signed to her to enter. The old woman had now none of the creepy, malignant look she exhibited the night before. She was rather fawning than otherwise.
“Look a’ here, Madame Zecatacas,” Bud began at once. “I reckon you don’t know what a commotion you made last night. They say you scared my friend sick.”
“The Gypsy Queen sees all things—knows all,” began the old woman in her usual singsong. “He who spits on—”
“Oh, see here,” interrupted Bud. “He didn’t spit on you, and didn’t mean anything agin’ you. You’re a little touchy ain’t you?”
Madame Zecatacas gave him something like the look she gave Lafe the night before. Then her face relaxed into a smile. She ignored the question.
“The young gentleman has a good hand. Money, and the Gypsy Queen will bring him good fortune.”
“I ain’t got but ten cents,” laughed Bud.
The Gypsy scowled.