“The man said it was.”
“That doesn’t make it so,” retorted Alice. “I never knew such poor directions as those given by persons who have lived in a place nearly all their lives. You scarcely ever can depend on them.”
“That is so,” agreed Natalie. “I remember we were at Atlantic Highlands one summer, and I went for a walk. I got a little confused, and asked an old gentleman how to get on the right road. He was an old settler—he told me so—and yet he directed me a mile out of my way, and it was twice as far from where I was to our cottage as he said it was. Oh, I was so provoked!”
“I do hope nothing like that occurs this time,” ventured Mrs. Bonnell. “Whom did you ask about the road, Marie?”
“The boy who brings our milk.”
“Not that stupid chap?” remonstrated Mabel.
“He isn’t stupid,” declared Marie. “It’s only bashfulness. He’s eighteen, and he ought to know——”
“Yes, he ought to know enough to be bashful with this crowd,” laughed Alice. “Oh, Marie, couldn’t you get any better guide?”
“There you go!” exclaimed Jack’s sister. “You left it all to me, and when I do get directions you’re all finding fault. It isn’t fair!” and she swung ahead on the narrow path as though she wanted to have done with the argument.
It was two days after Natalie had overheard what she believed was a clue to the location of the Gypsy camp, and the girls had determined, after a somewhat lengthy consultation, to at least go near enough to spy upon it, and decide later what to do—perhaps with the help of the boys.