“No, we can do what we have to do ourselves,” declared Phil. “If they’ve got mother’s ring I’ll take it away myself.”
“And she was such a pretty girl too—for a Gypsy,” murmured Blake.
“They’ll always take a trinket if they get their hands on one,” declared Phil. “I suppose she saw it glittering there on the table, and while she was holding the girls’ hands, and telling them all sorts of rubbish, she just slipped it away when they were thinking about a dark stranger or crossing unknown water. Bah! It makes me mad!”
“And she was such a pretty girl,” murmured Blake. “I wouldn’t have believed it!”
“Oh, drop that kind of talk and get a move on!” exclaimed Phil. “It’s quite a ways out to that Gypsy encampment, and she has a good start of us.”
“Not so much,” declared Jack. “We came as soon as your mother missed her ring.”
“Yes, but we wasted five minutes talking about where it might have strayed to, and another five looking for our hats. That’s ten, and those Gypsies travel light—they’re always ready to make a forced march. Hurry up!”
“I still maintain that we’d better take one of our faithful and efficient cops with us,” declared Jack. “Those dark-skinned horse traders are ugly customers, I’ve heard.”
“Not when you’ve got ’em where we have these,” declared Phil. “They’ll wilt when we tell them what we want, and give up.”
“The worst of it is that we haven’t any proof,” suggested Blake.