“Wot be yer wanting o’ me, little master?” said the man.
“I love gipsies!” said Ralph.
“Do yer, indeed? And wot’s yer name?”
“I am Ralph Durrant. I live at a school near. There are lots of girls in the school, and I’ve got a school-mother. My school-mother is at the fair, and I am alone here. I’m rather lonesome, and I’m so glad you have come, gipsy man, ’cause you can talk to me.”
“To be sure,” said the man, seating himself on a low stile, and taking from his pocket a very large clasp knife, with which he proceeded to sharpen a stick.
Ralph stood very near him without speaking, just glad to be close to him. From time to time the man looked at the child, and the child returned the man’s gaze.
“Where did yer say yer held out, youngster?” he remarked after a long pause.
“At a school with a lot of girls,” said Ralph. “Father sent me; it’s all right. How funny and sharp you make that stick, gipsy man!”
“I guess you mean you live at Abbeyfield?” said the man, now shutting up his knife and returning it to his pocket. “They be rich folks there, so I guess you must be rich. We gipsies is poor; our folks haven’t got any money.”
“Nor have I,” said Ralph eagerly. “I haven’t any money at all; if I had I ’spec’ I’d have been took to the fair. See, gipsy man, see, my pockets is quite empty.”