"Over in Freedon," and Tom Turner, for such he said was his name, pointed to a village on the other side of the lake from that where the Bobbsey twins had their home. "Our folks come here every year to pick blueberries, but never as early as this. I guess I've had my trouble for nothing. I've eaten more berries than I put in my basket, I guess. But I was so hungry I had to have something. I didn't find many ripe ones at that, and I guess I got as much outside of me as I did inside," and he laughed again, showing his white teeth.
"Where do you folks live?" Tom asked, as he took a piece of cake Nan offered him.
"We're camping on this island."
"You don't mean to say you are gypsies, do you?" asked the blueberry boy in surprise.
"No, of course not!" Bert answered. "We live in Lakeport—Bobbsey is our name and——"
"Oh, does your father have a lumberyard?"
"Yes."
"Oh! Well, then you're all right! My father drives one of your father's lumber wagons. He just got that job this week—been out of work a long while. I heard him say he had a place in the Bobbsey lumberyard, but I never thought I'd meet you. I thought maybe you was gypsies at first."
"That's what I thought you were," said Nan.
"We're going to be gypsies when we get older—Freddie and me," announced Flossie.