"That's the best idea. I don't much fancy a hand-to-hand encounter with a band of such desperate ruffians as those gipsies have shown themselves to be."
"Don't be scared. We won't have any trouble if we're careful."
"I'm not scared; but if we did get in a tussle with them they could easily overpower us and then we'd have done more harm than good for they'd take fright and move right off."
"That's my idea. We'll be as cautious as mousing cats."
"Better stop talking, then. I never heard a mousing cat mi-ouw."
Cautiously they crept on. The trail still held good. At last they reached the head of the glen where a spring showed the source of the brook.
"What next?" whispered Jimsy.
"Let's see if we can find which way that fellow went. The ground is spongy all around here and—ah! this way! See it?"
Jimsy nodded. They struck off to the right, clambering over rocks till they reached the summit of a small hill. A tall dead tree stood there and Jimsy volunteered to climb it in order to spy out the surrounding country for traces of the gipsys. But on his return to the ground he was compelled to admit that they had gained nothing.
"I thought I might see some smoke that would give me a clew to their whereabouts," he explained.