“Tramps? Are you tramps?”
“We are artists,” said Gemma.
“What do you do for your living?” asked her judge.
“We dance,” she answered, “and Nonno yonder he does conjuring tricks, and sometimes has a little lotto, but that is only when we have got a little money: we have none now.”
“A lottery!” exclaimed Mr. Carey, whose face grew very stern. “You are mere idle vagabonds, then, when you are not worse. Do you live by your wits?”
“We dance,” said Gemma, again.
“Dance! Can you read and write?”
“Oh, no.”
“How old are you?”