Faith and Phoena invested in some baskets of doubtful durability, while Hubert made friends with a lame gipsy boy, from whom he bought a dozen washing pegs. These he thought, would make a suitable gift for Nellie, whom he had observed using these homely implements.
Whilst bargaining over the baskets, Phoena had kept a persistent look out for the traces of any waif or stray, who might be stowed away in one of the gaily painted vans, and was woefully disappointed to see none.
“You’re glad now, Gaston, that you came with us, aren’t you?” enquired Hubert as they sat down to tea.
“But yes, I am very glad,” was the cordial reply.
“Won’t Andrew and Di be sorry that they didn’t come,” said Phil, “when they hear all about it.”
“Rather,” said Jack, “I call it a stunning spree.”
“Yes, it is a very funny sort of place,” said Phoena, thoughtfully.
“I wish,” said Jack, “that their wretched horses were fatter.”
“Do you think that they’re werry hungry?” asked Hubert, pausing in the act of attacking a plum bun.
“That poor thing out there looks like it,” answered Phil, pointing to a miserable white skeleton of a pony, tethered by the roadside.