“It’s a den of vice he’s taking us into,” groaned Father. “And if we go back they’ll pursue us. Maybe we better—”
“I don’t believe a con game is a nice thing, whatever it is,” said Mother. “It sounds real wicked. I never heard of thimble-rigging. How do you rig a thimble?”
“I don’t know, but I think we better go back.”
They stopped. The large man turned on them and growled, “Hustle up.”
Obediently the Innocents trailed after his dark, shaggy back that, in his tattered overcoat, seemed as formidable as it was big. The glow grew more intense ahead of them. They came into a clearing where, round a fire beside a rude shanty, sat several men, one of whom was still droning “Hello, ’Frisco!”
“Visitors!” shouted the guide.
The group sprang up, startled, threatening—shabby, evil-looking men.
Father stood palsied as grim, unshaven faces lowered at him, as a sinister man with a hooked nose stalked forward, his fist doubled.
But Mother left his side, darted past the hook-nosed man, and snapped: “That’s no way to peel potatoes, young man. You’re losing all the best part, next to the skin. Here, give me that. I’ll show you. Waste and carelessness—”
While Father and the group of circled hoboes stared, Mother firmly took a huge jack-knife away from a slight, red-headed man who was peeling potatoes and chucking them into a pot of stew that was boiling on the fire.