"Yes, sir."
Carstairs tossed him his tobacco pouch. "You can take all that's in that."
"Thank you, sir. I forgot as to mention as I could smoke and chew any baccy on the market. This yer—this yer," he reflected, thoughtfully, as he emptied the pouch, "is what we calls boys' terbaccer."
"Go on home, Bounce."
"Yes, sir." He doubled up with violent mirth.
"You should have added that you could laugh like a baby elephant."
"Yes, sir." He doubled up again, then, suddenly straightening himself, saluted in all solemnity. "To-morrow morning at half-past eight, sir." He turned and made his way out.
Next morning punctually at half-past eight Carstairs and Bounce set off in a hired dog-cart for the gipsy camp. They drove along the beautiful country side chatting lightly till they came (over the top of a hill) into sudden view of a torn and trampled valley, teeming with men; little locomotives steamed fussily in all directions; gantry cranes wheeled and pivoted and travelled with large blocks of stone from one place to another.
"That's the new water-works," Bounce said.
"Alright, let's go down, some of the men will be sure to know where the camp is." They drove down to the deeply rutted, slushy, entrance, a five-barred gate was kept permanently open by the furrows of rick brown earth turned up by the heavy cart wheels. A strongly built, healthy looking individual dressed in a tweed suit and yellow leggings and a cloth cap, was picking his way carefully through the deep mud of the gateway: he was the resident engineer. Carstairs pulled up and shouted to him across the hedge, "I say, is there a gipsy camp near here?"