THE GYPSY GIRL
With a gait that betokened indolence, and her entire appearance bearing
out that suggestion, a girl with a bright-colored handkerchief on her
head, sauntered along the path in the direction of the little party,
who had been conferring in the “enclosure.” Her feet seemed weighed
down with shoes many sizes beyond her real need, and her dress was so
long that she looked as if she might have been playing grandmother up
in some attic, and had forgotten to leave the things behind after the
game.
“Well, Urania,” began Dorothy, smiling, “you are out early, aren’t you?”
“Haven’t been in yet,” drawled the girl. “So much fussin’ around the
camp last night I just left the wagon to little Tommie, and made a bed
out under the pines.”
“Fussing?” inquired Nat, showing keen interest in the girl’s remarks.
“Yes, comin’ and goin’ and--” She shot a quick glance at the boy who
was listening so intently to her words. Then she peered through the
wire cage over to the dove cote. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Your
birds sick?”
“Worse,” spoke up Tavia. “They’re gone, stolen!”
“Flew the coop?” said the gypsy girl, with a grim smile. “Them pretty
ones, with the pleated tails?”
“Yes, and those beautiful dark ones,” sighed Dorothy. “Those with all
the colors--like sunset, you know.”
“Too bad,” murmured the strange girl. “Lots of chicken thieves around
here lately. Dad says people will be blaming us. But we’ve been in this
township every summer for ten years, and Dad is just as thick with the
‘cops’ as--the old woman is with the peddlars,” she finished, grinning
at her own wit.
“You didn’t happen to hear any strangers around the camp last night,
did you?” asked Ned, kindly.
“Heard more than that,” answered the girl. “But, say, I came over here
to borrow something. Business is bad, and the old woman wants to know
if you could just lend her a quarter. I didn’t want to ask, as I don’t
forget good turns, and you’ve treated me all right,” with a nod to
Dorothy. “But when the old woman says ‘go’ I’ve got to turn out. She’s
gettin’ awful sassy lately.”
The girl dug the broken toe of her shoe deep into the soft sod.
Evidently she did not relish asking the favor, and as Nat handed her
the coin she looked up with a sad smile.
“Much obliged,” she stammered, “I’ll bring it back the first chance I
get, if I--have to--steal it.”
“Oh, no! I’m making you a present of that,” the youth answered,
pleasantly. “You mustn’t think of bringing it back. But about the
noises at the camp last night? Did you say there were strangers about?”
“Might have been,” answered the girl slowly. “But you know gypsies
never squeal.”
“I don’t expect you to,” followed Nat. “But you see my best birds are
gone, and you, being a friend of ours, might help in the search for
them.”
“So I might,” said Urania. “And if I found them?”
“Why, you would get the reward, of course. I’ve offered a dollar a
piece for them--alive.”
“A dollar apiece?” she repeated. “And how many were swiped?”
“Six--the very best three pairs,” answered the young man. “I’ll have
the reward published in to-night’s paper--”
“No, don’t,” interrupted the girl. “That’s what they’re after. Keep
them guessing for a day or two, and well, maybe the doves will coo loud
enough for you to hear them in the mean time.” At this the gypsy girl
turned away, leaving the party to draw their own conclusions from her
remarks.
And while the others stand gazing after Urania, we may take time to
get acquainted with the various characters who will come and go in
this story, and who have appeared in the other books of this series.
As told in my first volume, called “Dorothy Dale: a Girl of To-Day,”
Dorothy was a daughter of Major Dale, formerly of a little town called
Dalton, but now living with his sister, Mrs. Winthrop White, at North
Birchland. Dorothy’s chum, Octavia Travers, familiarly called Tavia,
was the sort of girl who gets all the fun possible out of life, besides
injecting a goodly portion of her own original nonsense into every
available spot. Dorothy and Tavia had been chums since their early days
in Dalton--chums of the sort that have absolute faith in each other:
a faith sufficient to overcome all troubles and doubts, yes, even
reports that might be sent out by the unthinking or the unkind, for
Tavia naturally got into trouble and kept Dorothy busy getting her out.
Several instances of this kind were told of in the first book of the
series; in the second called, “Dorothy Dale at Glenwood School,” Tavia
developed still greater facilities for finding trouble, while Dorothy
kept up with her in the matter of “development” in smoothing out the
tangles. In the third volume, “Dorothy Dale’s Great Secret,” Tavia came
very near “social shipwreck,” and no one but such a friend as Dorothy
Dale proved herself to be, could have, and actually did, rescue her.
Mrs. Winthrop White, called by Dorothy, Aunt Winnie, was also an
interesting character in the books. She was described by Tavia as a
“society thoroughbred,” and was mother to Ned and Nat, the two jolly
boys whose acquaintance we have just made. These boys were Dorothy’s
cousins, of course, and Tavia’s friends. Tavia was spending part of her
vacation with Dorothy at the Cedars, Mrs. White’s country place. The
boys played an important part in the rescue of Tavia when she tried
to “earn money by going on the stage” with a “barnstorming” company,
when Dorothy herself got into complications at Glenwood School, (trying
to assist a girl who proved entirely unworthy of the interest Dorothy
manifested in her affairs,) it was Tavia who “helped out.” At Glenwood
School we met some of the jolliest sort of boarding school girls, and
were permitted to get a glimpse into the sacred life of those who
consider every boarding school a college junior, and in imitating the
college girl antics actually outdo their elders in the matter of fun
making.
The gypsy girl, Urania, also appeared in a previous volume, and it was
Dorothy’s characteristic wit that then helped the brown-eyed Urania out
of a very unpleasant predicament.
And now this gypsy girl was offered a chance to return a kindness to
Dorothy, for in getting trace of the stolen birds all who lived at the
Cedars, would be relieved of worry, and spared much anxiety, for the
birds had been great pets with the folks there.
But would Urania make her clues clear? Dare she risk gypsy vengeance to
show her gratitude to Dorothy?
“She knows, all right,” remarked Nat, as the girl swung out into the
roadway on her way to the camp.
“But she’ll never tell,” added Ned. “She wouldn’t dare. That Melea, her
stepmother, whom she calls the old woman, is a regular ‘tartar.’”
“I think,” ventured Dorothy, “she might give just a hint. We wouldn’t
want her to do anything that would endanger herself. But if we
guessed--”
“You’re the star guesser, Doro,” put in Tavia. “For my part I never was
any good at that trick. You remember how near I came to the mark at the
Glens’ Donkey party?”
“Then keep away from this tale,” said Nat laughing. “It wouldn’t do for
the clue to be pinned on the wrong party.”
“I must have a talk with Urania alone,” Dorothy said, seriously. “I am
sure she will tell me what she knows about the birds. I’ll go see her
this afternoon--I want to go over to the camp with some things, and
then I will get Urania to walk out with me. It wouldn’t do for Melea to
see our two heads together.”
“Great idea,” commented Ned. “I quite agree with Tavia. You would make
a star detective, Doro. And the best of it is no one would ever suspect
you of being ‘on the rubber.’ Now Tavia--well, she just up and asks,
the most impertinent questions--”
“For instance. Who that nice looking boy is who has been dodging around
here lately?” interrupted Tavia, taking up the young man’s sally, and
adding to the joke on herself. “I must say he is the smartest looking
chap--”
“Oh, the fellow with the red cheeks?” asked Nat.
“Exactly,” answered Tavia, in a serious voice.
“And those deep blue eyes?” questioned Ned.
“I have not seen his eyes--close by,” admitted Tavia, “but with his
hair, they must be deep blue,” and she looked entranced at the very
thought of the “deep blue orbs.”
“Why, I haven’t seen this--Adonis,” said Dorothy, interested. “When
might a body lay eyes on his perfection?”
“He goes along the river road every morning,” Tavia informed her
companion, with great importance.
“And he carries a small leather case, like a doctor’s satchel--only
different?” went on Nat.
“You have certainly observed him closely,” declared Tavia, still
cherishing the importance of her “great find.”
“Yes, I know him,” said Nat.
“So do I,” added Ned.
“Oh, who is he?” implored Tavia, “Do introduce us!”
“Just as you like,” assented Ned, “But he is only a boy--goes to school
in Ferndale every day.”
“I thought so,” and Tavia was more interested than ever. “Where does he
go? He is studying some profession, of course.”
“Hum,” grunted Nat, with a sly wink at Dorothy.
“But just what a hero might be studying, would, of course, not
influence the opinion of such a broad-minded young woman as Tavia
Travers,” challenged Ned.
“I should say--no!” declared Tavia, with mock dramatic effect.
“Well, then, that boy is studying a most remunerative and heroic
profession,” went on Ned.
“I knew it,” cried Tavia, bounding over in front of Ned to get the
important information.
“Yes, he is studying--the plumbing business,” said Ned, and the way he
looked at Tavia--well, she just dropped in a lump at his feet, and when
Nat fetched the wheelbarrow, she still played limp, so they put her in
the barrow, wheeled her up the path, and she “stayed put,” until they
actually carried her indoors.
When she “recovered,” she declared she would waylay the plumber the
very next morning, and have him look over some little jobs that might
be found in need of looking over, by just such an intelligent youth.
The boys seconded this motion, and agreed that a good plumber was a
much more desirable acquaintance than might be a fellow who studied so
many other languages that he necessarily forgot entirely his interest
in English.
“Besides,” said Nat, “A nice little plumber like that, with deep blue
hair and red eyes--”
“And a lunch box that looks like a doctor’s kit,” interrupted Ned.
“Just jealous,” snapped Tavia. “I once knew the loveliest plumber,
never charged me a cent for fixing my bike.”
“And you would forget him for this stranger!” said Dorothy, in tragic
tones.
“No, indeed. I would think of this one in memory of the o-th-er!”
answered Tavia, clapping her hand over her heart, and otherwise giving
“volume” to her assertion.
“Well,” sighed Nat, “If it’s all the same to the ladies, we will
continue our search for the missing birds. Can’t afford to let them
get too far away, and the morning is wasting.”
“Hanged if I’ll tramp another step,” objected Ned, “not for all the
birds in Paradise. My feet are so lame now they feel like the day after
a ball match, and besides, Nat, unless we get an airship and explore
further up, it’s no use. We’ve covered all the lowland territory.”
“All but the swamp,” admitted Nat, “and I have some hopes of the swamp.
That would be just the place to hide a barrel full of stolen pigeons.”
“Or we might look in somebody’s pot-pie,” drawled the brother,
indifferently.
“No, sir,” declared Dorothy, “Those birds would begin to sing when
the pie was opened. Now you boys had better let me take this case. I
have a feeling I will be able to land the game. But I can’t have any
interference.”
“Go ahead, and good luck,” said Ned. “Take the case, the feeling, the
game, the whole outfit. You’re welcome,” and he stretched himself
in the hammock with such evident relish that Tavia could not resist
slipping around the other side, and giving the hammock a push that
“emptied,” the weary boy on the red rug beneath the “corded canopy.” He
lay there--turned up a corner of the carpet for a pillow, and remarked
that in his earlier days, it was said of him that he could roll out
of bed and “finish up on the floor,” and he “guessed he hadn’t quite
forgotten the trick.”
“Now this afternoon I’ll go down to the camp,” announced Dorothy. “So
don’t expect me back--until you see me.”
“Is that a threat?” joked Nat. “Sounds so like the kind of note one
gets pinned to the pillow when there’s been a row. ‘Don’t expect me
back. I am gone out of your life for ever--’” and he pressed his
handkerchief to his eyes, while Ned just rolled around in “agony” at
the thought.
“And she was such a sweet girl!” wailed Tavia, adding her “howl” to the
noise.
Such a racket!
Mrs. White appeared at the French window. “What in the world is the
matter?” she demanded, beholding Ned with his face buried in the
carpet, Nat with his eyes covered in his handkerchief, and Tavia with
both arms “wrapped around her forehead.”
“Oh, mother!” sobbed Nat. “We mustn’t expect her back--”
“And she won’t stand for any interference!” groaned Ned.
“And she’s going with the gypsies,” blubbered Tavia.
“Well,” and Mrs. White joined in the laugh that now evolved from the
reign of terror. “You children do find more ways of amusing yourselves!
But it might not be a bad idea to get ready for luncheon,” with a sly
look at Tavia’s uncovered slip. “Those pigeons seem to have rather
upset the regime.”
“I’m off!” shouted Tavia, with a bound over the low rail of the porch.
“I’m on!” added Nat making himself comfortable on the “tete” beneath
the honey-suckle vines.
“I’m in!” remarked Ned, as he slipped into the hammock.
“And I’m out!” declared Dorothy, with a light laugh, as she jumped off
the steps “out” into the path, then was gone to follow the suggestion
of her Aunt Winnie, for Dorothy had learned that to follow the house
rules was the most important line in the social code of Mrs. Winthrop
White.
CHAPTER III
DOROTHY AT THE CAMP
Under a clump of trees, near a brook and an open meadow, and beside a
broad country road, was pitched the gypsy camp.
This spot was chosen deliberately and with much care. The trees
furnished shade for the tents: the brook furnished water for the horses
and for housekeeping purposes, the meadow furnished pasture for the
cattle, and the roadway furnished trade for the fortune tellers.
Outside the tents were the wagons, with the queer racks, like fire
escapes, running from roof to hub. These racks are used at moving time,
to carry such stuff as might interfere with the inside “berths” during
a long journey, and at other times the racks do service as “store
rooms” for articles not needed in the tents.
In one of the wagons Urania had her sleeping quarters which were shared
by a baby half brother on such occasions as he chose to climb into the
high berth. But little Tommie was a typical gypsy, and often preferred
to cuddle up at the root of a pine tree rather than to “hump” up in hot
pillows in the wagon on summer nights.
So Urania never looked for him--if he were not in bed he must be asleep
somewhere, she knew, so in real Nomad philosophy, Tommie never looked
for Urania, and Urania never looked for Tommie,--the wisdom of living
independently comes very early to members of their class.
Neither do gypsies bother about meal times. They eat when they are
hungry--so it was that Dorothy found Urania eating her dinner at two
o’clock in the afternoon, when she made the promised call at the camp.
There appeared to be no one about the tent but Urania, and when Dorothy
pulled the little camp stool up to the “door” (the opened tent flap)
and seated herself there for a chat with the gypsy girl, she felt she
had chosen an opportune time for the confidential talk with Urania.
“Get the birds?” asked Urania, while eating.
“No,” replied Dorothy, “and I came over to see if you had heard
anything about them.”
“Heard?” sneered the girl, “I thought they were home by this time.”
“Home?” repeated Dorothy, under her breath, for she heard the bushes
rustle close by.
Urania helped herself to more sweet potatoes. She was stretched on a
piece of carpet in the center of the tent, and there spread on the
floor or ground before her was the noon day meal. A huge white cat sat
like an old fashioned chimney corner statue, straight up, at her elbow,
looking over her shoulder in the queerest way.
From a corner of the tent a very small black dog was tugging at its
rope, that just allowed the tiny animal the privilege of drawing in
atmospheric gravy--but the rope was too short to reach the dish. And
the gypsy girl ate her meal with evident relish in such surroundings!
Flashes of the “Simple Life” idea rose before Dorothy’s mind. Was this
what it meant?
Finally the gypsy girl gathered herself up, and without attempting
to remove anything from the ground, not even the remaining
eatables--although there were numbers of chickens about waiting their
turn at the “spread” she came out to where Dorothy sat.
“The old woman’s over there,” she whispered, indicating the back of the
tent. “Suppose we walk along, and talk?”
Dorothy left her parcels down in plain view of the gypsy woman,
Melea, who, upon seeing them, stepped out from her hiding place and
approached the girls.
“I brought you some little things for Tommie,” said Dorothy, “I hope
you can make use of them.”
“Thank you very much, miss,” the woman replied, as she gathered up in
her apron the bundles Dorothy had left in the camp chair. “Tommie does
need things, poor little fellow. And business is awful slow.”
Urania had slipped out to the road side now, and while the woman was
“feasting” on the new things the two girls made their way toward a
quiet path through the woods.
“And the birds are not home yet?” asked Urania, as the barking of the
little dog in the tent became almost beyond hearing.
“No,” answered Dorothy with a question in her voice.
“Well, I saw them leave the swamp, and I thought they would fly
straight home,” declared the gypsy girl.
“Leave the swamp?”
“Hush! Not so loud. Sometimes bushes have ears,” cautioned Urania. “The
birds were tied in the swamp, and--some one cut the cords,” she hissed.
[Illustration: “I brought you some little things for Tommie,” said
Dorothy. _Page 24_]
No need to tell Dorothy who the “some one” was. She glanced gratefully
at the girl walking beside her.
“I must hurry back,” she declared, “and tell the boys. Some one may
trap them.”
Dorothy noticed that Urania stopped often to rub one foot against the
other. She also noticed a frown of pain cover the girl’s brown face,
and now Urania sat down, pulled a torn stocking below her knee, and
attempted to adjust a very dirty rag over her thin limb.
“What is it?” asked Dorothy, seeing in spite of the girl’s evident
attempt to conceal it, that the rag was stained with blood.
“Oh, nothin’” replied Urania, carelessly. “I just scratched my knee,
that’s all,” and she bound the rag about the member as best she could.
“You have torn your limb in the swamp,” declared Dorothy, as the truth
came suddenly to her. “I know that place is full of poison briars--”
“But I don’t poison,” interrupted the girl, getting up to continue her
walk. “Besides it ain’t nothin’,” and she trudged along bravely enough.
“You must have the reward if the birds get back home,” Dorothy said, as
she reached the turn in the path that led to the open roadway.
“Well, money’s all right,” admitted the girl, “but it wouldn’t do for
me to show any just now. You see, there’s a lot of bad gypsies prowlin’
around here. Dad don’t mix in with them, but they’re wise, slick, you
know. And if they should get next, see me limp, and find out I had
fresh scratches, they’d get on to the swamp game quick. So I’ll have to
lay low, and I’ll be much obliged if you will help me out, and tell the
same to the young gents.”
Dorothy could not repress a smile at the girl’s queer way of telling
things, for the slang seemed as natural to Urania as chirping does to a
wood sparrow. Neither did the common expressions sound vulgar, as they
slipped from the full red lips, and became the utterances of the wild
girl of the camps.
“You can depend on me,” whispered Dorothy, pressing Urania’s hand. “And
do be careful to wash those scratches--keep the poison out, you know.”
“Oh, I’m all right,” the other replied. “There comes Tommie, and he’s
got on the new togs. My, but he does look swell!”
Plunging through the bushes came the little gypsy boy, in the “new
togs,” the pretty dark blue sailor suit that Dorothy had bought for
him while in the city a few days before.
“He does look nice,” agreed Dorothy, when the boy stood before her,
waiting for compliments. “And they fit you so nicely,” she continued,
taking a critical look at the blue sailor suit. “But I must hurry off
now. Be a good boy, Tommie, and don’t tear your new clothes in the
bushes,” she cautioned.
“I won’t,” declared the little fellow. “I’m goin’ to town next time dad
goes, and I want to save ’em.”
“That’s right. Good-bye, Urania, look after the scratches,” said
Dorothy, aside, “and if you want any of the reward money, just come
over and tell me. I’ll see that you get it without the others knowing.”
“Much obliged,” stammered Urania. “Come along, Tommie, if you want a
‘piggy-back,’” and she stooped to the ground to allow the boy to climb
on her back. “Now, don’t kick--there. Hold fast!” and at this the
gypsies started down one path, while Dorothy hurried along another, for
it was growing dusk, and the prospect of meeting the “bad gypsies,” the
chicken thieves, that Urania said might be prowling about, was not a
pleasant thought to Dorothy. Fortunately the road was not far away, and
when finally she did reach it, without encountering any “dark figures,”
she breathed a sigh of relief, and then made her way quickly to the
Cedars.
*
THE MIDNIGHT ALARM