A male gypsy in corduroy trousers and scarlet sash and calico shirt open on his brown throat came to the fire now, and the Wilbur twin admiringly noted that his father greeted this rare being, too, as an equal.  The gypsy held beneath an arm a trim young gamecock feathered in rich browns and reds, with a hint of black, and armed with needle-pointed spurs.  He stroked the neck of the bird and sat on his haunches with Dave before the fire to discuss affairs of the road; for he, too, divined at a glance that Dave was here but a gypsy transient, even though he spoke a different lingo.

The Wilbur twin sat also on his haunches before the fire, and thrilled with pride as his father spoke easily of distant strange cities that the gypsies also knew; cities of the North where summer found them, and cities of the South to which they fared in winter.  He had always been proud of his father, but never so proud as now, when he sat there talking to real gypsies as if they were no greater than any one.  He was quite ashamed when the gypsies’ dog, a gaunt, hungry-looking beast, narrowly escaped being eaten up by his own dog.  But Frank, at the sheer verge of a deplorable offense, implicitly obeyed his master’s command and forbore to destroy the gypsy mongrel.  Again he flopped to his back at the interested approach of the other dog, held four limp paws aloft, and simpered at the stranger.

Other gypsies, male and female, came to the group about the fire, and lively chatter ensued, a continuous flashing of white teeth and shaking of golden ear hoops and rattling of silver bracelets.  The Wilbur twin fondly noted that his father knew every city the gypsies knew, and even told them the advantages of some to which they had not penetrated.  He gathered this much of the talk, though much was beyond him.  He kept close to his father’s side when the latter took his leave of these new friends.  He wanted these people to realize that he belonged to the important strange gentleman who had for a moment come so knowingly among them.

As they climbed out of the sheltering glade he was alive with a new design.  Gypsies notoriously carried off desirable children; this was common knowledge in Newbern Center.  So why wouldn’t they carry off him, especially if he were right round there where they could find him easily?  He saw himself and his dog forcibly conveyed away with the caravan—­though he would not really resist—­to a strange and charming life beyond the very farthest hills.  He did not confide this to his father, but he looked back often.  They followed a path and were soon on a bare ridge above the camp.