Tim looked up resentfully.  He had it on his tongue—­for after all he was only a child—­to say something which might have done harm never to be undone, for he could not understand Diana.  But something in her face, as she looked at him steadily, stopped the words of reproach as they rose to his lips.

“You’ll make an end of them, you will, if you keep them choked up in there all day,” he said sullenly.  “Why can’t you let ’em out for a bit of a run with me, like you’ve done before?”

“I’ll let them out when it suits me, and not before.  It’s none of your business,” she replied, while adding in a lower tone that no one else could overhear:  “I’d never have thought you such a fool, Tim;” and Tim, feeling rather small,—­for he began to understand her a little,—­walked off.

All this was at what they called dinner-time, when the vans generally halted for an hour or so and hitherto—­even when they were travelling too quickly for the children to have walked beside for a change, as they had sometimes done when going slowly—­Mick or Diana had always let them out at this hour for a breath of fresh air.  But to-day, though it was beautifully fine and the sun was shining most temptingly, poor Duke and Pamela had to be content with the sight of it through the tiny little window in the side of the van, which Diana opened, and with such air as could get in by the same means.  It was hot and stuffy inside, and their little heads ached with being jolted along, and with having had no exercise such as they were accustomed to.  Still they did not look altogether miserable or unhappy, as they tried to eat the dinner the gipsy girl had brought them on a tin plate, from the quickly-lighted fire by the hedge, where the old hag who did the cooking for the party had been stewing away at a mess in a great pot.  She ladled out the contents all round for the others, but Diana helped herself.  She picked out the nicest bits she could see for the two little prisoners, and stood by them for a minute or two to see if they really were going to eat.

“I’ll come back in a bit to see if it’s all gone,” she said, when she had seen them at work, “and remember what I said this morning.  That’ll help to make you eat hearty.”

“Her’s very kind,” said Duke; but as he spoke he laid down the coarse two-pronged fork Diana had given him to eat with, and seemed glad of an excuse to rest in his labours for a while.  “But I can’t eat this, can you, sister?”

Pamela looked up—­she had got a small bone in her fingers, at which she was trying to nibble.

“I’m pretending to be Toby eating a bone,” she said gravely.  “Sometimes it makes it seem nicer.”

“I don’t think so,” said Duke.  “It only makes it worser to think of Toby,” and his voice grew very doleful, as if he were going to cry.

“Now don’t, bruvver,” said Pamela.  “Let’s think of what Diana said.”

“What was it?” said Duke.  “Say it again.”