As they stared with amazement their gaze fell upon a gipsy boy, who stood there, tall and handsome, but with an insolent lowering look upon his face. CHAPTER XIII LITTLE FRIEND OF ALL THE WORLD “But I don’t think we can!” said Gerry, staring. “You see, we’re not allowed beyond this ridge. We’re--tracking.” “‘Tracking,’ is it!” The lad’s face grew surlier. “Well, an’ it’s you, then, sure enough, as is the other young ladies, and my Dad arsks you to come along. If you’s tracking, you’s on the wrong scent, he’d have you know. An’ ’e’ll tell you so himself. You can jest come along an’ hear what ’e’s got to say if you’s them as tries to fix blame on folk as lives honest.” “But--” began Gerry again. “Well, if you likes to say ’ere and now as you’s not tracking, then it’s jest them two young ladies up there as is in it,” remarked the boy, softening a little at the amazed look on their faces. “Gerry, he doesn’t understand,” began Betty. “Perhaps--” But Gerry broke in. “We’re having a tracking practice. Not tracking people; at least, of course--” she broke off. “The others are only practising too.” “That they _isn’t_.” The boy’s voice grew louder. “Following travelling folkses; that’s what they’s adoing, and picking up their travelling signs all unpolite, and arsking them about who stole cups and all!” There was no mistaking the outraged tone in the lad’s voice. “Oh _dear_!” Gerry broke out in a distracted voice. She turned to Betty. “We’ll have to go. Perhaps we can explain. They’ve got into dreadful trouble evidently. We _must_!” “All right,” agreed Betty, feeling her knees shaking under her. But she felt that Gerry was right. They certainly must go, though the prospect was an uninviting, not to say a terrifying, one. The others had plainly got into some trouble with the gipsies of a caravan, that was certain, and they were being detained. Perhaps Gerry _would_ be able to explain if they went. And anyway, they could not leave Mona and Rene there alone. She got up as Gerry did, and followed her friend’s lead. “It’s worse enough,” remarked the lad in a less surly tone as they did so, “bein’ looked down by the Romany folk what says they are the true folks of the road, and calls us non-such and mumpers. Mumpers belike we is, but we work fair an’ honest fer a living, and the police passes us civil and knows us for such. An’ when two young ladies comes after us callin’ and arsking ef we’s seen the silver cup what’s advertised up in Woodhurst Police Station as stolen--” he broke off in a mutter. “Oh dear!” said Gerry again, but _sotto voce_ this time. Here was indeed a pickle.