Dick laughed and the conversation changed to another subject, during which they were whirled over the three miles of road and landed at the front door of the country house where Mr. Mason was on hand to welcome Dick. Next morning after breakfast Dick took a stroll over to his property, more for the exercise of walking than anything else, for he had viewed his five-acre plot often enough to know its layout by heart; besides, the month of November was a poor time to look at country land, which was wearing a wintry aspect. A lot of young trees had started growing over a part of his land, and at the edge of this section he was surprised to see a small wooden hut and round it two good-sized tents. It looked as if a family of squatters had camped upon his property. He saw a couple of small children playing around the door of the hut, and from its stovepipe smoke was floating upward. "I like their nerve taking possession of my place," he thought, as he leaned over the fence and looked. A young woman with a bright-colored shawl over her head and shoulders came out of the hut with a tin pail in her hand and went in the direction of a spring. Then Dick noticed a covered wagon of the prairie schooner kind, and beside it another rude, oblong building. He wondered that Mr. Mason hadn't told him about these free tenants, who had apparently taken root there for the winter at least. Curious to find out something about them, he got over the fence and walked toward the camp. A rough-looking man came out of one of the tents, with a pipe in his mouth, and looked at him. Dick walked up to him and asked him what he and the rest of the bunch were doing there. "We are gypsies," replied the man, who was dark skinned and sported a black mustache. "We are camping here till next spring." "Got permission to stay from the owner?" asked Dick. A peculiar smile flickered about the man's mouth. "We never ask permission. Why should we? The earth was made for all. We are only occupying a small part of it for the time being when the land is of no use to anybody." "Then you have settled here as a sort of winter quarters. During the rest of the year you travel about the country, eh?" The man nodded. "We travel from place to place, staying as long as we choose. You do not look like a country boy. You have come here from some town or city." "That's right. I belong in New York. It happens, however, that I own this piece of property." "You do?" said the man, with an accent on the "you," looking Dick over curiously. "Yes." "You object to our being here, perhaps?" said the gypsy, with a frown. "On, no, as long as you intend to start off in the spring." "What is your name?" "Richard Darling. What's yours?" "Hugh Blacklock." "You're the boss of this outfit, I suppose?" The gypsy shook his head. "Miriam is the head of our branch. There are seven of us, besides the children." "Miriam!" said Dick. "That's a woman's name." The man nodded. "What's her other name?"