“I expect he’s Mr. Maeterlinck,” said Gypsy, “or Mr. Devant. But I don’t care who he is, darling, and one of these days I’ll steal the moon for you under his very nose. Meanwhile have half my balloons.” He gave her the bluest balloon, and she hung it over her door of the Weatherhouse, and he hung the other over his. And Jeremy and the rest went back home, if they had one, and hung up theirs over their beds, if they had any. But nearly all the balloons had disappeared by the morning. [Illustration: GYPSY AND GINGER’S FRIENDS 8: THE GROUNDSEL MAN] Gypsy and Ginger first saw the Groundsel Man in the early morning. It was very early morning indeed. The moon had just gone out, and a good deal of Mother-o’-pearl was left in the sky, and there was a faint glow over Fleet Street. Of course Gypsy and Ginger couldn’t see Fleet Street, but they looked that way for the glow. The streets were quite empty when the Groundsel Man came along, and for this reason alone you couldn’t have helped noticing him. But you would have noticed him even in a crowd. His basket was slung in front of him by a strap over his shoulders, and he limped a little, but his limp, instead of being a drag, only seemed to make his step livelier, so that he came down the pavement on the light jerky hop of a chaffinch hopping down a potato-row after the digger in hope of worms. “He’s just like the little rabbits Jeremy sells,” said Ginger. “If you could look under his trousers,” said Gypsy, “you’d find that instead of feet he has two spiral springs.” “It’s quite easy to look under his trousers,” said Ginger, “and he prefers not to wear socks.” “Another Simple Lifer,” said Gypsy. Most of their friends were. “But he _has_ got a pretty hat,” said Ginger. “I wish I’d got one like it.” His hat was the chief reason why you’d have to notice the Groundsel Man in a crowd. It was a straw hat of all sorts of shapes and colours, with no top to the crown and whiskers round the brim. And it was weighed down by a glorious wreath of buttercups. The Groundsel Man’s basket was also half buttercups, as well as groundsel and chickweed, and in one hand he had a short thick thorn-stick, as black and shiny as an old clay pipe, and in the other he carried a great branch of white wild roses like a banner. As he stepped by he said, “Good morning, sir and ma’am. A fine night it’s been and a finer day _’twill_ be.” “Are _you_ telling _us_ that?” said Gypsy doubtfully. “I am, sir. You’re clever little people,” said the Groundsel Man cheerily, “but it’s not the likes o’ me you can tell about the weather. My kind needs no weatherhouses.” “Not even in London?” said Ginger, bringing the teapot. “I don’t live in Lunnon, ma’am. I only passes through. Lunnon’s a cage, she is. But her’ll never ketch _me_.” “Where do you live?” asked Ginger, filling a cup for him; and Gypsy offered him his tobacco pouch.