Only a few minutes had elapsed after our return ere kettles were singing,—for a wood fire made in the open hurries matters,—and, furnished with good appetites, we sat down to a well-earned tea, after which the long evening was before us. Before we had finished washing up tea-things, the evening mist began to rise, for it must be remembered we were in the latter half of the month of September, so we cut enough firewood to last the evening, and built up a good fire. Some people there certainly are, many probably, who in their well-ordered homes are surrounded by most of the comforts and conveniences science and the arts have rendered possible, but would pass a gypsy encampment on a windswept moor without giving a thought to the occupants, or at most would regard them as dishonest, low-lived outcasts, perhaps deserving pity, but a nuisance anyway. To such I commend the philosophy of my girl friend of the afternoon and the following words of an old gypsy which I heard by the camp fire after tea. “I would give nothing,” he said, “to be able to live in a large house; I think them as has the most money has the most to worry ’em, so they can’t think of anybody but themselves.” Discussions on this and similar statements or assertions by other members of our group made the time pass all too rapidly, and when most of the eyes around the fire began to get heavy, a large jugful of cocoa—enough to go round—was made and partaken of to the accompaniment of bread and cheese. A little later, the camp was quiet in sleep. CHAPTER IX