It was towards the end of September when Tom suddenly made his appearance at the Grange. He had discovered Scammel. Far away in a heathery glen in Charnwood Forest, in Leicestershire, he had come upon a gipsies’ camp. It was mid-day, and all the men and younger women were absent on their rounds; a few old crones only were there, and an old cur or two, which ran out to a distance to meet and bark at Boddily. But there was something in Tom’s tramp-like appearance, and his quiet welcoming of them that soon silenced them, and they followed him and licked his hands caressingly. On coming up, Tom squatted down familiarly, and entered into talk with the old women. He asked them how far to the next village, and the houses best to call at. This information the old dames readily gave, and offered him some stew from their kettle on the fire, which sent out a savoury smell. But just as Tom was about to accept it, his eye casually fell on an open cabin, formed of sticks bent into hoop shape, and saw, lying on the straw there, fast asleep, no other than the man of his search. It was Scammel’s black head and sunburnt sullen face, and no mistake. Tom nodded familiarly towards him, and said, “The palla there looks tired.” “Yes,” said one of the old women, with a significant smile; “out much at night—supplies the pot there.” “Aha!” said Tom; “a good butty, that; don’t let us disturb him.” “You can’t readily do that,” said another old woman: “when he does sleep a crack o’ thunner would not wake him.” Tom despatched his stew, praised it highly, and then said he must make use of the day while it lasted, and visit some of the farms. He bade them good-day, and limped off. Tom had found his game, but he saw difficulties in taking it. Scammel had evidently allied himself with the gipsies to secure a retreat away from villages and lodging-houses, amongst which news circulates freely over the country; and with three hundred pound reward hanging over his head the fewer companions the better. He could turn out at night, forage amongst the hares and pheasants, and sleep quietly under watch of the old crones in the day. They had allowed Tom to approach, from his orthodoxly trampish look; but how was he to approach by day over that open heath with men sufficient to take the ruffian napping?