CHAPTER XXIII THROUGH ONE LONG NIGHT

Gypsy camp fires were indeed dispelling dark shadows of a fading day in the heart of a forest glade when the truck bearing Merry’s “Golden Circle” arrived at the scene of the encampment. But no little French girl danced about any of them.

“They’re gone, those Frenchies,” said the greasy gypsy who came out of a tent in answer to their call. “Don’t know much about ’em. They’re not of our tribe. We’re Americans; been here for generations.”

“Did they have a girl with them?” Weston asked.

“Yellow-haired?”

“Yes.”

“She’s with ’em, all right.”

“Bound?”
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“How do you mean, bound?” The gypsy stared. “Gypsies don’t tie their folks up.”

“But she was kidnaped,” Merry broke in.

“Listen, young lady!” The man came close. His air was defiant, almost threatening. “Gypsies don’t kidnap girls. Why should they? Got enough of their own.”

At that moment three dirty children crowded around him. The look on his face softened as he patted their tousled heads.

“That girl kidnaped!” He laughed hoarsely. “She’s one of ’em. Talks their French lingo. Talks gypsy talk, too, better’n me. Danced all day, didn’t she, youngsters?” Again he patted the dark hair of the shy children.

“Beautiful, so beautiful dancer!” the oldest girl murmured.

“See!” he exulted. “I tell the truth. Children don’t lie.”
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“But where have they gone?” Merry’s mind was in a whirl. Petite Jeanne staying in such a place of her own free will? Petite Jeanne, who was so much needed elsewhere, dancing all day beside a gypsy tent? The thing seemed impossible. Yet here were the guileless little children to confirm the statement.

“Wait! I will show you.” The man disappeared within the tent. He was back in half a minute. In his hand he held a soiled road map. On this, with some skill, he traced a route that ended in a village called Pine Grove, many miles away.

“Beyond this place,” he concluded, “is a great pine grove. Some man planted it there many years ago. You cannot miss it. There is only one like this in the state. This is where they will camp. There are others of their kind camping there. They are gone three hours ago in a motor van. See! There are the wheel tracks. You may follow, but you will not overtake them; not in that.” He pointed at their truck with a smile. “Gypsies have always been blacksmiths. Now many are motor mechanics. They trade for cars, fix ’em up. Always it is for a better car. By and by they have a very fine one. So it is with these.”

Still smiling, he bowed himself into his tent, and closed the flap.
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“We may be slow,” Weston said grimly, “but we are sure. We will be in Pine Grove before sunrise. Hop in, little lady, and we’ll step on the gas.”

A motorist traveling that long and lonely road, mapped out by the gypsy and taken by Merry’s “Golden Circle” that night, might, had he been traveling in the opposite direction, have marveled at the motor transports he met that night.

The first was high, broad and long, a gaudily painted house on wheels. On its seat rode three men. At the back of this traveling house was a room, much like the one room apartments of a modern city. Two broad berths let down from the ceiling were occupied; the one on the right by a girl, the one on the left by a woman and child.

The girl was Petite Jeanne. With her golden hair all tossed about on her pillow, she slept the sleep of innocence.

Do you marvel at this? Had not a gypsy van been her home in France for many a happy season? Ah yes, this was truly her home.
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From time to time, as the van jolted over its rough way, she half awakened and found herself wondering dimly what beautiful French village they might be near when they camped for breakfast in the morning. Happily sleep found her again ere she was sufficiently awake to realize that she was in the bleak interior of America; that she was with strange gypsies, and that she had no money.

The woman and child across from her were not so fortunate. The child, a girl of two or three years, whose eyes were dark as night and whose tangled curls were like a raven’s wing, tossed about in her bed. She was burning hot with fever. The mother slept fitfully. Often she awakened to sit up and stare with big, motherly eyes at the child; then with tender fingers she tucked it securely in. The gypsy mother loves the children God has given her.
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Three hours back on this road a second truck made its lumbering way through the night. On its seat, taking turns at nodding and dozing or driving, sat three men. They were not well clothed. The night wind blew all too frankly through their threadbare coats. But their hearts were warm, so they cared little for the wind.

At the back of this truck, buried deep in a pile of ragged quilts and blankets, was blue-eyed Merry. She slept the long night through.

With the dawn Weston swung his truck sharply to the right, drove on for a quarter of a mile and then brought it to a sputtering halt.

“Hey, Merry!” he shouted back. “We’re here. And over there is your friend. See! She is dancing the sun up. She is dancing around a gypsy camp fire.”

And there, sure enough, radiant as the morn, was the little French girl, dancing her heart away while a broad circle of gypsy folks admired and applauded.

“Now, what,” Merry rubbed her eyes as she tumbled from the truck, “what do you think of that?”