slightly less surly. "If they had, they'd have had to cross this bridge,
and I couldn't miss seeing them. I've been here two hours."

This seemed conclusive, and Pompton had no reason to think the man was
not telling the truth. But he was without doubt a gypsy, and Pompton
had small respect for the veracity of the gypsy. He waited a few moments,
pretending to be interested in the man's basketry, but really considering
whether to insist on going on to the camp hidden in the trees, or whether
to believe the man's statement.

And it was at this moment that Marjorie's shrieks rang out.

"Good heavens!" cried Pompton. "What is that?"

The basket-weaver neither heard nor answered him, for the shrieks
continued, and Pompton set off at a run in the direction whence they
came. He was not quite sure it was Marjorie's voice, but there was
certainly somebody in distress, and Pompton was of a valiant nature.

The smoke issuing above the trees was sufficient guide, and his flying
steps soon brought him to the encampment. Flinging open, indeed almost
tearing down the flapping door of the tent, he strode inside.

"What's the matter here?" he began, but he could get no further, for
with a glad cry the two Maynard children flung themselves into his
out-stretched arms.