"Look!" cried Rose. "What's _that_?" Polly did look.

Something like a huge wheel, all spokes and hub, but no tire, was
whirling down the avenue.

"It's Gyp!" said Polly.

"What? _That_?" said Rose.

"Yes, that's Gyp, and he's going down the avenue whirling first on his
hands, then on his feet," Polly said.

"Oh, I wish he wasn't in this town," cried Rose, "because no one ever
can guess what horrid thing he'll do next. And he won't stay over by
the woods where he lives. He keeps coming over to this part of Avondale,
and I wonder someone doesn't stop him."

"Who could stop Gyp?" Polly asked.

And who, indeed, could stop him? He was one of a family that was more
than half Gypsy, and Gyp was, surely, the wildest of the clan.

He _would_ steal, yet so crafty was he that no one ever caught him.
He was full of mischief, and nothing delighted him more than the
assurance that he had really frightened someone.

As he usually felt very gay when he had done some especially annoying
bit of mischief, it was safe to say that he had spent a busy morning
somewhere, and now was turning handsprings to give vent to his hilarious
feelings.