CHAPTER XXXI.

THE GYPSY CAMP.

“We must find shelter or we’ll be soaked to the skin,” said Roy Crossley. “Do you see any kind of a building?”

“No,” said Joe. “Not a blessed thing in sight. But if I remember rightly there was an old barn near that gypsy camp.”

They passed the creek and made the turn toward the gypsy’s squatting place, but no barn came to view. By this time their sweaters were pretty wet and the rain was running over their caps and down their necks in anything but a comfortable fashion.

“My gracious, but this is rough,” commented our hero dismally. “If we could----”

He got no further, for his front wheel had slipped on the wet road. There was a twist and a wobble, and over he went. Roy, directly behind, had to leap off to save himself.

“Are you hurt?” he asked anxiously, as Joe arose painfully.

“Yes, I scraped my knee,” gasped our hero. “Riding home with it is going to be no picnic.”

“Are you sure you can ride?”

“I’ll try, anyway.”

Joe mounted and went a short distance--bringing them into sight of the gypsy’s camp. He gave a groan and dropped rather than stepped to the road.

“I can’t do it. If that barn was handy----”

“Here’s the gypsy camp,” began Roy. “I suppose they’ll take us in if we pay them.”

“I don’t want to go among those dirty creatures,” said Joe, with a shrug of disgust. “They might--here come three of the men now!”

He was right. Through the rain the gypsies had seen his mishap, and now they came forward with various offers of assistance.

“Come in the wagon out o’ the wet,” said one, who appeared to be something of a leader. “We’ll give you some liniment for your knee.”

The boys did not wish to accept, but the three gypsies insisted, and against their will they went along, Roy trundling the machines and the gypsy leader catching Joe by the arm to make walking on the injured limb easier.

The wagon into which they were invited was large enough to hold a score of persons, but it had such an untidy look and smelled so strongly of musty bedding and tobacco smoke it nearly made both of the boys sick.

“You can put the bicycles under the wagon,” said one of the gypsies. “Here is the medicine for your knee,” and he brought out a black bottle which smelled of turpentine.

Two of the gypsies entered the wagon with the boys, while the third hurried off to join the men in another shelter. Somewhat against his wishes, our hero’s knee was bathed. The stuff put on burned considerably, and it is doubtful if it did any good. While the bathing was going on the gypsies talked loudly and continuously, and after it was over one of the men offered both a drink from a pocket flask, which they promptly declined.

“Wont drink, eh,” said the man. “You don’t know what is good.” He gave a coarse laugh. “Where are you from?”

Roy told them, and the two men exchanged glances. It was still raining as hard as ever, and the second man proposed that they play a game of cards to while away the time.

“I don’t know how to play,” said Roy.

“Then I’ll tell your fortunes,” said the gypsy, and immediately set to work, telling them of a dozen wonderful things which were to happen to both of them in the course of their lives.

“You are both going to meet with a loss soon,” said the man presently. “Two bicycle riders from Greenpoint are going to play a dirty trick on you. One of the men is a tall fellow, with a squint in his eye; the other is short and stout. Look out for them, they are your enemies.”

The man spoke earnestly, looking them squarely in the face as he addressed them. Had they believed at all in fortune telling they might have imagined that there was some truth in his statement. As it was their faces took on a perplexed look, at which the man winked at his companion on the sly.

An hour or more was spent in the wagon, and then the sudden shower began to let up. Joe had been rubbing his knee and now declared himself able to proceed. But the gypsies insisted that they wait until the road had dried up a bit.

“There is no use to hurry,” said one. “We are not charging you for staying here.”

“No, nor for telling our fortunes,” put in the other. “Make yourselves at home until the sun shines again.”

“I’m afraid it won’t shine much before it sets,” said Roy. “If your knee will permit, we’ll start now,” he added to Joe. “As it is, we won’t get home until dark.”

He was close to the back flap, and throwing it aside, leaped out. Our hero followed more carefully, and both looked around for their bicycles. The machines were gone!

“What did you do with our wheels?” asked Roy of the gypsies.

“Why, you placed ’em under the wagon,” was the reply.

“They are gone,” burst out Joe. “Did that other man take them away?”

“I guess not. I’ll ask him.”

The gypsy called the leader who had left them when they had entered the wagon. He shook his head, declaring he had not seen the bicycles since Roy had placed them under the wagon.

“Well, some one has taken them, sure,” said our hero, and he eyed the gypsies sharply.

“Ah, I have it!” cried the man who had told their fortunes. “Did I not read it on the cards! Those two bicyclists from Greenpoint, the man with the squint and the short, stout man. They have----”

“Do you think I believe any such stuff!” interrupted Joe. “Not much! You have our wheels, and I want you to produce them.”

At this all of the gypsies who had gathered around looked dark.

“We are not thieves, young fellow,” said the leader. “It was your business to look after your machines, not ours. Now clear out about your business. We did all we could for you and it’s small thanks we are getting for it.”

The gypsies looked so angry and aggressive that both lads were forced to retreat. But they only went as far as the road, as the gypsies made no attempt to follow them.

“This is a nice fix,” grumbled Roy. “They have our wheels, I’m certain of that.”

“So am I. The question is, how are we going to get our bicycles back?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. Where do you suppose they have put them?”

“Perhaps in their tent, or in one of the other wagons.”

“They won’t dare keep them there.”

“Of course not. At the first chance they’ll ride off on them and sell them in some city, after changing their looks and numbers.”

“What had we better do?”

“Pretend to go away, and then watch them,” said Joe.

This advice was followed out. They walked along the road around a bend, then dove into the woods, coming up in the rear of the gypsy camp.

For some time they saw nothing unusual. The gypsies came up to the front of their tent and commenced to eat around a newly made campfire. The meal over one of the members began to harness a pair of horses to one of the wagons.

“That wagon must have our machines in it,” cried Roy. “I wonder where he is going?”

“Hark,” said our hero. “I hear a horse and wagon on the road!”

“Run out and see if it is any one who will help us,” cried his chum, and Joe ran out--to behold Mr. Franshaw, swinging along with his empty wagon at a lively gait.

The youth drove into the woods again, but by running at a rate which hurt his knee not a little, he managed to reach the bend below the camp just as Mr. Franshaw was passing.

The man was stopped and matters were explained to him. Of course he readily agreed to help the boys all he could.

“But they are a dozen to us three,” he added.

“So we must use strategy.”

The gypsy wagon was now coming out on the road. It was a boxlike affair, without a cover, and in the bottom rested some objects covered with a piece of canvas.

“He’s got your machines in that sure,” said Mr. Franshaw. “Go for your friend and we’ll follow that wagon.”

Joe ran into the woods once more and summoned Roy. Both boys secreted themselves in Mr. Franshaw’s turnout, which was then headed in the direction the gypsy’s wagon had taken.

Scarcely half a mile was covered when the gypsy discovered that he was being pursued. He whipped his horse, and a lively race began, which for a long while was a case of nip-and-tuck.

“We are gaining!” cried Roy at last. “Can’t you make him go faster, Mr. Franshaw?”

“I’ll try. Go it, Billy! Git alang there!”

And Billy did “git alang,” until the gypsy’s turnout was all but overhauled. Seeing he could not escape, the man slowed down.

“We want our wheels,” demanded Joe sharply.

“Who are you talkin’ to?” returned the fellow with a blank look, but without ceremony Roy leaped from one wagon to the other, and pulled the cover from the two bicycles.

“Hang the luck!” growled the gypsy and sprang into the road. But Mr. Franshaw was after him, and struck him with the butt of his whip. Then Joe and Roy leaped in, and after a tough struggle, lasting fully ten minutes, the gypsy was overpowered, made to enter Mr. Franshaw’s wagon and bound up with some bits of harness. Roy remained with the prisoner, while Joe undertook the task of driving the prisoner’s turnout; and in this fashion they journeyed to the nearest police station.

Here the gypsy was held for trial, and in the meantime some officers went after the other gypsies, but failed to catch them, as they had left for parts unknown.

It was late when the two boys arrived home to tell their story, and the excitement through which they had passed was sufficient to last them for some time to come.