CHAPTER III

GONE

THE baby awoke after awhile, and cried a little, but Tad was too good and experienced a nurse not to have anticipated and arranged for what the child would want. He quickly produced from the basket the little one's feeding-bottle and some milk, and very soon the baby, quite satisfied and happy, was creeping about on the grass and playing with some flowers that Tad found for him. And when he wearied of this, the boy rocked him to sleep again in his arms.

Then, wearied by his own sleepless night, he lay down beside the child for a much-needed nap. His last feeling, before dropping into dreamland, being one of grim rejoicing in the recollection that his stepmother must already be in a "fine taking,"—as he would have expressed it,—about her baby. Tad had made up his mind not to carry the child back until dark, "for fear," he said to himself, "of being nabbed." But already it was afternoon, and in these autumn days the darkness came early.

When Tad awoke from a sound sleep of several hours, the twilight was creeping over earth and sky. The quiet rest had much refreshed him, and baby too had waked up in a happy mood, and looked so much less like his mother than usual, that Tad felt fonder of the poor little fellow than ever before, and even kissed his little round face when he picked him up.

Carrying the basket on his arm, and the baby over his shoulder, Tad walked across the meadow, and came to a stile leading out on to a common, where was a gipsy encampment.

A couple of carts were drawn up near the hedge on one side of the field, four or five stiff-legged, scraggy horses were grazing hungrily on the short, stubbly grass, while not far from a fire, which blazed merrily under a black pot, sat a little company of brown-skinned, rough-looking men and women, and a few children played about around them.

It helped to pass the time, watching the gipsies, so Tad, with the baby in his arms, got over the stile, and drawing nearer to the picturesque group, stood looking at the people, and hungrily sniffing the savoury steam that rose from the cooking-pot.

Presently a young woman rose from among the little company, and came towards Tad.

"You look hungry, lad; have a bite with us," she said.

Tad gladly consented, and as the air was growing chill, he joined the group of gipsies as they gathered closer round the fire. The young woman took the baby from him, and fondled and rocked it while Tad ate his supper.

"'Tain't long since she lost her own child," said one of the men to Tad, "and this little un ain't onlike him."

When the lad had finished his meal, he thought he had perhaps better set off on a little spying expedition, to see if the coast was clear for him to take the baby home; for he did not wish to be met by any search parties coming to look for him and his little charge.

But to do his spying safely; he ought to leave the child here; and turning to the young woman, who was walking to and fro with the baby, crooning to it, and putting it to sleep in the usual motherly fashion, he said:

"I've got a errand to run, missis, and maybe it'll take me a hour or more. Would you have the goodness just to mind the little un for me till I can come back for him? I'll be as quick as I can."

"It'll be all right," replied the woman, with an eager light in her dark eyes. "I'll see to the baby. You needn't hurry, neither. He's goin' off to sleep again, and there's no fear but what he'll be quite quiet and content."

Thanking her warmly, away went the Tadpole, carrying his big head high, and putting all possible speed into his slender body and thin legs. He spent over an hour in dodging about and looking here and there for possible pursuers. But he met no search parties, and feeling now more sure than ever of being able to carry out his plan to the very end, he came leisurely back to the common where he had left the gipsy camp.

It was quite dark now; he could just see the dull glow of the fire's dying embers, but nothing else. As he came nearer, however, what were his surprise and dismay to find that the place was deserted. Gone were the carts, the horses, the people, and worst of all, gone too was the baby. It was as if the whole encampment had melted into thin air—vanished as utterly as the scenes of a dream.

"They must have crossed the common and come out into a road beyond," thought Tad.

And hoping to overtake them and get back the child, he started at a quick run, often stumbling in the darkness, and once or twice falling outright. After going some distance, he reached a place where four roads met, leading off in various directions. Meanwhile the darkness had deepened, no moon or stars lightened the gloom, and Tad began to realise the hopelessness of trying to follow the gipsies, who, no doubt, had employed their usual cunning to elude pursuit. Utterly baffled and at fault in his search, and well-nigh stunned by the misfortune that had come upon him, the lad stood still at the cross roads, and tried to collect his thoughts.

His intention had been only to give his stepmother a thorough fright, by way of paying her out for some of the unkindness he and Bertie and Nell had received from her. But now the matter had been taken out of his hands, and it looked very much as if, not only Mrs. Poole, but he himself and the baby too, were likely to suffer from this revenge that he had so carefully planned.

"What a mess I've got into, to be sure!" sighed Tad as he peered round with weary eyes, vainly searching the thick darkness. "Whatever shall I do?"

His first impulse was to run home, confess the whole story to his father, and let him do what was best for the recovery of the baby. Tad's conscience told him that this clearly would be the right thing to do. But then, if he acted thus, it meant that he must face his stepmother's fury, and give up, for the present, at least, his plan of leaving home. He felt sure that Mrs. Poole would never believe that he had not deliberately and wilfully deserted the baby. He was certain she would never give him credit for his intention to bring her child safely back when the purposes of his boyish vengeance had been fulfilled.

No—he did not feel he could muster courage enough to return home to such a greeting as hers would be, and yielding to the whispers of his cowardice, he determined to set out on his travels at once, without seeing any of his home people again, and leaving the baby to take its chance. Still, since his conscience gave him some sharp pricks as to the fate of the child entrusted to his care, he resolved that on the following day, he would send by post, from the first town or village through which he passed, a letter to his father, telling him just how it had happened that the little one was carried off by the gipsies who had been encamped on the common outside the town. This resolve arrived at, Tad felt a little comforted, and set out to walk to a place some six miles distant, where he intended to pass the night.

In thus running away, he was conscious of only two causes of regret. One was his separation from Bert and Nell, and the other that he was obliged to give up his situation. He had feared to let Mr. Scales know he was leaving home, lest he should be stopped. So now he could not help thinking of the little ones crying because he did not come home to put them to bed as usual; and also of what his kind master would say when Monday morning came, but with it no boy to take the shutters down, and sweep out the shop, and get everything ready for the business of the day.

"Still—all said and done—at least I'm free!" said Tad to himself. "I've shook off that horrid stepmother of mine, and it shan't be my fault if I ever see her again."

So saying the lad drew himself up, and strode at a great pace along the dark road, and tried hard to believe that he had never been so happy in all his life.