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mind.
    â€œJingo, of course,” he replied. “I expect I had better replenish our funds. You really must have a decent pair of boots.”
    â€œYou called me chavo, sir, a while back. What nature of word is that?” And then I added as innocently as I could, “I declare if it doesn’t sound Mohawk.”
    He began filling his clay pipe. “It means lad,” he answered simply, “in the gypsy language.”
    A thunderclap couldn’t have surprised me more. I fell silent — wondering if I were gypsy-born.

9
    AT THE RED JACKET INN
    When night fell we were still on the road. Well past suppertime we approached a village. I could smell it before we saw the first light. Chimneys charged the air with the cozy scent of woodsmoke.
    The stars were clouding over and it was likely to rain again. But I didn’t calculate we’d be stopping for the night. We didn’t have a tormented cent between us. It wouldn’t surprise me if we shared oats with the horses, and I was hungry enough.
    The village stood huddled against the dark around a marshy green. Mr. Peacock-Hemlock took it in with a single glance. Then he pointed to the brightly painted sign of the Red Jacket Inn. “I believe we’ll put up there for a few days,” he said. “It looks a prosperous place, doesn’t it?”
    â€œBut, sir —”
    â€œPull in, Jango.”
    I did what I was told, but felt mighty uneasy about it.
    They’d put the law on us when they discovered we had no money.
    A stable boy took the coach and I followed Mr. Peacock-Hemlock into the public room. He carried himself like he meant to buy the place, and began issuing orders almost before the innkeeper could greet us.
    â€œYour finest accommodations, sir,” he said. “Supper as soon as possible. Mock turtle soup, boiled mutton with caper sauce and oyster patties if you have nothing better at hand. Is there a cobbler in the village? Have him call on us at once. A mug of flip while I’m waiting and fresh milk for the lad.”
    â€œIndeed, sir,” the innkeeper smiled. He was a cheery red-faced man named Foxhall with a cheery red-haired wife. “Maggie, my love,” he said, catching her eye. “Room Nine and see there’s a warm fire. Send Finch for the cobbler.” And then he turned back to Mr. Peacock-Hemlock. “Now, sir, if you’ll kindly sign the register Mr. ... Mr. . . .”
    â€œJones, sir. My card. Charles Balthazar Jones, artiste extraordinaire.”
    My eyes must have spun in my head. He had a card for every occasion!
    He signed the register with a flourish. “And have my canvases and paint box brought in from the coach. I may do a bit of daubing to pass the time.”
    â€œImmediately, sir,” replied the innkeeper, who appeared pleased to have a man of importance on the premises.
    I watched the serving girl stick the end of a red-hot poker into the mug of flip to warm it, and soon Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones had taken command of a wing chair near the fireplace.
    â€œI could scrape chimneys in the morning,” I said.
    â€œChimneys! What the devil for?”
    â€œWe’ll need to earn a hatful of money, sir. Mrs. Daggatt was having me trained up to be a climbing boy.”
    He turned with a sudden scowl to gaze at the fire. “A climbing boy! Drink your milk, chavo.” A moment later he broke into a grin. Then he slipped me a wink. “We’re beginning to earn all the money we’ll need as we sit here.”
    Either I was traveling with a madman or the most audacious humbug on the road. The workings of his mind were beyond me. I suspected he had lived among gypsies and it wouldn’t surprise me if he was up to some gypsy trick.
    It seemed no time at all before the cobbler turned up. He was a short, bull-necked man named Pratt. He traced around my foot on a piece of newspaper while Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones looked through his samples of