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Updated: June 5, 2025
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.
Seeing smoke issuing from among the trees at a little distance, he thought, "That's a gypsy camp. Now wouldn't it be just like those youngsters to trail in there? Anyway it's the most likely place, and I'm going to have a look." Leaving his car by the side of the road, Pompton struck into the field, and soon came to the little bridge just beyond which the old basket-weaver still sat.
"What must I do?" replied the young man in a tone of voice which said, better than all protestations could have done, that he was ready to do any thing. "Do you know Trumence?" "The former basket-weaver of Tremblade?" "Exactly." "Upon my word, don't I know him? He has stolen apples enough from me, the scamp! But I don't blame him so much, after all; for he is a good fellow, in spite of that."
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