Is it Gipsy music ?" "It is the music of a 'Gipsy,' as you call it." "Well, it's worth a year's work to hear," Ingolby replied admiringly, yet acutely conscious of danger.

"Are you a musician by trade ?" he asked.
"I have no trade." The glowing eyes kept scanning the wall where the weapons hung, and as though without purpose other than to get a pipe from the rack on the wall, Ingolby moved to where he could be prepared for any rush.

It seemed absurd that there should be such a possibility; but the world was full of strange things.
"What brought you to the West ?" he asked as he filled a pipe, his back almost against the wall.
"I came to get what belonged to me." Ingolby laughed ironically.

"Most of us are here for that purpose.

We think the world owes us such a lot." "I know what is my own." Ingolby lit his pipe, his eyes reflectively scanning the other.
"Have you got it again out here--your own ?" "Not yet, but I will." Ingolby took out his watch, and looked at it.