from the caravan like the growling of a lion near
feeding-time. "Sit there, and I'll bring you some of my stew. It's made
of pheasant and partridge, and very nice, I assure you."

"There, fellow, that'll do," shouted Joe, standing on the steps of the
caravan; "you've palavered plenty over them brats. Leave them to howl
theirselves to sleep if they like, but bring me my supper," he commanded
angrily--for Mr. Harris was hungry, and somebody who knows about such
things says that "a hungry man is an angry man"--then with a bang of the
door and an ugly word he disappeared again. And as the dwarf dished up
the supper he muttered to himself,--

"God help you, poor innocents! You have fallen into bad hands when you
fell into the clutches of Moll Harris and Thieving Joe!"

He carried a plateful of dainty morsels out of his stew to where the
children waited far back beyond the firelight and the limit of the
bear's chain. He sat on the grass beside them, coaxing and scolding them
by turns, until they forgot their fears and made a hearty supper,
finished off by a draught of sparkling water from the spring.

Just at first the tiny man with the long arms, pale, sad face, and queer
croaking voice had alarmed the little ones, because they had never seen
any one the least like Bambo before. But when they discovered how gentle
was the touch of those thin hands and bony arms, how kind and soothing
the tones of that croaky voice, all their fears vanished. Darby
determined that he would never again listen to unkind remarks about
deformed persons, and Joan cuddled close beside her new friend in a most
confiding fashion.

"Why has you taken no goody supper?" she asked him when all had
finished, and the fire had sunk to a glow of red embers mixed with
feathery flakes of ash. "Isn't you hungry? or did you take too big a
tea?"

"Well, little one, I don't think I did. I'm just not hungry to-night.
Grown-up folks don't usually be so keen-set as youngsters, you know,"
replied Bambo, looking down into the blue eyes that scanned him so
curiously.

"But _you_ isn't a grown-up," cried the child, in an amused tone.
"You're just 'bout as big as Darby, only with a queer man-face an'
grown-up arms. Does you call yourself a boy or a man?" she asked
seriously, and without a hint of mockery. She merely desired
information.

"Joan!" said Darby, in a distressed whisper, at the same time giving her
a dig with his elbow, almost pushing her over.

Joa