Deadly Nightshade by Elizabeth Daly Read Free Book Online

than a kid with hang-over from grippe.”
    â€œHow about coming along and introducing me? Tell the old lady I want my fortune told?”
    â€œGlad to.” Pottle turned his machine and preceded them to the camp in a stately and official manner; with the result that when they arrived, no gypsy was to be seen. The old horse champed stoically at the hay in his nosebag, and ragged clothes flapped on the line; otherwise there was neither sound nor motion, and the pines crowded darkly up like an army. Pottle raised his voice:
    â€œHey, come out of it, everybody; I brought a gentleman to call on you.” And as this brought no response, he added: “Wants Mrs. Stuart to tell his fortune.”
    Three women and a boy materialized suddenly from the gloom in the background, and stood gazing blankly, but with alert eyes, at the visitors. Gamadge had never seen passive resistance so perfectly illustrated. He took a good look at them.
    The women, as is the wont of the modern tribes, managed to look both outlandish and dowdy. There was a very old one, an octogenarian, perhaps, although her hair was coal-black, and her spine a good deal straighter than Gamadge’s own. She wore a long black silk dress with black lace ruffles at her neck and wrists, gold hooped earrings, and a long gilt chain, the ends of which were tucked into her belt. A black net veil was arranged on her head with a corner of it coming well down on her forehead, which gave her an air at once regal and nunlike. She stood immovable, her yellow hands clasped across the middle of her fitted basque.
    A forlorn hag wavered irresolutely near the matriarch; she was ochre-skinned, almost toothless, and of uncertain age, and she wore a gray calico dress, a large black straw hat trimmed with poppies, and a Paisley shawl of unimaginable antiquity. Beside her stood a boy of nine or ten, who resembled any barefooted, undernourished country boy; except that he was dark beyond sunburn, and that his thin face wore an uneasy scowl.
    Martha, without the baby, looked about eighteen. She was slim and neat in a faded pink gingham dress, the exotic note in her case being supplied by somebody’s red satin evening shoes, and somebody’s West Indian bandanna. The bright colors set off her pale skin and soft eyes to an extent that accounted for Mr. Charlie Haines’ experiment in exogamy.
    Gamadge took off his hat.
    â€œI’m very glad to find you here, Mrs. Stuart,” he said. “I think you tell fortunes at Whitewater. Pottle said you might be willing to tell mine. Pottle, will you introduce me?”
    â€œMr. Gamadge,” said Pottle. “Mrs. Stuart, Georgina Stanley, Martha Stanley, and William Stanley.”
    Georgina, Martha and William Stanley stared; Mrs. Stuart bowed, in a formal and condescending manner.
    â€œI will tell your fortune, gentleman,” she said. “Come into the tent.”
    â€œWhy not do it out here? It’s such a nice day, and I don’t at all mind an audience.” Gamadge picked up a soapbox, placed it in friendly juxtaposition to a stump, and asked: “What is your fee?”
    â€œFifty cents, gentleman.” Mrs. Stuart sat down on the soapbox, and Gamadge, adjusting himself to the top of the stump as best he could, produced two quarters. These he placed reverently in the old lady’s hand. She drew a quick, complicated sign in the air with them, placed them in a bag that hung from her waist, and fixed Gamadge with a glittering eye, as bright and as black as jet. It seemed also to be as shallow as jet, but there was an unfathomable sharpness to it. She made no attempt to take his hand.
    â€œYou were born under a dark star, gentleman,” she said, indifferently, her accent a strange combination of cockney, Scottish, and something vaguely European. Gamadge, looking interested, nodded.
    â€œCurious,” he said. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Stuart—did I understand that you have Scots