Free Jingo Django by Sid Fleischman Page B

sir,” I said, in the lofty manner I earnestly admired in Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones. “I think your fee is uncommon reasonable. Indeed I do, sir.”
    He seemed astonished to find me siding with him, and gave a satisfied snort. But Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones looked at me as if I had lost my reason.
    Then I added, “You’ll recollect that I scraped down your chimneys. I hope I won’t have to call in the high sheriff to collect my fee.”
    â€œYour fee?”
    â€œYes, sir. I calculate it at exactly $621, sir.”
    Dr. Custis’ eyebrows almost shot off his face. He snorted and growled, but there was no further mention of courts of law. I was as entitled to overcharge as he was.
    Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones tossed him gold pieces enough to pay for our keep and the use of those pestiferous, gnawing leeches, and we were on our way.

14
    THE GRASSHOPPER
    The whole day long I had the feeling that we were being followed.
    I couldn’t help glancing back over my shoulder. Finally Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones took the clay pipe out of his mouth. “Expecting someone?”
    â€œCould be the high sheriff after us,” I said.
    â€œMere bluff.” And then he broke into a grin. “You whipped that shifty-eyed medicine man at his own game. I’m exceedingly proud of you Django. But for your quick wit we’d be penniless.”
    I didn’t realize how much I had yearned for his approval. I couldn’t think what to say, so I kept my eyes on the road ahead and snapped the reins smartly.
    â€œGet along, Billygoat!” I sang out. “You too, Sunflower!”
    I awoke in the morning to the scent of woodsmoke in the air and the sizzle of frying fish. When I looked around I thought I must still be asleep. But I wasn’t.
    I saw a gypsy camp all about us. Three painted wagons stood unhitched around a morning cook fire. They looked like gingerbread houses on wheels, with curtains at their windows and their front steps pulled down between the shafts. I saw gypsy children climbing through the wild pecan trees for leftover nuts. I saw gypsy women in bright head scarves milking a small herd of goats and men in dark clothes tending their horses.
    But I didn’t see Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones. And I didn’t see his hammock where he’d slung it the night before.
    I quickly rolled to my feet. Sunflower was gone. Billygoat was gone. And the coach was gone.
    I froze. I felt discomposed and frightened.
    I saw an old blacksmith of a gypsy peering at me. He had great hanging moustaches and a floppy hat tilted to one side of his head. Now that I was awake he seemed to come alive.
    â€œDordi! Dordi!” he exploded with a laugh, revealing several gold teeth. “Sar shan, chavo? Sar shan?”
    I didn’t answer. I stared at him, unable to decipher his gypsy lingo.
    â€œHow are you, eh? Ah, you have forgotten the puro jib — the old language.” He pursed his lips, and rings flashed from his fingers as he made a gesture with his hand. “No matter. We will teach you, eh? Come, breakfast is on the fire.”
    â€œWhere is Mr. Peacock?” I scowled.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œMr. Hemlock!”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œMr. Jones! My partner!”
    â€œAvail, avali!” he laughed again. “Yes, yes, you mean the long-legged one. You mean Chawhoktamengro!”
    â€˜â€˜Chawhoktamengro?’’
    â€œThe Grasshopper! His gypsy name, chavo. Didn’t we pick up his signs out of Natchez, eh? And here we are!” The rings on his fingers flashed again. “But he’s gone, Chawhoktamengro is.”
    â€œGone where?”
    He shrugged and laughed again. “Come, we will eat.”
    â€œI’m not hungry,” I answered grimly. Was there no end to the names Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones used on his travels? The Grasshopper! And now he had left me behind among strangers, even if they were gypsies.
    I quickly felt for the pin in my