Jingo Django by Sid Fleischman

village street, gazing into the barbershop and pressing our noses against the windows of the general store. But the money wasn’t ours to spend.
    We continued on toward the sawmill and I felt as much a gypsy as Sacki, with the diklo knotted to one side of my neck and my eyes peeled for secret signs.
    We were moving past a high fence along the tannery when we discovered we were no longer alone. There must have been five or six village boys following in our tracks, and they didn’t look overly friendly. The tallest of them had a neck that stuck up like a turkey’s, and he did the talking.
    â€œHowdy,” he grinned.
    â€œHowdy,” I answered.
    â€œWhat you been sellin’?”
    â€œGoats’ milk,” Sacki answered. He could feel trouble in the air and so could I. But there was nothing to do but stand our ground.
    â€œYou got a legal license to sell goats’ milk?”
    â€œNo,” I said. There was going to be a fight no matter what we answered, so I added, “You got a legal license to ask hairbrained questions?”
    His grin widened while he searched his head for an answer. I decided he wasn’t as smart as he should have been. I began looking about for some way out of this mischief.
    â€œYou oughten to bad-mouth me,” he said finally.
    â€œOnly trying to make polite conversation,” I said.
    â€œWell, polite ain’t good enough. Reckon we’ll have to impound your goat money.”
    â€œWe spent it,” I said. “Every last cent, at the general store. You run over there and tell them we said you could impound it.”
    His face got tired of holding the grin. “Reckon we got no choice but to whip you.”
    Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sacki’s hand edge toward his pocket. I hoped he didn’t have a knife in there. His face was dark and brooding, and I was certain he had been in scrapes like this more than once. “Kek,” I muttered under my breath. No.
    His eyes flashed my way. He must have thought I had lost my wits. But if I had learned anything from Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones it was to use my head, and quick as possible.
    â€œAgreed,” I declared. “Whip us, but whatever you do, don’t throw us over this fence.”
    â€œWhat?”
    I glanced fearsomely at the high fence, posted with KEEP OUT signs. “Break our bones. Bloody our noses. But please, whatever you do — don’t throw us over that scaresome tall fence!”
    I saw his eyes light up. His friends closed in on us like a pack of wolves.
    â€œThis’ll learn you not to bad-mouth me!”
    And over the fence we went. We landed in the tannery yard, looked at each other, jumped up like fleas and ran.
    Of course they came howling after us. But we had a thumping head start. They stopped short of the camp when they saw Tornapo and the other men, who had returned from their horse trading.
    They pitched a few stones, but when Tornapo raised himself to his full height they decided it was a risky past-time and ran.
    Once we caught our breath Sacki began to laugh so hard they must have been able to hear it in the village. The air filled with the puro jib, and soon everyone was laughing but me.
    I was gazing at two horses the gypsy traders had brought back to camp.
    They were Billygoat and Sunflower.

18
    THE MAN IN THE RAIN
    Tornapo came over to me and said, “You know those horses, eh? You think we made a good trade?”
    I knew that Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones valued his coach horses above most things, and I might have leaped to the conclusion that some misfortune had befallen him. But I didn’t. I wasn’t fooled. He had left the animals behind for Tornapo to gather up. Even I could read his patrin, and I was certain the tufts of grass had led the gypsy horse traders directly to Billygoat and Sunflower.
    â€œIt’s none of my affair,” I answered solemnly. The truth was I felt a secret joyfulness at the sight of