Sniffer shut up like a clam. He was just about to sniff and thought better of it. He stared at George, his mouth set in an obstinate line.

George looked at him impatiently. “Captain Johnson said you and your caravans went there every three months,” she said. “What for? There must be some reason?”

“Well,” said Sniffer, looking away from her, “we make pegs, and baskets, and...”

“I know that! All gypsies make things to sell,” said George. “But you don’t need to go into the middle of a deserted moor to make them. You can do them just as well in a village, or sitting in a field near a farmhouse. Why go to such a lonely place as the moor?”

Sniffer said nothing, but bent over a queer little arrangement of sticks set on the path beside his caravan. George saw them and bent over them too, her question forgotten.

“Oh! Is that a patrin? A gypsy message! What does it mean?”

There were two sticks, one long and one short, neatly arranged in the shape of a cross. A little farther up on the path were a few single, straight sticks, all pointing in the same direction.

“Yes,” said Sniffer, very glad to have the subject changed. “It’s our way of telling things to those who may come after us. See the sticks in the shape of the cross? That’s a patrin that says we’ve been along this way and we’re going in the direction that the long stick points.”

“I see,” said George. “How simple! But what about these four straight sticks, all pointing the same way too. What do they mean?”

“They mean that the travellers went in caravans,” said Sniffer, giving a sudden sniff. “See, four sticks, four caravans, going that way!”

“I see,” said George, making up her mind that she herself would evolve quite a few ‘patrins’ for use at school when they went for walks. “Are there any more “patrins” Sniffer?”

“Plenty,” said the boy. “Look, when I leave here, I shall put a patrin like this!” he picked a large leaf from a nearby tree, and then a small one. He placed them side by side, and weighted them down with small stones.

“What in the world does that mean?” said George.

“Well, it’s a patrin, a message, to say that me and my little dog have gone in the caravan too,” said Sniffer, picking up the leaves. “Suppose my father came back to find me, and he saw those leaves there, he’d know I’d gone on with my dog. It’s simple. Big leaf for me, little leaf for my dog!”

“Yes. I like it,” said George, pleased. “Now let’s look at the caravan.”

It was an old-fashioned kind of caravan, not very big, and with high wheels. The door and the steps down were in front. The shafts rested on the ground waiting for Clip to come back. The caravan was black, with red designs on it here and there.