Bufflo cracked it again. Then he whistled and a small plump woman came to the steps of his caravan.

“You mended it yet?” she called.

“Perhaps,” said Bufflo. “Get a cigarette, Skippy. Hurry!”

Skippy put her hand into the caravan, felt along a shelf, and brought out a packet of cigarettes. She didn’t go down the steps, but stood there, holding out the cigarette between her finger and thumb.

Bufflo swung his whip. CRACK! The cigarette disappeared as if by magic! The boys stared in amazement. Surely the end of the lash hadn’t whipped that cigarette from Skippy’s fingers? It didn’t seem possible.

“There it is,” said Bufflo, pointing some distance away. “Hold it again, Skippy. I reckon this whip is okay now.”

Skippy picked up the cigarette and put it in her mouth!

“No!” called Bufflo. “I ain’t sure enough of this lash yet. You hold it like you did.”

Skippy took it out of her mouth and held out the cigarette in her finger and thumb once more.

CRACK! Like a pistol-shot the whip cracked again, and once more the cigarette disappeared.

“Aw, Bufflo — you’ve gone and broken it in half,” said Skippy, reproachfully, pointing to where it lay on the ground, neatly cut in half. “That was real careless of you.”

Bufflo said nothing. He merely turned his back on Skippy, and set to work on his lash again, though what he was doing neither of the boys could make out. They went a little nearer to see.

Bufflo had his back to them but he must have heard them coming. “You clear out,” he said, hardly raising his voice. “No kids allowed round here. Clear out — or I’ll crack my whip and take the top hairs off your head!”

Julian and Dick felt perfectly certain he would be able to carry out his threat, and they retreated with as much dignity as they could. “I suppose the snake-man told him what a disturbance old Timmy made yesterday with the snakes,” said Dick. “I hope it won’t spoil things for us with all the fair-folk.”

They went across the field and on the way met Mr. India-rubber. They couldn’t help staring at him. He honestly looked as if he were made of rubber — he was a curious grey, the grey of an ordinary school rubber, and his skin looked rubbery too.

He scowled at the two boys. “Clear out,” he said. “No kids allowed in our field.”

Julian was annoyed. “It’s our field as much as yours,” he said. “We’ve got a couple of caravans here — those over there.”

“Well, this has always been our field,” said Mr. India-rubber. “So you clear out to the next one.”

“We haven’t any horses to pull our caravans, even if we wanted to go, which we don’t,” retorted Julian, angrily. “Anyway, why should you object to us? We’d like to be friendly. We shan’t do you any harm, or make a nuisance of ourselves.”

“Us-folk and you-folk don’t mix,” said the man, obstinately. “We don’t want you here — nor them posh caravans down there, neither,” and he pointed to the three modern caravans in one corner of the field. “This has always been our field.”