s go, not being able to make anything of
us; but, as we are going, he calls us back. "Good woman," says the
Poknees, "what was that I heard you say just now to the little boy?" "I
was telling him, your worship, to go and see the time of day, and to save
trouble, I said it in our language." "Where did you get that language?"
says the Poknees. "'Tis our own language, sir," I tells him, "we did not
steal it." "Shall I tell you what it is, my good woman?" says the
Poknees. "I would thank you, sir," says I, "for 'tis often we are asked
about it." "Well, then," says the Poknees, "it is no language at all,
merely a made-up gibberish." "Oh, bless your wisdom," says I, with a
curtsey, "you can tell us what our language is, without understanding
it!" Another time we meet a parson. "Good woman," says he, "what's that
you are talking? Is it broken language?" "Of course, your reverence,"
says I, "we are broken people; give a shilling, your reverence, to the
poor broken woman." Oh, these gorgios! they grudge us our very
language!'

'She called you her son, Jasper?'

'I am her son, brother.'

'I thought you said your parents were--'

'Bitchadey pawdel; you thought right, brother. This is my wife's
mother.'

'Then you are married, Jasper?'

'Ay, truly; I am husband and father. You will see wife and chabo anon.'

'Where are they now?'

'In the gav, penning dukkerin.'

'We were talking of language, Jasper?'

'True, brother.'

'Yours must be a rum one?'

''Tis called Rommany.'

'I would gladly know it.'

'You need it sorely.'

'Would you teach it me?'

'None sooner.'

'Suppose we begin now?'

'Suppose we do, brother.'

'Not whilst I am here,' said the woman, flinging her knitting down, and
starting upon her feet; 'not whilst I am here shall this gorgio learn
Rommany. A pretty manoeuvre, truly; and what would be the end of it? I
goes to the farming ker with my sister, to tell a fortune, and earn a few
sixpences for the chabes. I sees a jolly pig in the yard, and I says to
my sister, speaking Rommany, "Do so and so," says I; which the farming
man hearing, asks what we are talking about. "Nothing at all, master,"
says I; "something about the weather"; when who should start up from
behind a pale, where he has been listening, but this ugly gorgio, crying
out, "They are after poisoning your pigs, neighbour!" so that we are glad
to run, I and my sister, with perhaps the farm-engro shouting after us.