own opinion; now,
William, make yourself scarce."

The waiter withdrew, and I said to the jockey, "How did you become
acquainted with the Romany chals?"

"I first became acquainted with them," said the jockey, "when I lived
with old Fulcher the basket-maker, who took me up when I was adrift upon
the world; I do not mean the present Fulcher, who is likewise called old
Fulcher, but his father, who has been dead this many a year; while living
with him in the caravan, I frequently met them in the green lanes, and of
latter years I have had occasional dealings with them in the horse line."

"And the gypsies have mentioned me to you?" said I.

"Frequently," said the jockey, "and not only those of these parts; why,
there's scarcely a part of England in which I have not heard the name of
the Romany Rye mentioned by these people. The power you have over them
is wonderful; that is, I should have thought it wonderful, had they not
more than once told me the cause."

"And what is the cause?" said I, "for I am sure I do not know."

"The cause is this," said the jockey, "they never heard a bad word
proceed from your mouth, and never knew you do a bad thing."

"They are a singular people," said I.

"And what a singular language they have got," said the jockey.

"Do you know it?" said I.

"Only a few words," said the jockey; "they were always chary in teaching
me any."

"They were vary sherry to me too," said the Hungarian, speaking in broken
English; "I only could learn from them half-a-dozen words, for example,
gul eray, which, in the czigany of my country, means sweet gentleman; or
edes ur in my own Magyar."

"Gudlo Rye, in the Romany of mine, means a sugar'd gentleman," said I;
"then there are gypsies in your country?"

"Plenty," said the Hungarian, speaking German, "and in Russia and Turkey
too; and wherever they are found, they are alike in their ways and
language. Oh, they are a strange race, and how little known. I know
little of them, but enough to say that one horse-load of nonsense has
been written about them; there is one Valter Scott . . ."

"Mind what you say about him," said I; "he is our grand authority in
matters of philology and history."

"A pretty philologist," said the Hungarian, "who makes the gypsies speak
Roth-Welsch, the dialect of thieves; a pretty historian, who couples
together Thor and Tzernebock."

"Where does he do that?" said I.

"In his conceited romance of Ivanhoe, he couples T