“But can you make it out? Prove it!”
(Fiercely.) “Of course I can make it out. Kushto. Suppose a man sells ’punge-cake, would’nt that be his capital? Punje must be capital.”
But this was nothing to what I endured after a vague fancy of the meaning of seeking a derivation of words had dimly dawned on his mind, and he vigorously attempted to aid me. Possessed with the crude idea that it was a success whenever two words could be forced into a resemblance of any kind, he constantly endeavoured to Anglicise Gipsy words—often, alas! an only too easy process, and could never understand why it was I then rejected them. By the former method I ran the risk of obtaining false Hindustani Gipsy words, though I very much doubt whether I was ever caught by it in a single instance; so strict were the tests which I adopted, the commonest being that of submitting the words to other Gipsies, or questioning him on them some days afterwards. By the latter “aid” I risked the loss of Rommany words altogether, and undoubtedly did lose a great many. Thus with the word bilber (to entice or allure), he would say, in illustration, that the girls bilbered the gentleman into the house to rob him, and then cast me into doubt by suggesting that the word must be all right, “’cause it looked all the same as pilferin’.”
One day I asked him if the Hindustani word khapana (pronounced almost hopana) (to make away with) sounded naturally to his ears.
“Yes, rya; that must be happer, habber, or huvver. To hopper covvas away from the tan (i.e., to hopper things from the place), is when you rikker ’em awayus (carry them away, steal them), and gaverit (hide it) tally your chuckko (under your coat). An’ I can pen you a waver covva (I can tell you another thing) that’s hopper—them’s the glasses that you look through—hoppera-glasses.”
And here in bounding triumph he gave the little wooden bear a drink of ale, as if it had uttered this chunk of solid wisdom, and then treated himself to a good long pull. But the glance of triumph which shot from his black-basilisk eyes, and the joyous smile which followed these feats of philology, were absolutely irresistible. All that remained for me to do was to yield in silence.
One day we spoke of huckeny pokee, or huckeny ponkee, as it is sometimes called. It means in Rommany “sleight of hand,” and also the adroit substitution of a bundle of lead or stones for another containing money or valuables, as practised by Gipsy women. The Gipsy woman goes to a house, and after telling the simple-minded and credulous housewife that there is a treasure buried in the cellar, persuades her that as “silver draws silver,” she must deposit all her money or jewels in a bag near the place where the treasure lies. This is done, and the Rommany dye adroitly making up a parcel resembling the one laid down, steals the latter, leaving the former.
Mr Barrow calls this hokkeny bāro, the great swindle. I may remark, by the way, that among jugglers and “show-people” sleight of hand is called hanky panky. “Hocus-pocus” is attributed by several writers to the Gipsies, a derivation which gains much force from the fact, which I have never before seen pointed out, that hoggu bazee, which sounds very much like it, means in Hindustani legerdemain. English Gipsies have an extraordinary fancy for adding the termination us in a most irregular manner to words both Rommany and English. Thus kéttene (together) is often changed to kettenus, and side to sidus. In like manner, hoggu (hocku or honku) bazee could not fail to become hocus bozus, and the next change, for the sake of rhyme, would be to hocus-po-cus.
I told my ancient rambler of an extraordinary case of “huckeny pokee” which had recently occurred in the United States, somewhere in the west, the details of which had been narrated to me by a lady who lived at the time in the place where the event occurred.
“A Gipsy woman,” I said, “came to a farmhouse and played huckeny pokee on a farmer’s wife, and got away all the poor woman’s money.”