“You have been in America. Did you ever hunt game in the west?”
“Yes; many a time. On the plains.”
“Of course—buffalo—antelope—jack rabbits. And once” (I said this as if forgetfully)—“I once ate a hedgehog—no, I don’t mean a hedgehog, but a porcupine.”
A meaning glance shot from the Gipsy’s eye. I uttered a first-class password, and if he had any doubt before as to who the Rommany rye might be, there was none now. But with a courteous smile he replied—
“It’s quite the same, sir—porcupine or hedgehog. I know perfectly well what you mean.”
“Porcupines,” I resumed, “are very common in America. The Chippeways call them hotchewitchi.”
This Rommany word was a plumper for the Gipsy, and the twinkle of his eye—the smallest star of mirth in the darkest night of gravity I ever beheld in my life—was lovely. I had trumped his card at any rate with as solemn gravity as his own; and the Gorgios thought our reminiscences of America were very entertaining.
“He had more tow upon his distaffé
Than Gervais wot of.”
But there was one in the party—and I think only one—who had her own private share in the play. That one was the pretty young lady. Through all the conversation, I observed from time to time her eyes fixed on my face, as if surmising some unaccountable mystery. I understood it at once. The bread and butter on the table, partly eaten, and the snow-white napkin indicated to a feminine eye that some one not of the household had been entertained, and that I was the guest. Perhaps she had seen the old woman’s quick glance at me, but it was evident that she felt a secret. What she divined I do not know. Should this work ever fall into her hands, she will learn it all, and with it the fact that Gipsies can talk double about as well as any human beings on the face of the earth, and enjoy fun with as grave a face as any Ojib’wa of them all.
The habits of the Gipsy are pleasantly illustrated by the fact that the collection of “animated books,” which no Rommany gentleman’s library should be without, generally includes a jackdaw. When the foot of the Gorgio is heard near the tent, a loud “wā-āwk” from the wary bird (sounding very much like an alarm) at once proclaims the fact; and on approaching, the stranger finds the entire party in all probability asleep. Sometimes a dog acts as sentinel, but it comes to the same thing. It is said you cannot catch a weasel asleep: I am tempted to add that you can never find a Gipsy awake—but it means precisely the same thing.