“No. My one piecee fa-ke-kwok; my Melican, galaw. You dlinkee ale some-tim?”
The giant replied that pay-wine, which is Pidgin for beer, was not ungrateful to his palate or foreign to his habits. So we had a quart of Alsopp between us, and drank to better acquaintance. I found that the giant had exhibited himself in many lands, and taken great pains to learn the language of each, so that he spoke German, Italian, and Spanish well enough. He had been at a mission-school when he used to “stop China-side,” or was in his native land. I assured him that I had perceived it from the first, because he evidently “talked ink,” as his countrymen say of words which are uttered by a scholar, and I greatly gratified him by citing some of my own “beautiful verses,” which are reversed from a Chinese original:—
“One man who never leadee [69a]
Like one dly [69b] inkstan be:
You turn he up-side downy,
No ink lun [69c] outside he.”
So we parted with mutual esteem. This was the second man by the name of Chang whom I had known, and singularly enough they were both exhibited as curiosities. The other made a living as a Siamese twin, and his brother was named Eng. They wrote their autographs for me, and put them wisely at the very top of the page, lest I should write a promise to pay an immense sum of money, or forge a free pass to come into the exhibition gratis over their signatures.
Having seen Chang, I returned to the Hôtel de Louvre, dined, and then went forth with friends to the Orangerie. This immense garden, devoted to concerts, beer, and cigars, is said to be capable of containing three thousand people; before I left it it held about five thousand. I knew not why this unwonted crowd had assembled; when I found the cause I was astonished, with reason. At the gate was a bill, on which I read “Les Bohemiennes de Moscow.”
“Some small musical comedy, I suppose,” I said to myself. “But let us see it.” We pressed on.
“Look there!” said my companion. “Those are certainly gypsies.”
Sure enough, a procession of men and women, strangely dressed in gayly colored Oriental garments, was entering the gates. But I replied, “Impossible. Not here in Paris. Probably they are performers.”
“But see. They notice you. That girl certainly
knows you. She’s turning her head. There,—I heard her say O Romany rye!”