Whenever one hears an Englishman, not a scholar, speak of gypsies as “Romany,” he may be sure that man is rather more on the loose than becomes a steady citizen, and that he walks in ways which, if not of darkness, are at least in a shady demi-jour, with a gentle down grade. I do not think there was anybody on the race-ground who was not familiar with the older word.
It began to rain, and before long my new velveteen coat was very wet. I looked among the booths for one where I might dry myself and get something to eat, and, entering the largest, was struck by the appearance of the landlady. She was a young and decidedly pretty woman, nicely dressed, and was unmistakably
gypsy. I had never seen her before, but I knew who she was by a description I had heard. So I went up to the bar and spoke:—
“How are you, Agnes?”
“Bloomin’. What will you have, sir?”
“Dui curro levinor, yeck for tute, yeck for mandy.” (Two glasses for ale,—one for you, one for me.)
She looked up with a quick glance and a wondering smile, and then said,—
“You must be the Romany rye of the Coopers. I’m glad to see you. Bless me, how wet you are. Go to the fire and dry yourself. Here, Bill, I say! Attend to this gentleman.”
There was a tremendous roaring fire at the farther end of the booth, at which were pieces of meat, so enormous as to suggest a giant’s roast or a political barbecue rather than a kitchen. I glanced with some interest at Bill, who came to aid me. In all my life I never saw a man who looked so thoroughly the regular English bull-dog bruiser of the lowest type, but battered and worn out. His nose, by oft-repeated pummeling, had gradually subsided almost to a level with his other features, just as an ancient British grave subsides, under the pelting storms of centuries, into equality with the plain. His eyes looked out from under their bristly eaves like sleepy wild-cats from a pig-pen, and his physique was tremendous. He noticed my look of curiosity.
“Old Bruisin’ Bill, your honor. I was well knowed in the prize-ring once. Been in the newspapers. Now, you mus’n’t dry your coat that way! New welweteen ought always to be wiped afore you dry it. I was a gamekeeper myself for six years, an’ wore it all that time nice and proper, I did, and know how