“Si.”
There was a dead silence, and then a rise and a rush. My young friend rolled her eyes up at me, but said nothing. The Italians had departed with their awful mysteries. Then there came by a man who looked much worse. He was a truculent, untamable rough, evidently inspired with gin. At a glance I saw by the manner in which he carried his coat that he was a traveler, or one who lived on the roads. Seeing me he stopped, and said, grimly,—“Do you love your Jesus?” This is certainly a pious question; but it was
uttered in a tone which intimated that if I did not answer it affirmatively I might expect anything but Christian treatment. I knew why the man uttered it. He had just come by an open-air preaching in the Park, and the phrase had, moreover, been recently chalked and stenciled by numerous zealous and busy nonconformists all over northwestern London. I smiled, and said, quietly,—
“Pal, mor rakker sā drován. Jā pukenus on the drum.” (Don’t talk so loud, brother. Go away quietly.)
The man’s whole manner changed. As if quite sober, he said,—
“Mang your shunaben, rye. But tute jins chomany. Kushti ratti!” (Beg your pardon, sir. But you do know a thing or two. Good-night!)
“I was awfully frightened,” said the young girl, as the traveler departed. “I’m sure he meant to pitch into us. But what a wonderful way you have, sir, of sending people away! I wasn’t so much astonished when you got rid of the Italians. I suppose ladies and gentlemen know Italian, or else they wouldn’t go to the opera. But this man was a common, bad English tramp; yet I’m sure he spoke to you in some kind of strange language, and you said something to him that changed him into as peaceable as could be. What was it?”
“It was gypsy, young lady,—what the gypsies talk among themselves.”
“Do you know, sir, I think you’re the most mysterious gentleman I ever met.”
“Very likely. Good-night.”