“Good night, sir.”
I was walking with my friend the Palmer, one afternoon in June, in one of the several squares which lie to the west of the British Museum. As we went I saw a singular-looking, slightly-built man, lounging at a corner. He was wretchedly clad, and appeared to be selling some rudely-made, but curious contrivances of notched sticks, intended to contain flowerpots. He also had flower-holders made of twisted copper wire. But the greatest curiosity was the man himself. He had such a wild, wasted, wistful expression, a face marked with a life of almost unconscious misery. And most palpable in it was the unrest, which spoke of an endless struggle with life, and had ended by goading him into incessant wandering. I cannot imagine what people can be made of who can look at such men without emotion.
“That is a gypsy,” I said to the Palmer. “Sarishan, pal!”
The wanderer seemed to be greatly pleased to hear Romany. He declared that he was in the habit of talking it so much to himself when alone that his ordinary name was Romany Dick.
“But if you come down to the Potteries, and want to find me, you mus’n’t ask for Romany Dick, but Divius Dick.” “That means Wild Dick.” “Yes.” “And why?” “Because I wander about so, and can never stay more than a night in any one place. I can’t help it. I must keep going.” He said this with that wistful, sad expression, a yearning as for something which he had never comprehended. Was it rest?
“And so I rakker Romany [talk gypsy to myself], when I’m alone of a night, when the wind blows. It’s better company than talkin’ Gorginess. More sociable. He says—no—I say more sensible things
Romaneskas than in English. You understand me?” he exclaimed suddenly, with the same wistful stare.
“Perfectly. It’s quite reasonable. It must be like having two heads instead of one, and being twice as knowing as anybody else.”
“Yes, that’s it. But everybody don’t know it.”
“What do you ask for one of those flower-stands, Dick?”