Thus adjured, I answered,—
“Miri pen, miri kushti pen, beng lel tute, mā rakker sā drován! Or ma rakker Romaneskas. Mān dikesa te rānia shan akai. Miri kameli—mān kair
mandy ladge!” (My sister, my nice, sweet sister!—devil take you! don’t hallo at me like that! Or else don’t talk Romany. Don’t you see there are ladies here? My dear, don’t put me to shame!)
“Pen the rani ta wusser mandy a trin-grushi—who—op, hallo!” (Tell the lady to shy me a shilling—whoop!) cried the fast damsel.
“Pa miri duvels kām, pen—o bero se ta duro. Mandy’ll dé tute a pash-korauna keratti if tu tevel jā. Gorgie shan i foki kavakoi!” (For the Lord’s sake, sister!—the boat is too far from shore. I’ll give you half a crown this evening if you’ll clear out. These be Gentiles, these here.)
“It seems to be a melodious language,” said Mr. Roebuck, greatly amused. “What are you saying?”
“I am telling her to hold her tongue, and go.”
“But how on earth does it happen that you speak such a language?” inquired a lady. “I always thought that the gypsies only talked a kind of English slang, and this sounds like a foreign tongue.”
All this time Britannia, like the Cork Leg, never tired, but kept on the chase, neck and neck, till we reached a lock, when, with a merry laugh like a child, she turned on her track and left us.
“Mr. L.’s proficiency in Romany,” said Mr. Roebuck, “is well known to me. I have heard him spoken of as the successor to George Borrow.”