A good while before the familiar “Time, gentlemen, time” sounded, the company had become decidedly merry; the frequent thirst-slaking attempts of a few had carried them even beyond this stage and they had become quarrelsome. A heated argument was going on at one end of the room, and a disturbance seemed imminent as “sides” were formed for and against some motion. I was now asked—
“Rye, which do you stand up for?”
This was a poser as I was not particularly anxious to stand up for either side; fisticuffs is not at all a strong point with me, besides I had friends in either faction, and for obvious reasons had no desire whatever to make enemies; here my habit of a rapid decision stood me in good stead, and with tactful deference to their known love of fair play I explained that I really did not know the nature of the matter in dispute and would be glad to be informed. I soon learned that the disturbance arose from a difference of opinion as to how long it would take to paint a vardo (caravan) properly. One man held that he could paint one as well as a carpenter [sic] in three days,—a statement which some agreed with and others disputed; eventually an appeal was made to me to settle the matter, and I did it in this manner.
“What does it matter,” I asked, “how long it takes to paint, if, when it is done, you can sell it to a dinnelo gorgio for des bars more than it is worth?”
“Right you are, Rye!” came the immediate and uproarious response. “You’re a Romany chal right enough—shake.” A general, hearty hand-shake brought the incident to a happy conclusion.
On the following evening I again saw friend Petulengro. After the usual greetings he made a proposal to me, which, as he had not the least idea that circumstances prevented my embracing his offer, was, to say the least of it, extremely kind. Said he—“Rye, mande’ll del tute a vardo for desh ta dui trins ta yeck bars, and trust you same as I would any other pal; I’ll give you a year to pay it in, pay any time you like in the year.”
I thanked him for the generous offer, telling him I was not just then in need of a caravan. As my tent was at some distance I bade him good evening early in order to reach home before darkness set in, but before I left he called one of his children who was preparing for bed, and said to her—
“Now, my chavi, you listen to me,—this mush is a Romany chal,—what do you say?” The tot then put her tiny brown hand in mine and said, “God bless you, good night.”
“That’s what she’s been taught to say to all her gypsy brothers,” said Petulengro, “and she treats you the same, you see.”