“Do you know anything about cookin’?” she asked.
“How should I?” said I; “it’s hardly been my line up to the present.”
“Then,” she retorted, “you’d better jolly well begin to learn at once.”
“All right,” said I, laughing. “What’s on the menu?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” was the reply; “but we’ve got to get some poovengroes ready first of all,—here’s a churi for you.”
Taking the proffered knife, I set to work scraping potatoes. Sinfai, overlooking my performance, remarked approvingly—“Ain’t so bad for a start,—we shall make a Romany out o’ you ’fore long.”
While occupied thus as lady’s help I inquired of my instructress, “Where’s your mother today, Sinfai, is she dukkerin?”
“Sh—h!” she replied, “don’t talk so loud, some mush may shoon what you pens. We has to be careful nowadays, the police is down on us,—dukkerin ain’t what it used to be; one time we made a good bit by it—but there! it’s no good worrying about it. I say, Rye, ain’t you never had your fortune told?”
“Yes, Miss—— told it,” I admitted.
“Oh, she ain’t no good at it,” said Sinfai with a sniff; “it allus must be told by a dark person. It’s a gift, you know, and the gorgios as can’t do it of course says it’s dreadful wicked and oughter be put a stop to. Do you believe in it?” she inquired, with a quizzical expression.