“I hardly know,” I replied, somewhat evasively.
“You’ll agree that we knows more about some people than they think, I suppose?” she asked.
“Yes, certainly,” said I.
“Well, then,” rejoined Sinfai in a confidential manner, “dukkerin is only tellin’ ’em what we know. Do you know, the first time I ever saw you and before you’d said half a dozen words, I knew what county you came from,—I’ve travelled that way, you see, and when you came to our camp the first time and sat down, I said to myself, ‘’Taint the first time he’s sat at a Roman camp fire.’ And I was right too, wasn’t I?” I admitted that it was so.
“Well,” she continued, “if I’d told your fortune I should ha’ told you that and of course made you pay for it.”
“Money appears to be quite necessary,” I remarked.
“Well,” said she, “you know we must live somehow,” adding with a merry twinkle, “but I’ll tell yours for nothing if you like.”
“By the way, who did you think could, in a place like this, overhear my question about fortune telling?” I inquired.
