CARRYING CHILD ON HIP.
I have a very distinct recollection of my first meeting with this family, for I was accompanied by a friend who, upon catching sight of them at their camp, remarked: “They are a black lot anyway, you should try and persuade them to sit for a photograph.”
“Suppose,” said I, “you air your diplomacy and see what you can do, meanwhile I’ll wait here.”
Nothing loth, he proceeded to the camp and explained that his friend would like to photograph the family, with the following result:—
“No, we ain’t ready,—come next week if you like,—we ain’t goin’ to be took to-day.”
Returning to me, my friend reported: “It’s no go, they won’t let you do it, but perhaps you may be able to persuade them.”
Armed with my hand camera and the politest Romany I could muster I advanced to the attack. Before many minutes had elapsed, my comrade sauntered up and was surprised to find me preparing to photograph them, the “open sesame” to their hearts having been,—not backsheesh,—but, as the reader will have already surmised, the gentle Romany tongue. My companion, who knew nothing of the language, would not have gained their consent had he argued until nightfall.
The woman put one or two artful questions to me, such as would cause a beginner at the language to stumble, but, fortunately, I saw through the stratagem and passed my exam, with honours.
I exposed a couple of plates on the group, after which the woman came to me and said: