“Will you permit me to ask who you are?”
“Do you see the place where I live?” said I.
“I do,” said the man in black, looking around.
“Do you know the name of this place?”
“I was told it was Mumpers’, or Gypsies’ Dingle,” said the man in black.
“Good,” said I; “and this forge and tent, what do they look like?”
“Like the forge and tent of a wandering Zigan; I have seen the like in Italy.”
“Good,” said I; “they belong to me.”
“Are you, then, a Gypsy?” said the man in black.
“What else should I be?”