“A churi is a knife,” said the woman, in a tone of defiance; “a churi is a knife.”
“Oh, it is,” said I; “and yet you tried to persuade me that you had no peculiar language of your own, and only knew English and Scotch: churi is a word of the language in which I spoke to you at first, Zingarrijib, or Gypsy language; and since you know that word, I make no doubt that you know others, and in fact can speak Gypsy. Come; let us have a little confidential discourse together.”
The woman stood for some time, as if in reflection, and at length said: “Sir, before having any particular discourse with you, I wish to put a few questions to you, in order to gather from your answers whether it is safe to talk to you on Gypsy matters. You pretend to understand the Gypsy language: if I find you do not, I will hold no further discourse with you; and the sooner you take yourself off the better. If I find you do, I will talk with you as long as you like. What do you call that?”—and she pointed to the fire.
“Speaking Gyptianly?” said I.
The woman nodded.
“Whoy, I calls that yog.”
“Hm,” said the woman: “and the dog out there?”
“Gyptian-loike?” said I.
“Yes.”
“Whoy, I calls that a juggal.”