‘A finer! where?’ said the jockey; whilst the Hungarian, who appeared to understand what we said, stood still, and looked full at me.
‘Amongst a strange set of people,’ said I, ‘whom, if I were to name, you would, I dare say, only laugh at me.’
‘Who be they?’ said the jockey. ‘Come, don’t be ashamed. I have occasionally kept queerish company myself.’
‘The people whom we call gypsies,’ said I; ‘whom the Germans call Zigeuner, and who call themselves Romany chals.’
‘Zigeuner!’ said the Hungarian. ‘By Isten! I do know these people.’
‘Romany chals!’ said the jockey; ‘whew! I begin to smell a rat.’
‘What do you mean by smelling a rat?’ said I.
‘I’ll bet a crown,’ said the jockey, ‘that you be the young chap what certain folks call “The Romany Rye.”’
‘Ah!’ said I, ‘how came you to know that name?’
‘Be not you he?’ said the jockey.