‘Of hard old ale,’ I interposed, ‘which, according to my mind, is better than all the wine in the world.’
‘Well said, Romany Rye,’ said the jockey. ‘Just my own opinion; now, William, make yourself scarce.’
The waiter withdrew, and I said to the jockey, ‘How did you become acquainted with the Romany chals?’
‘I first became acquainted with them,’ said the jockey, ‘when I lived with old Fulcher the basket-maker, who took me up when I was adrift upon the world; I do not mean the present Fulcher, who is likewise called old Fulcher, but his father, who has been dead this many a year; while living with him in the caravan, I frequently met them in the green lanes, and of latter years I have had occasional dealings with them in the horse line.’
‘And the gypsies have mentioned me to you?’ said I.
‘Frequently,’ said the jockey, ‘and not only those of these parts; why, there’s scarcely a part of England in which I have not heard the name of the Romany Rye mentioned by these people. The power you have over them is wonderful; that is, I should have thought it wonderful, had they not more than once told me the cause.’
‘And what is the cause?’ said I, ‘for I am sure I do not know.’
‘The cause is this,’ said the jockey: ‘they never heard a bad word proceed from your mouth, and never knew you do a bad thing.’
‘They are a singular people,’ said I.
‘And what a singular language they have got,’ said the jockey.