Here high prophetic frenzy tailed off into unabashed mendicancy, and the interview dropped to a purely commercial level. My attention wandered. Not far away a ring of people had collected round some fresh object of interest. I could hear the sound of a woman's voice singing, and the thrumming of a harp. I could even distinguish the air. A fresh number was just beginning. It was "Annie Laurie"--the most beautiful love-song, in my humble opinion, ever written.
"Maxwellton's braes are bonny,
Where early falls the dew--"
Then the voice quavered and ceased, and I found myself wondering what had happened.
"And now, would the other handsome gentleman like to show his palm to Gipsy?" enquired an ingratiating croak at my side.
Realising with difficulty that I was the individual referred to, I turned, to find that our aged friend, having satisfactorily arranged Dicky's future, was now soliciting my patronage.
"No, thanks," I replied. "Come and see what is going on over there, Freak."
"Ah, but Gipsy will tell the gentleman all," promised the old lady. "He has a wicked eye," she added, alluringly but incorrectly.
We escaped at last, at a price, and presently found ourselves upon the outskirts of the little crowd which I have already mentioned.
"What is going on inside here?" enquired Dicky of his nearest neighbour.
"Gel singin' to the 'arp," replied the gentleman addressed. He supplemented this information by adding that the lady was no class, and had a nasty cough.