By the time we reached Pont-de-Brique the luggage-carrier hung on by one screw. Fortunately we found a carpenter in a café, and he and J——went to work.—In the meantime I saw, under the shade of a clump of trees, a green cart with windows and chimney, a horse grazing near by, and a man and woman sitting in front of a fire kindled on the grass. I walked towards the cart.——
“Kushto divvus, Pal te Pen” (“Good-day, brother and sister”), said I.
“What?” asked the woman, without looking up from the tin-pan she was mending.
“Kushto divvus,” said I, louder; adding, “Me shom une Romany chi” (“I’m a Gipsy”).
“Comment?” she repeated peevishly. “I do not understand you.”
—The man still tinkered at his pots.
I chaffed them in my best Romany, but they took no further heed. I tried French. I said I was a Gipsy come from over the seas, with news of their brothers in America.——
“But we’re not Gipsies,” said they; “we live in Boulogne, and we’re busy.”