At this they all laughed aloud.
“Dawdi, the rai doesn’t jin he’s haw’d hotshwitshi” (Fancy, the gentleman doesn’t know he’s eaten hedgehog).
So this was the much-vaunted Romany dish, nor did it disappoint me. The blended flavours of pheasant and sucking-pig are still present to my memory as I recall that moonlit meal washed down by a jug of brown ale.
On awaking next morning, I realized the truth of the saying, “Gypsies get something straight from heaven which is never known to people who sleep in stuffy houses and get up to wash in warm water.”
When I recall awakenings in lodgings with the bedclothes, valances, curtains, falderals, antimacassars, all heavy with suggestions of humanity, I marvel no more at the Gypsy’s choice of a bed of crisp bracken or sweet straw, with maybe a wisp of dried river-mint or wild thyme mingled with it.
Walking bare-foot in the dewy grass with the Gypsy children, we made our toilet together in the open, with the light airs of the wold playing about us. Then came breakfast by the wood fire, and during the meal my host’s donkey affectionately put his cold nose on the bare of my neck. In a little while we stood on the common where the fair was in full swing, and, strolling among the horses and dealers, I spied a curly-haired son of old Horace Boswell, just arrived from Leicester, who found time to tell me a funny tale about his father.
Since early morn Horace had been riding a lively horse, and, dismounting, handed the reins to a pal and walked a few yards into the fair. As he was looking about him, he lighted upon George Smith of Coalville, who, arching his bushy eyebrows and stroking his great beard, stood shocked at the sight of a Gypsy walking unsteadily. As a matter of fact, Horace’s legs had not yet thrown off the cramp of many hours’ riding on a skittish animal. When solemn George opened his mouth it was to ask a question—
“Do you drink beer, my good man?”
“Well, my kind gentleman,” replied Horace, “afore I answers that question, I’d reely like to know whether it’s a simple inquiry or an inwitation.”
This was too much for the worthy philanthropist who, turning swiftly on his heel, went his way swinging his Gladstone-bag and gingham.