“Come along with me, and while I roker (talk) to him, maw puker a lav” (don’t speak a word). Then we both went up to the little Gypsy, and with the gravest of countenances Peter began to spin a long romance all about an imaginary sister of mine who lived at Brighton and was wanting just such a horse as the one before us. It really was a fine animal, and I could not refrain from stroking its glossy skin.
Peter continued: “This here gentleman doesn’t ride hisself, you see, but his sister has asked him to look out for a horse, and this one ’ull just suit her.” I found it difficult to preserve silence, but somehow I managed to do so. Finally, Peter took me aside and talked mysteriously about nothing in particular, and quietly bade me walk away. A few minutes later I beheld Peter quaffing a large mug of ale evidently at the little man’s expense.
Moving in and out among the throng, I presently walked out along the road, and there I came upon Hamalên Smith, who, after some talk, suggested a bit of fun. Pointing to a Gypsy camp down a lane, he said—
“That’s Belinda Trickett sitting by the fire with her children. Go you down the lane and have a little game. I’ll stop here and see how you get on. You don’t know the woman, I suppose?”
“Not I. She’s a stranger to me.”
“That’s all right. Togged as you are, she’ll never take you for a parson, not she. Mind you look severe-like and say to Belinda, ‘Is your husband at home? What’s his name?’ It’s Harry, but she’s sure to say it’s something else.”
Down the lane I went, and, approaching Mrs. Trickett and family, I drew out a notebook and pencil—a sure way to frighten a Gypsy. Why these things should suggest “police” I can scarcely say, but they do. The woman’s clay pipe dropped from her mouth and fell upon the grass, and beneath the brown of her cheeks a pallor crept. Mrs. Trickett was alarmed.
“What is your husband’s name?”
“George Smith.”
“When will he be at home?”