It was from Joel’s lips that I heard about Mordecai Boswell, who died at Retford many years ago. Mordecai was a fine-looking man, his hair falling in long curls. He wore a dark green coat with big pearl buttons and a broad collar, while his low-crowned hat might well have been a family heirloom. He had a dancing booth at fairs, and would fiddle, while his sister Matilda danced and played the tambourine. Frampton Boswell used to join him at the St. Leger and other big races, and they didn’t do badly with the dancing booth.
One day a gawjo was chatting with Mordecai, and the talk turned upon hotshiwitshi (hedgehog).
“I couldn’t fancy eating that creature,” said the gawjo. “It makes me feel queer to think of it.”
“Look here,” said Mordecai, “I’ll bet you a half-crown that before many days are past you’ll have had some.”
The gawjo grinned and shrugged his shoulders. Time went on, and the gawjo one day came upon Mordecai and his family having dinner on the roadside.
“Won’t you have a bite with us?” said Mordecai.
“What’s that on the dish?” asked the gawjo.
“Duck,” replied the Gypsy, with a grave face. The gawjo sat down and was soon enjoying what looked remarkably like a duck’s leg. When the meal was over and pipes were brought out, Mordecai got a-talking.
“Well, my pal, where have you been since I saw you last, and how have you been faring? Has any Gypsy got you to swallow a bit o’ hotshiwitshi?”
“No, not likely. Didn’t I tell you that that nasty creature should never touch my lips?”