“Then you’ve done it to-day. You’ve had hotshi for dinner, and you seemed to enjoy one of the legs finely. You smacked your lips over it anyway. Hand up that half-crown.”
He did so, and, turning pale, walked away.
“I say, rai,” remarked Izaria, “did you know there’s some of the black Herrens (Herons) stopping at Robin Hood’s Bay, not far from here? I seen ’em at Scarborough a little while back, and I shouldn’t wonder if some of ’em’s at Seamer Fair next week.”
Making a mental note of these two places, I resolved to visit them. Then, happening to mention the mush-fakir whom I had encountered near the Castle, Joel said, “I once had an uncle as was very fond of this here town, I mean Elisha Blewitt, as married Mordecai’s sister Sybarina; my uncle was a mush-fakir, but he’s been dead for years. As for that there man you spoke of, I believe there’s a long-legged gèro (man) in the same line o’ business living at the Model.”
Next day in the same quarter I waylaid Fennix Smith in company with a Gypsy named Swales, who were about to set forth in a two-wheeled cart drawn by a thin-legged pony, their destination being Malton. On their way home they would call at “No Man’s Land,” where they expected to find some of their travelling friends drawing up for Seamer Fair. Between their legs I noticed a lurcher curled up, and, pointing to it, I said, “I see you mean to have some sport on the way.”
“Yes, and we shan’t forget to bring you some-think, pass’n, if we has good luck.”
After the pony-cart had rattled out of the street, I turned into the yard of the Model, where several grinding-barrows stood under a lean-to, but I failed to recognize Long Ambrose’s property among them, and, entering the house, I learned that my mush-fakir might be expected home at any time. Walking up the street, I came upon a stalwart Gypsy woman standing at her open door. Her husband, I gathered, was a tinker, and not a prosperous one at that, judging by his wife’s tattered gown and woebegone air. During our talk about her relations who travelled Lincolnshire, two pretty little children continually tugged at her gown.
“If you go to Seamer Fair, rai, you’ll be sure to find some of my folks, the Smiths, along with the Herrens and Youngs.”
Just then I heard a man whistling, and round the corner appeared Long Ambrose pushing his barrow. In the yard of the Model we conversed, and on his referring to Gloucester, I asked if he knew any of the Carews, horse-dealers of that city.
“Oh yes, there was one of them sold a dyed horse to match a black carriage-grai, and a wery ‘fly’ cove he was, but he got found out, and had to do ‘time’ for that affair.” My mush-fakir seemed to have travelled everywhere.