The moments flew by, but no Gypsy came. A little longer I waited, pacing sharply up and down the roadway, then as the red shawl had not put in an appearance, visions of a cosy meal by the fire of a certain inn began to beckon alluringly, so I started on my way again. Soon I forgot all about the Gypsy, who by this time had probably done a good stroke in the dukerin line among the servants of the mansion. However, a rutted, grassy lane turning off to the left drew one’s eye towards a gorsy corner where the chimney of a Gypsy van flung a drooping trail of smoke over the tangles, and, going forward, I shouted in the doorway, “Anybody at home?”
A man’s scared face looked out. Perhaps he had expected a command to quit his corner and draw out into the windy night. A moment later in a tone of relief, he said—
“Now I know who you are. You’ll be the rashai I met wi’ Jonathan Boswell by the watermill. Don’t you remember I moved away when you began to roker (talk)? My pal Boswell wanted to have you to himself. That’s why I took my hook. But come inside a bit. This wind’s enough to blow your wery bal avrî” (hair off).
How strange it is that if a Gypsy has seen you anywhere for a few moments, he is able to identify your very shadow for ever after.
Gladly I joined Old Frank in his cheery vâdo, which certainly suggested comfort and gaiety to this traveller on the wild March evening.
“You gave me a bit of a shock,” said Frank. “At first I took you for a muskro (constable), but as soon as the light of my lamp fell on your face I reckernized you in a minute.”
We talked awhile of Old Jonathan, whose faithful consort Fazzy had passed away up in Yorkshire. This brought to mind the red-shawled woman whom I had seen down the road.
“That’ll be my monushni (wife). I expect her home di-rectly. When she comes, you pretend to be a muskro”—this with a broad grin. “Say roughish-like, ‘Wasn’t your name Liddy West afore you was married?’ Then draw out a bit of paper, a letter folded long or anythink like that’ll do, and say, ‘I’ve come to take you for fortune-telling.’”
No one understands the whole art and mystery of practical joking better than the Gypsy, and he dearly loves to play pranks even upon his fellows. It is part and parcel of the Gypsy’s innate spirit of mischief, examples of which I have seen not a few in my time.
Having acquiesced in the joke, our talk presently ran on muskros.