"_Ha veduto il mio 'havallo la sera_?"
"_Si_."
There was a dead silence, and then a rise and a rush. My young friend
rolled her eyes up at me, but said nothing. The Italians had departed
with their awful mysteries. Then there came by a man who looked much
worse. He was a truculent, untamable rough, evidently inspired with gin.
At a glance I saw by the manner in which he carried his coat that he was
a traveler, or one who lived on the roads. Seeing me he stopped, and
said, grimly,--"Do you love your Jesus?" This is certainly a pious
question; but it was uttered in a tone which intimated that if I did not
answer it affirmatively I might expect anything but Christian treatment.
I knew why the man uttered it. He had just come by an open-air preaching
in the Park, and the phrase had, moreover, been recently chalked and
stenciled by numerous zealous and busy nonconformists all over
northwestern London. I smiled, and said, quietly,--
"_Pal_, _mor rakker sa drovan_. _Ja pukenus on the drum_." (Don't talk
so loud, brother. Go away quietly.)