"_Mang your shunaben_, _rye_. _But tute jins chomany_. _Kushti ratti_!"
(Beg your pardon, sir. But you _do_ know a thing or two. Good-night!)
"I was awfully frightened," said the young girl, as the traveler
departed. "I'm sure he meant to pitch into us. But what a wonderful way
you have, sir, of sending people away! I wasn't so much astonished when
you got rid of the Italians. I suppose ladies and gentlemen know
Italian, or else they wouldn't go to the opera. But this man was a
common, bad English tramp; yet I'm sure he spoke to you in some kind of
strange language, and you said something to him that changed him into as
peaceable as could be. What was it?"
"It was gypsy, young lady,--what the gypsies talk among themselves."
"Do you know, sir, I think you're the most mysterious gentleman I ever
met."
"Very likely. Good-night."
"Good night, sir."
I was walking with my friend the Palmer, one afternoon in June, in one of
the several squares which lie to the west of the British Museum. As we
went I saw a singular-looking, slightly-built man, lounging at a corner.
He was wretchedly clad, and appeared to be selling some rudely-made, but
curious contrivances of notched sticks, intended to contain flowerpots.
He also had flower-holders made of twisted copper wire. But the greatest
curiosity was the man himself. He had such a wild, wasted, wistful
expression, a face marked with a life of almost unconscious misery. And
most palpable in it was the unrest, which spoke of an endless struggle
with life, and had ended by goading him into incessant wandering. I
cannot imagine what people can be made of who can look at such men
without emotion.
"That is a gypsy," I said to the Palmer. "_Sarishan_, _pal_!"
The wanderer seemed to be greatly pleased to hear Romany. He declared
that he was in the habit of talking it so much to himself when alone that
his ordinary name was Romany Dick.
"But if you come down to the Potteries, and want to find me, you mus'n't
ask for Romany Dick, but Divius Dick." "That means Wild Dick." "Yes."
"And why?" "Because I wander about so, and can never stay more than a
night in any one place. I can't help it. I must keep going." He said
this with that wistful, sad expression, a yearning as for something which
he had never comprehended. Was it _rest_?
"And so I _rakker_ Romany [talk gypsy to myself], when I'm alone of a
night, when the wind blows. It's better company than talkin' Gorginess.
More sociable. _He_ says--no--_I_ say more sensible things Romaneskas
than in English. You understand me?" he exclaimed suddenly, with the
same wistful stare.
"Perfectly. It's quite reasonable. It must be like having two heads
instead of one, and being twice as knowing as anybody else."
"Yes, that's it. But everybody don't know it."
"What do you ask for one of those flower-stands, Dick?"
"A shillin', sir."
"Well, here is my name and where I live, on an envelope. And here are
two shillings. But if you _chore mandy_ [cheat me] and don't leave it at
the house, I'll look you up in the Potteries, and _koor tute_ [whip
you]."
He looked at me very seriously. "Ah, yes. You could _koor me kenna_
[whip me now]. But you couldn't have _koored_ my _dadas_ [whipped my
father]. Leastways not afore he got his leg broken fightin' Lancaster
Sam. You must have heard of my father,--Single-stick Dick. But if
your're comin' down to the Potteries, don't come next Sunday. Come
Sunday three weeks. My brother is _stardo kenna_ for _chorin_ a _gry_
[in prison for horse-stealing]. In three weeks he'll be let out, and
we're goin' to have a great family party to welcome him, and we'll be
glad to see you. Do come."
The flower-stand was faithfully delivered, but another engagement
prevented an acceptance of the invitation, and I have never seen Dick
since.
* * * * *
I was walking along Marylebone Road, which always seems to be a worn and
wind-beaten street, very pretty once, and now repenting it; when just
beyond Baker Street station I saw a gypsy van hung all round with baskets
and wooden-ware. Smoke issued from its pipe, and it went along smoking
like any careless pedestrian. It always seems strange to think of a
family being thus conveyed with its dinner cooking, the children playing
about the stove, over rural roads, past common and gorse and hedge, in
and out of villages, and through Great Babylon itself, as if the family
had a _pied a terre_, and were as secluded all the time as though they
lived in Little Pedlington or Tinnecum. For they have just the same
narrow range of gossip, and just the same set of friends, though the set
are always on the move. Traveling does not make a cosmopolite.
By the van strolled the lord and master, with his wife. I accosted him.
"_Sarishan_?"
"_Sarishan rye_!"
"Did you ever see me before? Do you know me?"
"No, sir."
"I'm sorry for that. I have a nice velveteen coat which I have been
keeping for your father. How's your brother Frank? Traveling about
Kingston, I suppose. As usual. But I don't care about trusting the coat
to anybody who don't know me."
"I'll take it to him, safe enough, sir."
"Yes, I dare say. On your back. And wear it yourself six months before
you see him."
Up spoke his wife: "That he shan't. I'll take good care that the _pooro
mush_ [the old man] gets it all right, in a week."
"Well, _dye_, I can trust you. You remember me. And, Anselo, here is my
address. Come to the house in half an hour."