A pretty little foal about four
months old came frisking and gambolling now before now beside the
horses, whilst a colt of some sixteen months followed more
leisurely behind. When the caravan was about ten yards distant I
stopped, and raising my left hand with the little finger pointed
aloft, I exclaimed:
"Shoon, Kaulomengro, shoon! In Dibbel's nav, where may tu be
jawing to?"
Stopping his caravan with considerable difficulty the small black
man glared at me for a moment like a wild cat, and then said in a
voice partly snappish, partly kind:
"Savo shan tu? Are you one of the Ingrines?"
"I am the chap what certain folks calls the Romany Rye."
"Well, I'll be jiggered if I wasn't thinking so and if I wasn't
penning so to my juwa as we were welling down the chong."
"It is a long time since we last met, Captain Bosvile, for I
suppose I may call you Captain now?"
"Yes! the old man has been dead and buried this many a year, and
his sticks and titles are now mine. Poor soul, I hope he is happy;
indeed I know he is, for he lies in Cockleshell churchyard, the
place he was always so fond of, and has his Sunday waistcoat on him
with the fine gold buttons, which he was always so proud of.
