“If we do, there’s no help for it,” said Peace, looking hard at the speaker.
“Right you are, my lad,” returned the other, who then proceeded with his discourse. “I was just a-thinkin’,” he observed, “which among us has the honour of being the biggest rogue. We’ve all been guilty, gentlemen, of doing something which has brought the wrath of our enemies down upon us. I myself am here for taking an airing on a pad one fine moonlight night. Now, I say, I wonder which is the biggest rogue in this batch of injured gentlemen?”
“Oh, shut up; that will do,” said a voice from the further end of the room. “What does it matter?”
“Well,” returned the other, “as far as that goes, I don’t know how it does much matter; but it aint in my nature to sit still like a dummy when in such good company as I now find myself. Let us relate to each other our own lives and doings. It will amuse some on us.”
“You begin with yours, then,” said Peace. “You’ve got the jawing tackle on, and won’t stand still for want of words, I dare say. I’m quite willing. What say you, gentlemen?”
There was a murmur of many voices, and some of those present expressed their willingness to listen to the story.
“Good, then; here goes to keep the game alive. I can say I am not related to any of the hupper classes; leastways not as I knows on――my impression being that I was born under a hedge: I am a gipsy: this I dare say you have already guessed. Well, let me tell you a gipsy’s life is not without is charms. I believe I was cradled on a horse or a donkey, but this is what I’ve heard other people say.
[Illustration: “DON’T YOU DARE TO INSULT ME, YOU NASTY UGLY LITTLE VILLIAN,” EXCLAIMED MRS. POCKLINGTON.]
“My earliest recollections bring to my view seven or eight hooped tents on the skirts of a common, eight or ten stunted sorts of horses, and five or six donkeys with here and there a fire on the ground, kettles hanging over them hitched on a cross-stick, supported by others fixed in the ground.
“Myself with four or five other children of my own age might be seen rolling on the grass just washed and refreshed by the morning dew.
“There, aint that a picter? But, Lord love yer, them days are passed, and the honourable race of gipsies are rapidly passing away before modern improvements, as they are termed――and be hanged to them.
