“But, sometimes a gypsy chi marries a Gentile,” I continued, as I wished to know how he regarded such unions. “That’s true,” he admitted, “but if a tickno o’ mande’s got romm’d to a gorgio, he or she wouldn’t get help if they wanted it—at least,” he added hastily, as though the vision of one of his children being in dire need while he stood aloof was perhaps not to be thought of, “not as they would be if they kept true. The gypsy law, as you well know, is, that if sickness or trouble of any kind overtakes our folk—_our_ folk, I said, we club together—even if it means parting with the last pasherro—and help, for God alone knows when any of us may want help, but, gorgios,—ugh!” “One would almost suppose you don’t like them,” I remarked with a smile. “Like ’em!” he exclaimed. “Me like ’em! Well, I’ll tell you what happened to me; it’s years ago now, but I remember it as well as if it was yesterday:— “It was not very long after I was married, and my wife and I were very happy in our wedding living-wagon. We travelled all over the country and once or twice into Wales. Well, just about the time my eldest was born the drab-engro told us we’d better atch a bit till the wife was well again, so we found a snug corner a little way from a town and expected to be left in peace. I got permission from the owner of a bit of waste land, to stay a few weeks, and he charged me a few pence a week as rent. This land was next to a kind o’ small park belonging to a gentleman who was one of the grumpy sort. One day, he put his ugly face over the fence and said to me— “‘What are you doing here?’ “I told him as politely as I could that I was airing a clean shirt over my fire to be ready for putting on that evening. “‘Did you hear what I said?’ he bawled out. “‘Certainly,’ said I, ‘and I answered you, didn’t I?’ “Lor’, you should ha’ seen his face, it looked like a red suet pudding with a moustache on it.