“‘You—you insolent gypsy,’ he spluttered, ‘I’ll have you moved, you dirty fellow, you and your dirty van.’ After this he went away, and, thinks I to myself—If I can manage it there’ll be some fun, so I went next day to a lawyer and asked if the land was for sale where I had my van. He promised to look into the matter for me, and in a day or two I saw him again, and he told me the owner would sell it at such and such a price. I found I had enough money, so I bought it and the lawyer attended to the transfer all right. You understand, this was all done on the quiet, and shortly afterwards my disagreeable neighbour finding that I stayed there in defiance of his threats, took legal proceedings to get rid of me as a nuisance. We had a rare set-to, I can tell you, and I won the day, for so sure was he of settling a poor gypsy that he had no solicitor to act for him and conducted his case himself; but my lawyer proved that the land belonged to me and got some respectable people of the neighbourhood to witness that we were always well behaved. There really wasn’t any need for him to complain at all, for we were always a quiet lot, but it sort o’ got his back up, I suppose, to think that a traveller should come so near to his little estate. “However, we’ve stopped there many a winter since and have scarcely ever seen the man, he may be dead by this time for all I know. It’s a strange world, pal, ain’t it?” Somewhat later my friend informed me he had arranged to meet a few pals at a certain kitchema to discuss a few things over a friendly coru levinor, so that unless I accompanied him, which he would very much like me to do, we should be obliged to part as it was about time he set out. Hoping to get a glimpse of some new phase of Romany life I agreed to go with him. Outside the inn he introduced me as a Romany Rye, and upon other gypsies inside the house calling to us we went in and joined the company. As I am not a drinker of levinor (ale) I called for a modest “stone ginger” to justify my presence in the house, and so found myself in the midst of a jovial gathering of Romanies. Glasses were filled and my friend, holding his aloft, proposed, in my honour— “Gentlemen, the health of our friend the Romany Rye.” As this was said in Romany, I felt bound to reply in that tongue. I guessed from the puzzled expression on the face of the landlord that he could make little of what was said, and my impression was confirmed when one of the gypsies—looking at me—jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the man and said “baulo-mui” (pig-face), an expressive, albeit uncomplimentary remark.