Yeck. One. Ek. Dui. Two. Du. Trin. Three. Tin. Stor. Four. Tschar. Pantsch. Five. Pansch. Tschowe. Six. Tscho. Efta. Seven. Hefta. Ochto. Eight. Aute. Des. Ten. Des. Bis. Twenty. Bjs. CHAPTER II Recently, while visiting a Romany encampment, I found so many old friends whom I had desired to see again, and from whom it was difficult—without giving offence—to tear oneself away, that the work of my pen was getting sadly in arrear, and I determined to devote two or three hours one afternoon to the task of writing. Selecting a spot under a hedge which seemed to offer sufficient privacy and a fairly comfortable seat, I set to work with a resolve to cover a lot of paper. I had been thus busily engaged for some considerable time—and was in the throes of straightening out a particularly obstinate paragraph, when a man sauntered up and threw himself down upon the grass near me with a manner intended to intimate that he was willing to talk. He opened conversation, as most of the Romanies do, by asking the time, then he wondered if I had such a thing as a “lucifer” about me. Having lit up a terribly evil-smelling and much-blackened cutty pipe he made an ejaculatory remark with reference to a mosquito that had settled upon the back of his hand. There is no need to repeat what he said, but it bore no resemblance to Romany. Thus, having as it were cleared the decks for action, he waited, seeming to have something to say when I should care to listen. I had so far made good use of the afternoon, and, although much remained for me to do, I could not follow my habitual practice of making fresh Romany friends whenever possible if I kept my head buried in my papers, therefore, after folding up my notes, I seated myself somewhat nearer to my companion, and after a few casual remarks and opinions regarding the prospect for fruit and hops, he said he wished me to write a letter for him as he was unable to do it himself. “You’re a por-engro I’m told, and have written many a lil for Romany folk,” said he, in a somewhat questioning way. “That is true,” I answered, and, producing a sheet of paper, I wrote at his dictation. It was not nearly so interesting as a camipen-lil, or love-letter, as it related only to some new “sparks,” as the diamonds used in china-drilling are termed, which he desired to be sent to him and for which he had procured a postal order, this I duly filled in and crossed. During the writing of this order a woman loitered towards us, later, two younger women approached. The little group stood at a considerate distance until the task was completed, when they came nearer and seated themselves tailor-wise, or, rather should I say, gypsy-fashion, each of the younger women producing a cigarette and the older woman a clay pipe of generous capacity. When all had lit up, one said to me: