On another occasion I was changing plates at night in absolute darkness in a caravan; a gypsy boy of about ten years of age was present during the operation, and doubtless he thought it altogether a strange business, for now and again he would say: “Oh, mush, ain’t it funny?” I was very much afraid his curiosity would prompt him to strike a match, to see what was actually going on; but, fortunately, he was susceptible to my appeals to him to sit quite still; nevertheless, I felt much relieved when I had my exposed plates safely packed and the camera refilled, for I had that day exposed plates on some of my choicest subjects. It will be evident to the photographically inclined, that the conditions under which one practises the art while living as a Romanichal among Romanies, are not always ideal; even the best of shutters objects at times to roughing it, being set fast when it should move, or becoming “unstuck” when it should be rigid; but this kind of thing imparts additional variety to a changeful life, although in the event of one being compelled to stay at home doing repairs during the greater part of the best photographic day experienced, one’s good or bad points are likely to be developed accordingly as the soul is possessed in patience or the work in hand has an obbligato of expletives. [Illustration: THE “DARK ROOM.”] Most of the gypsies are very keen critics of photographs of themselves or their acquaintances, and when portraits to their satisfaction are produced they are extremely anxious to secure at least one copy “to put up in the van.” In such cases I have found that the photographs are carefully treated, and may be seen year after year; even tent-dwellers, who, in the nature of things, have great difficulty in keeping pictures of any kind in fair condition, will produce from somewhere a grubby envelope or paper parcel, and exhibit with unmistakable interest its contents, consisting of photographs of themselves and their tents, which they have somehow managed to preserve in decent condition, and they will give particulars as to how, when, where and why each was taken, the minutest details of which have been preserved by their wonderful memory. In order to obtain gratis one or more copies of a picture from the photographer, gypsies usually subject him to an amount of diplomatic wheedling, which generally attains its object, albeit curious inducements are sometimes advanced by them. A gypsy was once endeavouring to cajole me into promising her another copy of her portrait, her importunity reaching its climax when she said— “Well, if you’ll give me one, I’ll buy a nice wooden frame for it to remember you by.”