“Oh, she ain’t no good at it,” said Sinfai with a sniff; “it allus must be told by a dark person. It’s a gift, you know, and the gorgios as can’t do it of course says it’s dreadful wicked and oughter be put a stop to. Do you believe in it?” she inquired, with a quizzical expression. “I hardly know,” I replied, somewhat evasively. “You’ll agree that we knows more about some people than they think, I suppose?” she asked. “Yes, certainly,” said I. “Well, then,” rejoined Sinfai in a confidential manner, “dukkerin is only tellin’ ’em what we know. Do you know, the first time I ever saw you and before you’d said half a dozen words, I knew what county you came from,—I’ve travelled that way, you see, and when you came to our camp the first time and sat down, I said to myself, ‘’Taint the first time he’s sat at a Roman camp fire.’ And I was right too, wasn’t I?” I admitted that it was so. “Well,” she continued, “if I’d told your fortune I should ha’ told you that and of course made you pay for it.” “Money appears to be quite necessary,” I remarked. “Well,” said she, “you know we must live somehow,” adding with a merry twinkle, “but I’ll tell yours for nothing if you like.” “By the way, who did you think could, in a place like this, overhear my question about fortune telling?” I inquired. [Illustration: “SHOSHOI.”] “You never know,” she replied, “but I’ve known folks as ought to bin doin’ something better, sneak about and lie hidin’ in the bushes to hear what us Romanies was talking about, but our ears are better than theirs, so we know they’re listenin’, and we talk for their benefit.” “Why don’t you rokkra Romany so they couldn’t understand?” I queried. “’Cos we _wants_ the dinneloes to understand,” she answered. “So that you may play the fool with them,” I added. “That’s it,” she assented, unblushingly; “if they expects to catch us nappin’ they’re mistaken. So we settles it we’re going to catch shoshoi at a certain place. The man in the bushes hears it and off he goes and lies in wait for us. Where do we go? Why another way, of course, and then we have rabbit—but talkin’s all very well, my Rye, but we haven’t lit the fire yet and the kettle ought to be bilin’; have you got a light?” She gathered together some pieces of paper and a number of sticks and tried to get a fire going, but it was of no use, the material was damp. “Bust the thing!” ejaculated my companion; “rum stuff to light a fire with—I got wet through the other day getting some of it too. Didn’t I catch cold? bless you no; shouldn’t know what to do with one if I had it.” I congratulated her on her immunity. “Lucky!” she repeated rather ruefully, “am I; look at that fire, fair smokes you out,” then rather insinuatingly added: “Now you got on all right with the poovengroes, suppose you try your hand at gettin’ her a-goin’,” at the same time nodding towards the fire, which certainly smoked terribly, but appeared very unwilling to burn as desired.