Are you a kairengro or house-dweller who visits him, then he will seldom exhibit his cunning—and in all the arts pertaining to his trade or trades he is usually remarkably clever—he thinks you “jal a moskeying,” that is, go a-spying, than which there is nothing perhaps he dislikes more, unless it be to be seen by a gorgio or non-gypsy in the act of having a meal. He may talk to you, he may be most entertaining, but he may be probing your heart and mind at the same time, and not until you have long passed satisfactorily his hawk-eyed, soul-searching examination, will he regard you as more than any other gorgio or Gentile, but, if you can converse in his own tongue—the Romany jib he loves so well but never or seldom displays before a stranger—and he is assured of your good intentions by long acquaintance, then only will he open out and reveal himself, and give, as it were, his seal to the friendship by inviting you to partake of a meal with his family, indeed, he would be likely to fight for you or share his last penny with you if need be, and you then come to realise that with all his complexity of character, there lies beneath, a warm heart and generous disposition. Many are handicapped by being unable to read or write. I have in mind a Romany acquaintance who does a good business, but has to rely on the help of friends to order his wares and pay his accounts for him. He came to me one day and asked if I could write another letter for him, adding, almost as though speaking to himself, “It’s a love-letter this time.” “Well,” said I, after pen and paper had been procured, “please go ahead.” For a moment or two he seemed lost in thought and hesitated, as though at a loss how to begin. I offered a suggestion and he at once said, “Yes! put that down.” The ice being now broken we got along famously, he standing with his back towards me, dictating. The letter was written in a combination of English (of a sort) and Romany,—poggado jib or broken tongue as it is termed. Perhaps no more curious camipen-lil (love-letter) had ever been written. As he was quite unable to write I signed his name—he had, in fact, almost forgotten how it should be spelled. Having done this I quite naturally supposed my task was completed, but no, he desired every available bit of space filled in with crosses. “What are those for?” I asked artlessly. “Oh, she’ll understand,” he replied. “Put in some more, please.” I therefore made crosses both big and small wherever they could be squeezed in, until he seemed satisfied, but I sincerely trust his Romany chi did not try to count them. One can almost imagine her making the attempt: “Yeck, dui, trin, stor, pantsch, sho,” and before reaching “dui trins ta yeck” and “dui stors,” giving up the task as being beyond her.