The Romany Rye: A sequel to "Lavengro"Borrow, George
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The Romany Rye: A sequel to "Lavengro"
Borrow, George
Adventure stories; England -- Fiction; Romanies -- Fiction
rode nearly a mile without obtaining a glimpse of the fellow, and was
becoming apprehensive that he had escaped me by turning down some
by-path, two or three of which I had passed. Suddenly, however, on the
road making a slight turning, I perceived him right before me, moving at
a tolerably swift pace, having by this time probably overcome the
resistance of the animal. Putting my horse to a full gallop, I shouted
at the top of my voice: “Get off that donkey, you rascal, and give her up
to me, or I’ll ride you down”. The fellow hearing the thunder of the
horse’s hoofs behind him, drew up on one side of the road. “What do you
want?” said he, as I stopped my charger, now almost covered with sweat
and foam close beside him. “Do you want to rob me?” “To rob you?” said
I. “No! but to take from you that ass, of which you have just robbed its
owner.” “I have robbed no man,” said the fellow; “I just now purchased
it fairly of its master, and the law will give it to me; he asked six
pounds for it, and I gave him six pounds.” “Six stones, you mean, you
rascal,” said I; “get down, or my horse shall be upon you in a moment;”
then with a motion of my reins, I caused the horse to rear, pressing his
sides with my heels as if I intended to make him leap. “Stop,” said the
man, “I’ll get down and then try if I can’t serve you out.” He then got
down, and confronted me with his cudgel; he was a horrible-looking
fellow, and seemed prepared for anything. Scarcely, however, had he
dismounted, when the donkey jerked the bridle out of his hand, and
probably in revenge for the usage she had received, gave him a pair of
tremendous kicks on the hip with her hinder legs, which overturned him,
and then scampered down the road the way she had come. “Pretty treatment
this,” said the fellow, getting up without his cudgel, and holding his
hand to his side; “I wish I may not be lamed for life”. “And if you be,”
said I, “it would merely serve you right, you rascal, for trying to cheat
a poor old man out of his property by quibbling at words.” “Rascal!”
said the fellow, “you lie, I am no rascal; and as for quibbling with
words—suppose I did! What then? All the first people does it! The
newspapers does it! the gentlefolks that calls themselves the guides of
the popular mind does it! I’m no ignoramus. I reads the newspapers, and
knows what’s what.” “You read them to some purpose,” said I. “Well, if
you are lamed for life, and unfitted for any active line—turn newspaper
editor; I should say you are perfectly qualified, and this day’s
adventure may be the foundation of your fortune,” thereupon I turned
round and rode off. The fellow followed me with a torrent of abuse.
“Confound you,” said he—yet that was not the expression either—“I know
you; you are one of the horse-patrol come down into the country on leave
to see your relations. Confound you, you and the like of you have
knocked my business on the head near Lunnon, and I suppose we shall have
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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