Coming one day to a small countryside cottage, I saw scrawled over the door, “Good beer sold here.”  Being overcome with thirst, I went in to taste the beverage.  Along the wall opposite where I sat in the well-sanded kitchen was the most disconsolate family I had ever seen, consisting of a tinker, his wife, a pretty-looking woman, who had evidently been crying, and a ragged boy and girl.  I treated them to a large measure of beer, and in a few minutes the tinker was telling me his history.  That conversation ended very curiously, for I purchased for five pounds ten shillings the man’s whole equipment.  It included his stock-in-trade, and his pony and cart.  Of the landlady I purchased sundry provisions, and also a waggoner’s frock, gave the horse a little feed of corn, and departed.

IV.—­The Flaming Tinman

At three hours past noon I thus started to travel as a tinker.  I was absolutely indifferent as to the direction of my journey.  Coming to no hostelry, I pitched my little tent after nightfall in a waste land amongst some bushes, and kindled a fire in a convenient spot with sticks which I gathered.  For a few days I practiced my new craft by trying to mend two kettles and a frying-pan, remaining in my little camp.  Few folk passed by.  But soon some exciting incidents happened.  My quarters were one morning suddenly invaded by a young Romany girl, who advanced towards me, after closely scanning me, singing a gipsy song: 

    The Romany chi
    And the Romany chal
    Shall jaw tasaulor
    To drab the bawlor,
    And dook the gry
    Of the farming rye.

A very pretty song, thought I, falling hard to work again on my kettle; a very pretty song, which bodes the farmers much good.  Let them look to their cattle.

“All alone here, brother?” said a voice close to me, in sharp, but not disagreeable tones.

A talk ensued, in which the girl discovered that I knew how to speak Romany, and it ended in my presenting her with the kettle.

“Parraco tute—­that is, I thank you, brother.  The rikkeni kekaubi is now mine.  O, rare, I thank you kindly, brother!”

Presently she came towards me, stared me full in the face, saying to herself, “Grey, tall, and talks Romany!” In her countenance there was an expression I had not seen before, which struck me as being composed of fear, curiosity, and deepest hate.  It was only momentary, and was succeeded by one smiling, frank, and open.  “Good-bye, tall brother,” said she, and she departed, singing the same song.

On the evening of the next day, after I had been with my pony and cart strolling through several villages, and had succeeded in collecting several kettles which I was to mend, I returned to my little camp, lit my fire, and ate my frugal meal.  Then, after looking for some time at the stars, I entered my tent, lay down on my pallet, and went to sleep.  Two more days passed without momentous incidents, but on the