“It was at the great fair where the horses run (i.e., the races), I was keeping a cock-shy, and I saw a gentleman, and asked him for a drop of ale.  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’ll give you ale, and a good smoke too.’  ’Thank you,’ says I, ‘Sir.’  So he gave me the ale, and a dozen cigars.  I put them in my pocket, and went on the road and found there my brother’s son, and he asked me, ‘Where (are) you going, uncle?’ And I said:  ’Job, I have something for you.’  ‘Good,’ says he—­so I gave him the cigars.  He said:  ‘Where did you find them?’ ‘A gentleman gave them to me.’  So he put them in his pocket, and asked me, ‘What’ll you take to drink?’ ’A drop of ale.’  So he said, ’After the horses (have) run I’ll go across the field and see you.’

“Eight or nine days after, at Hampton Court, {53} his ‘pal’ came to me and told me that Job was ill.  And I said, ‘Anything wrong?’ ’Worse nor that.’  ‘What is the affair?’ Said he, ’I want you to go to my pal,—­don’t spare the horse—­let her go!’ So he gave me a fine horse, and I rode eight miles so fast that I thought I’d killed her.  And I put her in the stable, and I went down into the field, and there I saw Job.  ‘Thank God!’ said he; ’Uncle, you’ve come here; and if I get over this small-pox (for ’twas the smallpox he’d caught), I’ll give you the best horse that you’ll beat all the Gipsies.’  But he died.

“And he says as he was dying, ‘Uncle, you know the cigars you gave me?’ ‘Yes.’  Says he, ’I’ve got ’em here in my pocket.’  I and my sisters were by him, but his wife was outside in the great tent, selling things, for she never had the smallpox, nor his children, so they couldn’t come to see, for we wouldn’t let them.  And so he died.

“And when he was dead, I put my hand in his pocket, and there I found the cigars.  And from that time, Sir, I never smoked a cigar.

“Yes! there are plenty of Gipsies who do that.  And when my wife died, I never took snuff again.  Sometimes in her life she’d take a bit of snuff out (from) my box; and when I’d say, ’Dear wife, what do you do that for?’ she’d tell me, ‘It’s good for my head.’  And so when she died I never took any (none) since.

“Some men won’t eat meat because the brother or sister that died was fond of (to) it; some won’t drink ale for five or ten years; some won’t eat the favourite fish that the child ate.  Some won’t eat potatoes, or drink milk, or eat apples; and all for the dead.

“Some won’t play cards or the fiddle—­’that’s my poor boy’s tune’—­and some won’t dance—­’No, I can’t dance, the last time I danced was with my poor wife (or girl) that’s been dead this four years.’

“‘Come, brother, let’s go and have a drop of ale; the fiddler is there.’  ‘No, brother, I never drank a drop of ale since my aunt went (died).’  ‘Well, take some tobacco, brother?’ ’No, no, I have not smoked since my wife fell in the water and never came out again alive.’  ’Well, let’s go and play at cock-shy, we two’ll play you two for a pint o’ ale.’  ’No, I never played at cock-shy since my father died; the last time I played was with him.’