“Dick adoi!” cried one, pointing up the river.  “Look there at Jim!”

I looked and saw a young man far off, shirking along the path by the river, close to the hedge.

“He thinks you’re a gav-mush,” observed Henry; “and he’s got some sticks, an’ is tryin’ to hide them ’cause he daren’t throw ’em away.  Oh, aint he scared?”

It was a pleasing spectacle to see the demi-Gipsy coming in with his poor little green sticks, worth perhaps a halfpenny, and such as no living farmer in all North America would have grudged a cartload of to anybody.  Droll as it really seemed, the sight touched me while I laughed.  Oh, if charity covereth a multitude of sins, what should not poverty do?  I care not through which door it comes—­nay, be it by the very portal of Vice herself—­when sad and shivering poverty stands before me in humble form, I can only forgive and forget.  And this child-theft was to obtain the means of work after all.  And if you ask me why I did not at once proceed to the next magistrate and denounce the criminal, I can only throw myself for excuse on the illustrious example of George the Fourth, head of Church and State, who once in society saw a pickpocket remove from a gentleman’s fob his gold watch, winking at the king as he did so.  “Of course I couldn’t say anything,” remarked the good-natured monarch, “for the rascal took me into his confidence.”

Jim walked into camp amid mild chaff, to be greeted in Rommany by the suspected policeman, and to accept a glass of the ale, which had rained as it were from heaven into this happy family.  These basketmakers were not real Gipsies, but churdi or half-bloods, though they spoke with scorn of the two chair-menders, who, working by themselves at the extremity of the tented town (and excluded from a share in the beer), seemed to be a sort of pariahs unto these higher casters.

I should mention, en passant, that when the beer-bearer of the camp was sent for the three pots, he was told to “go over to Bill and borrow his two-gallon jug—­and be very careful not to let him find out what it was for.”  I must confess that I thought this was deeply unjust to the imposed-upon and beerless William; but it was another case of confidence, and he who sits among Gipsies by hedgerows green must not be over-particular. Il faut heurler avec les loups.  “Ain’t it wrong to steal dese here chickens?” asked a negro who was seized with scruples while helping to rob a hen-roost.  “Dat, Cuff, am a great moral question, an’ we haint got time to discuss it—­so jist hand down anoder pullet.”

I found that Henry had much curious knowledge as to old Rommany ways, though he spoke with little respect of the Gipsy of the olden time, who, as he declared, thought all he needed in life was to get a row of silver buttons on his coat, a pair of high boots on his feet, and therewith—­basta!  He had evidently met at one time with Mr George Borrow, as appeared by his accurate description of that gentleman’s appearance, though he did not know his name.  “Ah! he could talk the jib first-rateus,” remarked my informant; “and he says to me, ’Bless you! you’ve all of you forgotten the real Gipsy language, and don’t know anything about it at all.’  Do you know Old Frank?” he suddenly inquired.