“And do not people often address you in a very free manner?”

“Frequently, brother; and I give them tolerably free answers.”

“Do people ever offer to make you presents?  I mean presents of value, such as . . .”

“Silk handkerchiefs, shawls, and trinkets; very frequently, brother.”

“And what do you do, Ursula?”

“I take what people offers me, brother, and stows it away as soon as I can.”

“Well, but don’t people expect something for their presents?  I don’t mean dukkerin, dancing, and the like; but such a moderate and innocent thing as a choomer, {298} Ursula?”

“Innocent thing, do you call it, brother?”

“The world calls it so, Ursula.  Well, do the people who give you the fine things never expect a choomer in return?”

“Very frequently, brother.”

“And do you ever grant it?”

“Never, brother.”

“How do you avoid it?”

“I gets away as soon as possible, brother.  If they follows me, I tries to baffle them, by means of jests and laughter; and if they persist, I uses bad and terrible language, of which I have plenty in store.”

“But if your terrible language has no effect?”

“Then I screams for the constable, and if he comes not, I uses my teeth and nails.”

“And are they always sufficient?”

“I have only had to use them twice, brother; but then I found them sufficient.”

“But suppose the person who followed you was highly agreeable, Ursula?  A handsome young officer of local militia, for example, all dressed in Lincoln green, would you still refuse him the choomer?”

“We makes no difference, brother! the daughters of the gypsy-father makes no difference; and, what’s more, sees none.”

“Well, Ursula, the world will hardly give you credit for such indifference.”

“What cares we for the world, brother! we are not of the world.”

“But your fathers, brothers, and uncles give you credit I suppose, Ursula.”

“Ay, ay, brother, our fathers, brothers, and cokos {299a} gives us all manner of credit; for example, I am telling lies and dukkerin in a public-house where my batu {299b} or coko—­perhaps both—­are playing on the fiddle; well, my batu and my coko beholds me amongst the public-house crew, talking nonsense and hearing nonsense; but they are under no apprehension; and presently they sees the good-looking officer of militia, in his greens and Lincolns, get up and give me a wink, and I go out with him abroad, into the dark night perhaps; well, my batu and coko goes on fiddling, just as if I were six miles off asleep in the tent, and not out in the dark street with the local officer, with his Lincolns and his greens.”

“They know they can trust you, Ursula?”

“Ay, ay, brother; and, what’s more, I knows I can trust myself.”

“So you would merely go out to make a fool of him, Ursula?”