“Amongst a strange set of people,” said I, “whom, if I were to name, you would, I dare say, only laugh at me.”

“Who be they?” said the jockey.  “Come, don’t be ashamed; I have occasionally kept queerish company myself.”

“The people whom we call gypsies,” said I; “whom the Germans call Zigeuner, and who call themselves Romany chals.”

“Zigeuner!” said the Hungarian; “by Isten!  I do know those people.”

“Romany chals!” said the jockey; “whew!  I begin to smell a rat.”

“What do you mean by smelling a rat?” said I.

“I’ll bet a crown,” said the jockey, “that you be the young chap what certain folks call ‘the Romany Rye.’”

“Ah!” said I, “how came you to know that name?”

“Be not you he?” said the jockey.

“Why, I certainly have been called by that name.”

“I could have sworn it,” said the jockey; then rising from his chair, he laid his pipe on the table, took a large hand-bell which stood on the side-board, and going to the door, opened it, and commenced ringing in a most tremendous manner on the staircase.  The noise presently brought up a waiter, to whom the jockey vociferated, “Go to your master, and tell him to send immediately three bottles of champagne, of the pink kind, mind you, which is twelve guineas a dozen;” the waiter hurried away, and the jockey resumed his seat and his pipe.  I sat in silent astonishment until the waiter returned with a basket containing the wine, which, with three long glasses, he placed on the table.  The jockey then got up, and going to a large bow-window at the end of the room, which looked into a court-yard, peeped out; then saying, “the coast is clear,” he shut down the principal sash which was open for the sake of the air, and taking up a bottle of champagne, he placed another in the hands of the Hungarian, to whom he said something in private.  The latter, who seemed to understand him, answered by a nod.  The two then going to the end of the table fronting the window, and about eight paces from it, stood before it, holding the bottles by their necks; suddenly the jockey lifted up his arm.  “Surely,” said I, “you are not mad enough to fling that bottle through the window?” “Here’s to the Romany Rye; here’s to the sweet master,” said the jockey, dashing the bottle through the pane in so neat a manner that scarcely a particle of glass fell into the room.

“Eljen edes csigany ur—­eljen gul eray!” said the Hungarian, swinging round his bottle, and discharging it at the window; but, either not possessing the jockey’s accuracy of aim, or reckless of the consequences, he flung his bottle so, that it struck against part of the wooden setting of the panes, breaking along with the wood and itself three or four panes to pieces.  The crash was horrid, and wine and particles of glass flew back into the room, to the no small danger of its inmates.  “What do you think of that?” said the jockey; “were you ever so honoured before?”