“Honoured!” said I.  “God preserve me in future from such honour;” and I put my finger to my cheek, which was slightly hurt by a particle of the glass.  “That’s the way we of the cofrady honour great men at Horncastle,” said the jockey.  “What, you are hurt! never mind; all the better; your scratch shows that you are the body the compliment was paid to.”  “And what are you going to do with the other bottle?” said I.  “Do with it!” said the jockey, “why, drink it, cosily and comfortably, whilst holding a little quiet talk.  The Romany Rye at Horncastle, what an idea!”

“And what will the master of the house say to all this damage which you have caused him!”

“What will your master say, William?” said the jockey to the waiter, who had witnessed the singular scene just described without exhibiting the slightest mark of surprise.  William smiled, and slightly shrugging his shoulders, replied, “Very little, I dare say, sir; this a’n’t the first time your honour has done a thing of this kind.”  “Nor will it be the first time that I shall have paid for it,” said the jockey; “well, I shall never have paid for a certain item in the bill with more pleasure than I shall pay for it now.  Come, William, draw the cork, and let us taste the pink champagne.”

The waiter drew the cork, and filled the glasses with a pinky liquor, which bubbled, hissed, and foamed.  “How do you like it?” said the jockey, after I had imitated the example of my companions, by despatching my portion at a draught.

“It is wonderful wine,” said I; “I have never tasted champagne before, though I have frequently heard it praised; it more than answers my expectations; but, I confess, I should not wish to be obliged to drink it every day.”

“Nor I,” said the jockey, “for every-day drinking give me a glass of old port, or—­”

“Of hard old ale,” I interposed, “which, according to my mind, is better than all the wine in the world.”

“Well said, Romany Rye,” said the jockey, “just my own opinion; now, William, make yourself scarce.”

The waiter withdrew, and I said to the jockey, " How did you become acquainted with the Romany chals?”

“I first became acquainted with them,” said the jockey, “when I lived with old Fulcher the basketmaker, who took me up when I was adrift upon the world; I do not mean the present Fulcher, who is likewise called old Fulcher, but his father, who has been dead this many a year; while living with him in the caravan, I frequently met them in the green lanes, and of latter years I have had occasional dealings with them in the horse line.”

“And the gypsies have mentioned me to you?” said I.

“Frequently,” said the jockey, “and not only those of these parts; why, there’s scarcely a part of England in which I have not heard the name of the Romany Rye mentioned by these people.  The power you have over them is wonderful; that is, I should have thought it wonderful, had they not more than once told me the cause.”