I tells him, “we did not steal it.”  “Shall I tell you what it is, my good woman?” says the Poknees.  “I would thank you, sir,” says I, “for ’tis often we are asked about it.”  “Well, then,” says the Poknees, “it is no language at all, merely a made-up gibberish.”  “Oh, bless your wisdom,” says I, with a curtsey, “you can tell us what our language is, without understanding it!” Another time we meet a parson.  “Good woman,” says he, “what’s that you are talking?  Is it broken language?” “Of course, your reverence,” says I, “we are broken people; give a shilling, your reverence, to the poor broken woman.”  Oh, these gorgios! they grudge us our very language!’

‘She called you her son, Jasper?’

‘I am her son, brother.’

‘I thought you said your parents were—­’

’Bitchadey pawdel; you thought right, brother.  This is my wife’s mother.’

‘Then you are married, Jasper?’

‘Ay, truly; I am husband and father.  You will see wife and chabo anon.’

‘Where are they now?’

‘In the gav, penning dukkerin.’

‘We were talking of language, Jasper?’

‘True, brother.’

‘Yours must be a rum one?’

‘’Tis called Rommany.’

‘I would gladly know it.’

‘You need it sorely.’

‘Would you teach it me?’

‘None sooner.’

‘Suppose we begin now?’

‘Suppose we do, brother.’

‘Not whilst I am here,’ said the woman, flinging her knitting down, and starting upon her feet; ’not whilst I am here shall this gorgio learn Rommany.  A pretty manoeuvre, truly; and what would be the end of it?  I goes to the farming ker with my sister, to tell a fortune, and earn a few sixpences for the chabes.  I sees a jolly pig in the yard, and I says to my sister, speaking Rommany, “Do so and so,” says I; which the farming man hearing, asks what we are talking about.  “Nothing at all, master,” says I; “something about the weather”; when who should start up from behind a pale, where he has been listening, but this ugly gorgio, crying out, “They are after poisoning your pigs, neighbour!” so that we are glad to run, I and my sister, with perhaps the farm-engro shouting after us.  Says my sister to me, when we have got fairly off, “How came that ugly one to know what you said to me?” Whereupon I answers, “It all comes of my son Jasper, who brings the gorgio to our fire, and must needs be teaching him.”  “Who was fool there?” says my sister.  “Who, indeed, but my son Jasper,” I answers.  And here should I be a greater fool to sit still and suffer it; which I will not do.  I do not like the look of him; he looks over-gorgeous.  An ill day to the Romans when he masters Rommany; and, when I says that, I pens a true dukkerin.’

‘What do you call God, Jasper?’

‘You had better be jawing,’ said the woman, raising her voice to a terrible scream; ’you had better be moving off, my gorgio; hang you for a keen one, sitting there by the fire, and stealing my language before my face.  Do you know whom you have to deal with?  Do you know that I am dangerous?  My name is Herne, and I comes of the hairy ones!’