One morning I discovered that my whole worldly wealth was reduced to a
single half-crown, and throughout that day I walked about in
considerable distress of mind. By a most singular chance I again came
across my friend Petulengro in a fair into which I happened to wander
when walking by the side of the river beyond London. My gipsy friend was
seated with several men, carousing beside a small cask. He sprang up,
greeting me cordially, and we chatted in Romany as we walked about
together. Questioning me closely, he soon discovered that by that time I
had only eighteen pence in my pocket.

Said Jasper: "I, too, have been in the big city; but I have not been
writing books. I have fought in the ring. I have fifty pounds in my
pocket, and I have much more in the world. Brother, there is
considerable difference between us." But he could not prevail on me to
accept or to borrow money, for I said that if I could not earn, I would
starve. "Come and stay with us," said he. "Our tents and horses are on
the other side of yonder wooded hill. We shall all be glad of your
company, especially myself and my wife, Pakomovna."

I declined the kind invitation and walked on. Returning to the great
city, I suddenly found myself outside the shop of a publisher to whom I
had vainly applied some time before, in the hope of selling some of my
writings. As I looked listlessly at the window, I observed a paper
affixed to the glass, on which was written in a fair round hand, "A
Novel or Tale is much wanted." I at once resolved to go to work to
produce what was thus solicited. But what should the tale be about?
After cogitating at my lodging, with bread and water before me, I
concluded that I would write an entirely fictitious narrative called