"Why, that's one of the things that everybody knows. When you get a wart
on your hands, you go on to the road or into the field till you find a
slug, one of the large kind with no shell (literally, with no house upon
him), and stick it on the thorn of a blackthorn in a hedge, and as the
snail dies, one day after the other, for four or five days, the wart will
die away. Many a time I've told that to Gorgios, and Gorgios have done
it, and the warts have gone away (literally, cleaned away) from their
hands." {34}

Here the Gipsy began to inquire very politely if smoking were offensive
to me; and as I assured him that it was not, he took out his pipe. And
knowing by experience that nothing is more conducive to sociability, be
it among Chippeways or Gipsies, than that smoking which is among our
Indians, literally a burnt-offering, {35} I produced a small clay pipe of
the time of Charles the Second, given to me by a gentleman who has the
amiable taste to collect such curiosities, and give them to his friends
under the express condition that they shall be smoked, and not laid away
as relics of the past. If you move in _etching_ circles, dear readers,
you will at once know to whom I refer.

The quick eye of the Gipsy at once observed my pipe.

"That is a _crow-swagler_--a crow-pipe," he remarked.

"Why a crow-pipe?"

"I don't know. Some Gipsies call 'em _mullos' swaglers_, or dead men's
pipes, because those who made 'em were dead long ago. There are places
in England where you can find 'em by dozens in the fields. I never
dicked (saw) one with so long a stem to it as yours. And they're old,