Suddenly--I suppose because a doubt of my perfect Freemasonry had been
aroused by my absurd question--he said, holding up a kettle--

"What do you call this here in Rommanis?"

"I call it a _kekavi_ or a _kavi_," I said. "But it isn't _right_
Rommany. It's Greek, which the Rommanichals picked up on their way
here."

And here I would remark, by the way, that I have seldom spoken to a Gipsy
in England who did not try me on the word for kettle.

"And what do you call a face?" he added.

"I call a face a _mui_," I said, "and a nose a _nak_; and as for _mui_, I
call _rikker tiro mui_, 'hold your jaw.' That is German Rommany."

The tinker gazed at me admiringly, and then said, "You're 'deep' Gipsy, I
see, sir--that's what _you_ are."

"_Mo rov a jaw_; _mo rakker so drovan_?" I answered. "Don't talk so
loud; do you think I want all the Gorgios around here to know I talk
Gipsy? Come in; _jal adree the ker and pi a curro levinor_."

The tinker entered. As with most Gipsies there was really, despite the
want of "education," a real politeness--a singular intuitive refinement
pervading all his actions, which indicated, through many centuries of
brutalisation, that fountain-source of all politeness--the Oriental. Many
a time I have found among Gipsies whose life, and food, and dress, and
abject ignorance, and dreadful poverty were far below that of most