ood still, and looked full at me.

"Amongst a strange set of people," said I, "whom if I were to name, you
would, I dare say, only laugh at me."

"Who be they?" said the jockey. "Come, don't be ashamed; I have
occasionally kept queerish company myself."

"The people whom we call gypsies," said I; "whom the Germans call
Zigeuner, and who call themselves Romany chals.'

"Zigeuner!" said the Hungarian; "by Isten! I do know those people."

"Romany chals!" said the jockey; "whew! I begin to smell a rat."

"What do you mean by smelling a rat?" said I.

"I'll bet a crown," said the jockey, "that you be the young chap what
certain folks call 'The Romany Rye.'"

"Ah!" said I, "how came you to know that name?"

"Be not you he?" said the jockey.

"Why, I certainly have been called by that name."

"I could have sworn it," said the jockey; then rising from his chair, he
laid his pipe on the table, took a large hand-bell which stood on a
sideboard, and going to the door, opened it, and commenced ringing in a
most tremendous manner on the staircase. The noise presently brought up
a waiter, to whom the jockey vociferated, "Go to your master, and tell
him to send immediately three bottles of champagne, of the pink kind,
mind you, which is twelve guineas a dozen." The waiter hurried away, and
the jockey resumed his seat and his pipe. I sat in silent astonishment
till the waiter returned with a basket containing the wine, which, with
three long glasses, he placed on the table. The jockey then got up, and
going to a large bow-window at the end of the room, which looked into a
courtyard, peeped out; then saying, "The coast is clear," he shut down
the principal sash, which was open for the sake of the air, and taking up
a bottle of the champagne, he placed another in the hands of the
Hungarian, to whom he said something in private. The latter, who seemed
to understand him, answered by a nod. The two then going to the end of
the table fronting the window, and about eight paces from it, stood
before it holding the bottles by their necks; suddenly the jockey lifted
up his arm. "Surely," said I, "you are not mad enough to fling that
bottle through the window?" "Here's to the Romany Rye; here's to the
sweet master," said the jockey, dashing the bottle through a pane in so
neat a manner that scarcely a particle of glass fell into the room.

"Eljen edes csigany ur--eljen gul eray!" said the Hungarian, swinging
round his bott