Here is your health in Rommany, brother,'
said Mr. Petulengro; who, having refilled the cup, now emptied it at a
draught.

'Your health in Rommany, brother,' said Tawno Chikno, to whom the cup
came next.

'The Rommany Rye,' said a third.

'The Gypsy gentleman,' exclaimed a fourth, drinking.

And then they all sang in chorus:--

'Here the Gypsy gemman see,
With his Roman jib and his rome and dree--
Rome and dree, rum and dry
Rally round the Rommany Rye.'

'And now, brother,' said Mr. Petulengro, 'seeing that you have drunk and
been drunken, you will perhaps tell us where you have been, and what
about?'

'I have been in the Big City,' said I, 'writing lils.'

'How much money have you got in your pocket, brother?' said Mr.
Petulengro.

'Eighteenpence,' said I; 'all I have in the world.'

'I have been in the Big City, too,' said Mr. Petulengro; 'but I have not
written lils--I have fought in the ring--I have fifty pounds in my
pocket--I have much more in the world. Brother, there is considerable
difference between us.'

'I would rather be the lil-writer, after all,' said the tall, handsome
black man; 'indeed, I would wish for nothing better.'

'Why so?' said Mr. Petulengro.

'Because they have so much to say for themselves,' said the black man,
'even when dead and gone. When they are laid in the churchyard, it is
their own fault if people ain't talking of them. Who will know, after I
am dead, or bitchadey pawdel, that I was once the beauty of the world, or
that you Jasper were--'

'The best man in England of my inches. That's true, Tawno--however,
here's our brother will perhaps let the world know something about us.'

'Not he,' said the other, with a sigh; 'he'll have quite enough to do in
writing his own lils, and telling the world how handsome and clever he
was; and who can blame him? Not I. If I could write lils, every word
should be about myself and my own tacho Rommanis--my own lawful wedded
wife, which is the same thing. I tell you what, brother, I once heard a
wise man say in Brummagem, that "there is nothing like blowing one's own
horn," which I conceive to be much the same thing as writing one's own
lil.'

After a little more conversation, Mr. Petulengro arose, and motioned me
to follow him. 'Only eighteenpence in the world, brother?' said he, as
we walked together.

'Nothing more, I assure you. How came you to ask me how much money I
had?'

'Because there was so