it. Pay
the reckoning, brother."

And when we were once more upon the road Mr. Petulengro began to talk of
the place which he conceived would serve me as a retreat under present
circumstances. "I tell you frankly, brother, that it is a queer kind of
place, and I am not very fond of pitching my tent in it, it is so
surprisingly dreary. It is a deep dingle in the midst of a large field,
on an estate about which there has been a lawsuit for some years past. I
daresay you will be quiet enough, for the nearest town is five miles
distant, and there are only a few huts and hedge public-houses in the
neighbourhood. Brother, I am fond of solitude myself, but not that kind
of solitude: I like a quiet heath, where I can pitch my house, but I
always like to have a gay stirring place not far off, where the women can
pen dukkerin, {63a} and I myself can sell or buy a horse, if needful--such
a place as the Chong Gav. {63b} I never feel so merry as when there,
brother, or on the heath above it, where I taught you Rommany."

Shortly after this discourse we reached a milestone, and a few yards from
the milestone, on the left hand, was a cross-road. Thereupon Mr.
Petulengro said, "Brother, my path lies to the left; if you choose to go
with me to my camp, good; if not, Chal Devlehi." {63c} But I again
refused Mr. Petulengro's invitation, and, shaking him by the hand,
proceeded forward alone, and about ten miles farther on I reached the
town of which he had spoken, and following certain directions which he
had given, discovered, though not without some difficulty, the dingle
which he had mentioned. It was a deep hollow in the midst of a wide
field, the shelving sides were overgrown with trees and bushes, a belt of
sallows surrounded it on the top, a steep winding path led down into the
depths, practicable, however, for a light cart, like mine; at the bottom
was an open space, and there I pitched my tent, and there I contrived to
put up my forge, "I will here ply the trade of kaulomescro," {64} said I.

CHAPTER II--THE SHOEING OF AMBROL.

It has always struck me that there is something highly poetical about a
forge. I am not singular in this opinion: various individuals have
assured me that they never pass by one, even in the midst of a crowded
town, without experiencing sensations which they can scarcely define, but
which are highly pleasurable. I have a decided penchant for forges,
especially rural ones placed in som