the short, pursy constable could by no means
rival; and whither he went, or what became of him, I know not, inasmuch
as I turned away in another direction.

CHAPTER LIV.

Mr. Petulengro--Rommany Rye--Lil Writers--One's Own Horn--Lawfully-earnt
Money--The Wooded Hill--A Great Favourite--The Shop Window--Much Wanted.

And, as I wandered along the green, I drew near to a place where several
men, with a cask beside them, sat carousing in the neighbourhood of a
small tent. "Here he comes," said one of them, as I advanced, and
standing up he raised his voice and sang:--

"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."

It was Mr. Petulengro, who was here diverting himself with several of his
comrades; they all received me with considerable frankness. "Sit down,
brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "and take a cup of good ale."

I sat down. "Your health, gentlemen," said I, as I took the cup which
Mr. Petulengro handed to me.

"Aukko tu pios adrey Rommanis. 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.

"Eighteen pence," 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