Tailors and shoemakers have their own words.

And there are common vagabonds who go up and down talking thieves' slang, and imposing it on people for Gipsy.

But as for any Gipsy tongue, I ought to know it" ("So I should think," I mentally ejaculated, as I contemplated his brazen calmness); "and I don't know three words of it." And we, the Gorgios, all smiled approval.

At least that humbug was settled; and the Rommany tongue was done for--dead and buried--if, indeed, it ever existed.

Indeed, as I looked in the Gipsy's face, I began to realise that a man might be talked out of a belief in his own name, and felt a rudimentary sensation to the effect that the language of the Black Wanderers was all a dream, and Pott's Zigeuner the mere tinkling of a pot of brass, Paspati a jingling Turkish symbol, and all Rommany a _praeterea nihil_ without the _vox_.