The Ancient Henry, who bore, as I found, in several respects a strong likeness to the Old Harry, had heard of me, and after a short conversation confided the little fact, that from the moment in which I had been seen watching them, they were sure I was a _gav-mush_, or police or village authority, come to spy into their ways, and to at least order them to move on.

But when they found that I was not as one having authority, but, on the contrary, came talking Rommany with the firm intention of imparting to them three pots of beer just at the thirstiest hour of a warm day, a great change came over their faces.

A chair was brought to me from a caravan at some distance, and I was told the latest news of the road.
"Matty's got his slangs," observed Henry, as he inserted a _ranya_ or osier-withy into his basket, and deftly twined it like a serpent to right and left, and almost as rapidly.

Now a _slang_ means, among divers things, a hawker's licence.
"I'm glad to hear it," I remarked.

There was deep sincerity in this reply, as I had more than once contributed to the fees for the aforesaid _slangs_, which somehow or other were invariably refused to the applicant.