At any rate, your knowledge of Rommany is a most alarming coin of vantage.

Certainly, reader, you know that a regular London streeter, say a cabman, would rather go to jail than be beaten in a chaffing match.

I nearly drove a hansom into sheer convulsions one night, about the time this chapter happened, by a very light puzzler indeed.

I had hesitated between him and another.
"You don't know _your own mind_," said the disappointed candidate to me.
"_Mind your own_ business," I replied.

It was a poor palindrome, {38} reader--hardly worth telling--yet it settled him.