The Horncastle Welcome — Tzernebock and Bielebock

The pipe of the Hungarian had, for some time past, exhibited considerable symptoms of exhaustion¹, little or no ruttling having been heard in the tube, and scarcely a particle of smoke, drawn² through the syphon, having been emitted from the lips of the tall possessor. He now rose from his seat, and going to a corner of the room, placed his pipe against the wall, then striding up and down the room, he cracked his fingers several times, exclaiming, in a half-musing manner, ‘Oh, the deep nation, which, in order to display its sympathy for Hungary, sends its fool to Vienna, to drink the sweet wine of Tokay!’

The jockey, having looked for some time at the tall figure with evident approbation³, winked⁴ at me with that brilliant eye of his on which there was no speck⁵, saying, ‘Did you ever see a taller fellow?’

‘Never,’ said I.

‘Or a finer?’

‘That’s another question,’ said I, ‘which I am not so willing to answer; however, as I am fond of truth, and scorn to flatter, I will take the liberty of saying that I think I have seen a finer.’

‘A finer! where?’ said the jockey; whilst the Hungarian, who appeared to understand what we said, stood still, and looked full at me.

‘Amongst a strange set of people,’ said I, ‘whom, if I were to name, you would, I dare say, only laugh at me.’

‘Who be they?’ said the jockey. ‘Come, don’t be ashamed. I have occasionally kept queerish company myself.’

‘The people whom we call gypsies,’ said I; ‘whom the Germans call Zigeuner, and who call themselves Romany chals.’

‘Zigeuner!’ said the Hungarian. ‘By Isten! I do know these people.’

‘Romany chals!’ said the jockey; ‘whew! I begin to smell a rat.’

‘What do you mean by smelling a rat?’ said I.

‘I’ll bet a crown,’ said the jockey, ‘that you be the young chap what certain folks call “The Romany Rye.”’

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