Читать книгу I've been a Gipsying. Rambles among our Gipsies and their children in their tents and vans онлайн

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Tea was now over, and our chat began. The first thing I said to Mr. Pether was, “How is it that you have become a gipsy with so many names?” This question called forth a laugh and a groan. A laugh, because it brought to his mind so many reminiscences of bygone days; and a groan, because his gouty leg had an extra twinge from some cause or other, which caused him to pull a wry face for a minute. I could not help smiling, when with one breath he laughed out, “Ah, ah, ah, ah!” and in the next he cried out, “Oh, oh! it almost makes me sweat.” “Well, to begin at the beginning, sir, my father was a butcher and farmer, and he sent me early to London—I think before I was nine years old—to be with an uncle, who was a butcher. I was with him for a few years, but he was not very kind. He used to put me to the worst and coldest kind of work, winter or summer; and I was often put upon by his man and a young chap he had. The chap used to plague me terribly, and call me all sorts of names; and I was a lad that was tempery and peppery, and would not be put on by anybody. One day the chap begun to leather me with a cow’s tongue, which cuts like a knife, upon the bare skin. He leathered me so much that blood ran down my arms and face. This got my blood up, and while he was bending to pick up something I seized the poleaxe that stood close by and struck him when no one was near with the sharp edge of it upon his head, the same as I would a bullock, and felled him to the ground like an ox. As soon as I saw blood flowing I made sure that I had killed him, and, without waiting to pick up my clothes, I ran off as fast as my legs would carry me, without stopping till I got to Harrow-on-the-Hill. I dirted my clothes and coat and mangled them so that nobody could tell me, and I changed my name to ‘Poshcard’ for a time. I then began to wander about the lanes, and to beg, and to sleep in the barns and under stacks on the roadside. Sometimes I could pick up a job at butchers’, doing what they call ‘running guts’ for sausages and black pudding. My clothes at times were all alive. When anybody gave me an old coat or shirt, socks or boots, I never took them off till they dropped off. I have slept under ricks in the winter till the straw has been frozen to my feet. Hundreds of times I have slept between the cows for warmth, while they have lain down in the sheds and cow-houses. I used to creep in between them softly and snoozle the night away. The warmth of the cows has kept me alive hundreds of times. I have at times almost lived on carrots. When blackberries were ripe I used to eat many of them; in fact, I used to steal peas and beans, or any mortal thing that I came near. Sometimes I fell in with drovers. I have got in the winter-time under a hedge and nibbled a turnip for my Sunday dinner. I was for some time with a farmer, and used to mind his cattle, and he got to like me so much that he used to place confidence in me. He would trust me with anything. One time he sent me to sell a calf for him, but instead of returning with the money I ran away and bought a suit of clothes with it. I durst not face him again after that. For fourteen years I was wandering up and down England in this way, daily expecting to be taken up for murder.