"Well, for all that, I think we should be down upon the fellow one of these darkmans, and let him get it well."
"But old Meg's asleep now" said another; "she grows a driveller, and is afraid of her shadow. She'll sing out, some of these odd-come-shortlies, if you don't look sharp."
"Never fear," said the old gypsy man; "Meg's true-bred; she's the last in the gang that will start–but she has some queer ways, and often cuts queer words."
With more of this gibberish, they continued the conversation, rendering it thus, even to each other, a dark obscure dialect, eked out by significant nods and signs, but never expressing distinctly, or in plain language, the subject on which it turned. At length one of them observing Meg was still fast asleep, or appeared to be so, desired one of the lads "to hand in the black Peter, that they might flick it open." The boy stepped to the door, and brought in a portmanteau, which Brown instantly
