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Updated: May 8, 2025
I asked him, and he laughed as suddenly as he had stormed, like a teacher at a child's mistake. "Jingaan is a bad word," he said. "I might kill a man who named me that depending on the man. My brother I would kill for it a stranger perhaps not. Those men are Zingarri, who detest to sleep between brick walls. They have a tent pitched in the yard." "Are they your men?" "Zingarri are no man's men."
"But what nationality?" "Jingaan might be anything. They in particular would call themselves Rommany. We call them Zingarri. Not a dependable people unless " I waited in vain for the qualification. He shrugged his shoulders, as if there was no sense in praising evil qualities. But I was not satisfied yet.
The other sportman has watched those Zingarri. What have you learned?" He stood with lean hands crossed now in front of him, looking at us down his nose, not ceasing to smile, but a hint less at his ease, a shade less genial. "I have heard you and them described as jingaan," I answered, and he stiffened instantly.
So we went out to yawn, and remained, oblivious of everything but the cause of all the noise, we leaning with elbows on the wooden rail, and she laughing up at us at intervals. The six Zingarri, or gipsies, had pitched their tent in the very middle of the yard, ambitious above all other considerations to keep away from walls.
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