"No," said the woman, "I are Welsh but have no Welsh language."
Leaving the woman I put on my best speed and in about half an hour
reached Wrexham.
The first thing I did on my arrival was to go to the bookshop and
purchase the Welsh Methodistic book. It cost me seven shillings,
and was a thick, bulky octavo with a cut-and-come-again expression
about it, which was anything but disagreeable to me, for I hate
your flimsy publications. The evening was now beginning to set in,
and feeling somewhat hungry I hurried off to the Wynstay Arms
through streets crowded with market people. On arriving at the inn
I entered the grand room and ordered dinner. The waiters,
observing me splashed with mud from head to foot, looked at me
dubiously; seeing, however, the respectable-looking volume which I
bore in my hand - none of your railroad stuff - they became more
assured, and I presently heard one say to the other, "It's all
right - that's Mr So-and-So, the great Baptist preacher. He has
been preaching amongst the hills - don't you see his Bible?"
Seating myself at a table I inspected the volume. And here perhaps
the reader expects that I shall regale him with an analysis of the
Methodistical volume at least as long as that of the life of Tom O'
the Dingle. In that case, however, he will be disappointed; all
that I shall at present say of it is, that it contained a history
of Methodism in Wales, with the lives of the principal Welsh
Methodists. That it was fraught with curious and original matter,
was written in a straightforward, Methodical style, and that I have
no doubt it will some day or other be extensively known and highly
prized.
After dinner I called for half a pint of wine. Whilst I was
trifling over it, a commercial traveller entered into conversation
with me. After some time he asked me if I was going further that
night.
"To Llangollen," said I.
"By the ten o'clock train?" said he.
"No," I replied, "I'm going on foot."
"On foot!" said he; "I would not go on foot there this night for
fifty pounds."
"Why not?" said I.
"For fear of being knocked down by the colliers, who will be all
out and drunk."
"If not more than two attack me," said I, "I shan't much mind.
With this book I am sure I can knock down one, and I think I can
find play for the other with my fists."
The commercial traveller looked at me. "A strange kind of Baptist
minister," I thought I heard him say.
CHAPTER LXII
Rhiwabon Road - The Public-house Keeper - No Welsh - The Wrong Road
- The Good Wife.
I PAID my reckoning and started. The night was now rapidly closing
in.
