"I don't know exactly," replied the woman, "but Mr Morris at the
farm holds it, and stows his things in it."
"Can you tell me anything about it?" said I.
"Nothing farther," said the woman, "than that it is said to be
haunted, and to have been a barrack many years ago."
"Can you speak Welsh?" said I.
"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.
