“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.