“The largest of the two men we saw the other night at the public-house at Llansanfraid,” said I to John Jones.
“I don’t know him,” said Jones, “though I have heard of him, but I have no doubt that was he.”
I asked the woman how her husband could carry on the trade of a clog-maker in such a remote place—and also whether he hawked his clogs about the country.
“We call him a clog-maker,” said the woman, “but the truth is that he merely cuts down the wood and fashions it into squares, these are taken by an under-master who sends them to the manufacturer at Bolton, who employs hands, who make them into clogs.”
“Some of the English,” said Jones, “are so poor that they cannot afford to buy shoes; a pair of shoes cost ten or twelve shillings, whereas a pair of clogs only cost two.”
“I suppose,” said I, “that what you call clogs are wooden shoes.”
“Just so,” said Jones—“they are principally used in the neighbourhood of Manchester.”
“I have seen them at Huddersfield,” said I, “when I was a boy at school there; of what wood are they made?”
“Of the gwern, or alder tree,” said the woman, “of which there is plenty on both sides of the brook.”
John Jones now asked her if she could give him a tamaid of bread; she said she could, “and some butter with it.”