“I would, indeed,” said I, “my greatest desire at present is to see an Anglesey poet, but where am I to find one?”
“Where is he to find one?” said he of the tattered hat; “where’s the gwr boneddig to find a prydydd? No occasion to go far, he, he, he.”
“Well,” said I, “but where is he?”
“Where is he? why there,” said he pointing to the man in grey—“the greatest prydydd in tîr Fon or the whole world.”
“Tut, tut, hold your tongue,” said the man in grey.
“Hold my tongue, myn Diawl, not I—I speak the truth,” then filling his glass he emptied it exclaiming, “I’ll not hold my tongue. The greatest prydydd in the whole world.”
“Then I have the honour to be seated with a bard of Anglesey?” said I, addressing the man in grey.
“Tut, tut,” said he of the grey suit.
“The greatest prydydd in the whole world,” iterated he of the bulged shoe, with a slight hiccup, as he again filled his glass.
“Then,” said I, “I am truly fortunate.”