“Well, then the man had some excuse for disregarding them—because you know the Times is written in English.”
“O, you mean the London Times,” said the man in grey. “Pooh! I did not allude to that trumpery journal, but the Liverpool Times, the Amserau. I sent some pennillion to the editor for insertion and he did not insert them. Peth a clwir cenfigen yn Saesneg?”
“We call cenfigen in English envy,” said I; “but as I told you before, envy will not always prevail.”
“You cannot imagine how pleased I am with your company,” said the man in grey. “Landlord, landlord!”
“The greatest prydydd,” said the man of the tattered hat, “the greatest prydydd.”
“Pray don’t order any more on my account,” said I, “as you see my glass is still full. I am about to start for Caer Gybi. Pray where are you bound for?”
“For Bangor,” said the man in grey. “I am going to the market.”
“Then I would advise you to lose no time,” said I, “or you will infallibly be too late; it must now be one o’clock.”
“There is no market to-day,” said the man in grey, “the market is to-morrow, which is Saturday. I like to take things leisurely, on which account, when I go to market, I generally set out the day before, in order that I may enjoy myself upon the road. I feel myself so happy here that I shall not stir till the evening. Now pray stay with me and my friend till then.”
“I cannot,” said I, “if I stay longer here I shall never reach Caer Gybi to-night. But allow me to ask whether your business at L— will not suffer by your spending so much time on the road to market?”