“Mr., you flummox me.”
“Just as you do the English drapery travellers. Ah, you’re a cute un—but do you think it altogether a cute trick to stow all those sovereigns in that drawer?”
“Who should take them out, Mr.?”
“Who should take them out? Why, any of the swell mob, that should chance to be in the house, might unlock the drawer with their flash keys as soon as your back is turned, and take out all the coin.”
“But there are none of the swell mob here.”
“How do you know that?” said I; “the swell mob travel wide about—how do you know that I am not one of them?”
“The swell mob don’t speak Welsh, I guess.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” said I—“the swell coves spare no expense for their education—so that they may be able to play parts according to circumstances. I strongly advise you, Mr., to put that bag somewhere else, lest something should happen to it.”
“Well, Mr., I’ll take your advice. These are my quarters, and I was merely going to keep the money here for convenience’ sake. The money belongs to the bank, so it is but right to stow it away in the bank safe. I certainly should be loth to leave it here with you in the room, after what you have said.” He then got up, unlocked the drawer, took out the bag, and with a “good night, Mr.,” left the room.
I “trifled” over my brandy-and-water till I finished it, and then walked forth to look at the town. I turned up a street, which led to the east, and soon found myself beside the lake at the north-west extremity of which Bala stands. It appeared a very noble sheet of water, stretching from north to south for several miles. As, however, night was fast coming on, I did not see it to its full advantage. After gazing upon it for a few minutes, I sauntered back to the square, or market-place, and leaning my back against a wall, listened to the conversation of two or three groups of people who were standing near, my motive for doing so being a desire to know what kind of Welsh they spoke. Their language, as far as I heard it, differed in scarcely any respect from that of Llangollen. I, however, heard very little of it, for I had scarcely kept my station a minute when the good folks became uneasy, cast side-glances at me, first dropped their conversation to whispers, next held their tongues altogether, and finally moved off, some going to their homes, others moving to a distance, and then grouping together—even certain ragged boys who were playing and chattering near me became uneasy, first stood still, then stared at me, and then took themselves off and played and chattered at a distance. Now what was the cause of all this? Why, suspicion of the Saxon. The Welsh are afraid lest an Englishman should understand their language, and, by hearing their conversation, become acquainted with their private affairs; or, by listening to it, pick up their language, which they have no mind that he should know—and their very children sympathise with them. All conquered people are suspicious of their conquerors. The English have forgot that they ever conquered the Welsh, but some ages will elapse before the Welsh forget that the English have conquered them.