“No,” said I, “but I know a little Welsh.”
“Ynys Fon,” said the man. “Yes, I have been in Anglesey more times than I can tell.”
“Do you know Hugh Pritchard,” said I, “who lives at Pentraeth Coch?”
“I know him well,” said the man, “and an honest fellow he is.”
“And Mr. Bos?” said I.
“What Bos?” said he. “Do you mean a lusty, red-faced man in top-boots and grey coat?”
“He’s a clever one,” said the man. “I suppose by your knowing these people you are a drover or a horse-dealer. Yes,” said he, turning half-round in his saddle and looking at me, “you are a horse-dealer. I remember you well now, and once sold a horse to you at Chelmsford.”
“I am no horse-dealer,” said I, “nor did I ever buy a horse at Chelmsford. I see you have been about England. Have you ever been in Norfolk or Suffolk?”
“No,” said the man, “but I know something of Suffolk. I have an uncle there.”