“No,” I replied, “I am going on foot.”
“On foot!” said he; “I would not go on foot there this night for fifty pounds.”
“Why not?” said I.
“For fear of being knocked down by the colliers, who will be all out and drunk.”
“If not more than two attack me,” said I, “I shan’t much mind. With this book I am sure I can knock down one, and I think I can find play for the other with my fists.”
The commercial traveller looked at me. “A strange kind of Baptist minister,” I thought I heard him say.
CHAPTER LXII
Rhiwabon Road—The Public-house Keeper—No Welsh—The Wrong Road—The Good Wife.
I paid my reckoning and started. The night was now rapidly closing in. I passed the toll-gate, and hurried along the Rhiwabon road, overtaking companies of Welsh going home, amongst whom were many individuals, whom, from their thick and confused speech, as well as from their staggering gait, I judged to be intoxicated. As I passed a red public-house on my right hand, at the door of which stood several carts, a scream of Welsh issued from it.
“Let any Saxon,” said I, “who is fond of fighting, and wishes for a bloody nose, go in there.”