“I don’t know that, sir,” said the landlord; “I don’t know that. Really, sir, the kitchen is not the place for a gentleman.”
“Yes, it is,” said I, “provided the parlour smokes. Come, come, I am going to have a glass of whiskey-and-water; perhaps you will take one with me.”
“Well, sir!” said the landlord in rather a softened tone, “I have no objection to take a glass with you.”
Two glasses of whiskey-and-water were presently brought, and the landlord and I drank to each other’s health.
“Is this a sheep district?” said I, after a pause of a minute or two.
“Yes, sir!” said the landlord; “it may to a certain extent be called a sheep district.”
“I suppose the Southdown and Norfolk breeds would not do for these here parts,” said I with a regular Norfolk whine.
“No, sir! I don’t think they would exactly,” said the landlord, staring at me. “Do you know anything about sheep?”
“Plenty, plenty,” said I; “quite as much indeed as about Welsh words and poetry.” Then in a yet more whining tone than before, I said, “Do you think that a body with money in his pocket could hire a comfortable sheep farm hereabouts?”
“O sir!” said the landlord in a furious tone, “you have come to look out for a farm, I see, and to outbid us poor Welshmen; it is on that account you have studied Welsh; but, sir, I would have you know—”