I asked the woman how her husband could carry on the trade of a clog-maker in such a remote place—and also whether he hawked his clogs about the country.
“We call him a clog-maker,” said the woman, “but the truth is that he merely cuts down the wood and fashions it into squares; these are taken by an under-master who sends them to the manufacturer at Bolton, who employs hands, who make them into clogs.”
“Some of the English,” said Jones, “are so poor that they cannot afford to buy shoes; a pair of shoes cost ten or twelve shillings, whereas a pair of clogs cost only two.”
“I suppose,” said I, “that what you call clogs are wooden shoes.”
“Just so,” said Jones—“they are principally used in the neighbourhood of Manchester.”
“I have seen them at Huddersfield,” said I, “when I was a boy at school there; of what wood are they made?”
“Of the gwern, or alder tree,” said the woman, “of which there is plenty on both sides of the brook.”
John Jones now asked her if she could give him a tamaid of bread; she said she could, “and some butter with it.”
She then went out, and presently returned with a loaf and some butter.
“Had you not better wait,” said I, “till we get to the inn at Llansanfraid?”