“Pole? North Pole?” said the figure, sleepily. “I know nothing about the North Pole. No, indeed!”
“Well, who are you?” said the doctor. “Come, give us a scientific account;” and the stranger began.
Chapter Five.
The Welsh Sailor’s Yarn.
My name aboard ship is registered John Jones. Yes, indeed. Though, to confess exactly, I was born the son of Hugh Anwyl, miner, of the parish of Glanwern, in the county of Merioneth, and my father baptised me by his own name; so that John is Hugh, and Jones is Anwyl, indeed. I mention this at starting, to prevent my yarn being waterlogged before it reaches mid-ocean.
Well, mates, a beautiful spot is the village of Glanwern. The broad river Mawdach, which runs between the clefts of the mountains, d’ye see, and is overhung with silver birch on either side, separates us—that is, the Glanwernians, indeed—from the town of Barmouth.
It’s a many year since these eyes beheld that familiar spot; yet, my lads, I never got becalmed, or down with a fever, or otherwise on my beam-ends, but what my thoughts turned to old Glanwern—for it’s the brightest place, with the darkest memories, I ever knew.
Yes, indeed, I think I see it now. And you won’t go for to suppose, because my eyes are all a-leak, like a brace of scuppers, that I’ve therefore lost my trim. After all, ’tain’t Glanwern. It’s what happened to me there, when I was a youth as gay as a poppy, with the hand of a man and the face of a girl.