“He could tell stories, too, on the quiet, could Jack. They were pretty blue, though. Sailor stories. They were all about himself in the West Coast ports. Do you know the Chili coast? Well, it’s mind your eye there, and no half larks. They’re pretty handy with knives out there. But when Jack was out for fun you couldn’t stop him. He was like all you young chaps. He wouldn’t listen to sense.
“The ‘Abertawe’ went light ship to Barry, one trip, from Buenos Aires, and Jack saw her snug, and told all the men to be at the shipping office early and sober in the morning, because they got in on a Sunday, and Jack saw the old man safe on his way to Cardiff, and then shaved, and sang while he was shaving. He got himself up west-end style, new yellow boots and all, and tied his red tie Spanish fashion. And he went down the quay, looking for anything that was about, and he felt like the best man on the Welsh coast.
“But Barry is a dull place. Do you know Barry? Well, it’s a one-eyed God-forsaken town, made out of odds and ends stuck down anywhere, all new houses, docks, coal tips, and railway sidings, and nowhere to go. It’s best to stay aboard, in Barry. Jack began to feel like the only bird on a mudbank. He got out of the town, and walked along a road till he came to an old woman sitting in the hedge, with her back up against a telegraph post. Her face was brown and wrinkled, and she had an orange-coloured handkerchief round her face, and tied under her chin. She was smoking a pipe, and looking at her blucher boots. As Jack came along, she said, ‘Tell your fortune, pretty gentleman?’ Jack laughed, and told her his face was his fortune.
“‘What do you see when you look in the glass?’ said she.
“Now that was dead easy to Jack, because he knew as well as the girls; and he told her. There was none of your silly modesty about Jack. Then the old woman laughed; but I reckon Jack thought she was only pleased with him, because he made it a point to make the mothers and the grandmothers smile, the same as the girls.
“‘What do you see in this glass?’ said she to Jack. She was fumbling in her dress, and hauls out a mirror like you see in the old-fashion shops, a mirror made of silver, and it had a frame of ebony. She polished it on her skirt, and gave it to him, and told him to pass a bit of silver with the other hand. Well, Jack saw sport, and he could always pay for that, and he did what she said. But he only saw himself in the mirror.
“‘Hi,’ said Jack, ‘here, what’s your little game now? None of your larks now,’ he said, ‘or I’ll ask a policeman what he can see in this tin glass of yours.’
“‘You and your policeman,’ she said. ‘Look now, my dandy boy, and see more than your money’s worth.’ And she rubbed the glass again. Then Jack took another look. It was a dull day, but that mirror was bright with sunshine. There was something funny about that mirror. He saw a fine place in it, all cool and white and gold, like you see out East. It was a palace, I reckon. There was a fountain in the middle, and some girls with not a lot on, like some of the Amsterdam postcard girls, were lying around, just anyhow. And there was Jack’s own self among ’em, and they were laughing and talking to him. It was fine. Jack turned his head, just like you would do, to see if the real place was behind him. But, of course, there was the funnels and topmasts of Barry, and the sky looked like rain. I bet it gave him a shock.
“‘Now you’ve seen what’ll be your luck, honey, if you’re not careful,’ said the old woman. ‘Mind your eye,’ she said, ‘mind your eye, you with the saucy face. What’s more,’ she called after him, ‘don’t you speak to the girl with the odd eyes in Cardiff, though I know you will, and sorry you’ll be.’
“‘Go to the devil,’ said Jack.