“It’s Marged Owen’s baby, Johnny. Dalben’s terriers are always upsettin’ him when they’re fightin’. At Cwm Dyli farm they say he’s gone to sell sheep; has he so?”
“It’s neither sheep nor slate,” replied Betty Griffiths acridly.
“Is it so?”
The street rang with another volley of yells.
“It’s Cidwm Powell this time, fallin’ off the slate copin’. He always is; some day he’ll fall in, an’ I don’t know what Maggie’ll do then.”
“No, nor I,” added Olwyn Evans, “it’s her only. Jane Wynne and Jane Jones is ill. Their folks’ve been to the chemist’s in Tremadoc for them, but you’d think they’d have the doctor, now wouldn’t you?”
“You would,” assented Betty. “Jane Wynne’s eighty; how old is Jane Jones?”
“She’s comin’ seventy-five.”
“She is?”