“Well, my Becky, how do you like it?”
“We haven’t done so badly after all, my Happy. We’ve got a better tent and a better supper than we had last night.”
“And I’m thinking, my Becky,” said Happy, laughing softly, “that it’s wonderful like getting married again.”
Happy was once going along a road over the Peak o’ Derby. He hadn’t gone far before he saw a cart full of the very best china, delicate stuff all coloured and gilded, and between the shafts stood a fine horse with silver-plated harness. There they were on the wayside grass and nobody with them. Happy lit his pipe and waited a bit to see if their owner came along. But nobody came. So he led the horse and cart to an inn just round the bend of the road, and asked the landlord if he knew who was the owner, but he didn’t know. On and on went Happy, up hill and down dale, inquiring everywhere for the owner of the horse and pot-cart, but nowhere could he light on the gentleman, though he nearly broke his heart with anxiety in trying his best to find him.
Happy one day took his dog a-hunting. Two hares started up, but the dog couldn’t run after both of them at once. Just then, however, the dog ran against a scythe-blade and cut itself in two. One half of the dog ran after one hare and caught it. The other half of the dog ran after the second hare and caught it. The hares were brought to Happy’s feet. Then the two halves of the dog came together again. And the dog died. Happy took off the skin and patched his knee-breeches with it. Just a year afterwards, to the very day, his breeches burst open and barked at him.
CHAPTER XXI
THE GYPSY OF THE HILLS—IN THE HEART OF WALES—A WESTMORLAND HORSE-FAIR
I
May 12.—Just as I stepped out of the train at Corwen, thick vapours, blotting out the mountains, made up their minds to let down rain. Five years before, on landing at the same station, it was only to find a tornado howling over the land and heavy rain falling. That wild night I’m not likely to forget in a hurry. . . .
At last, after an hour’s wait in a snug hostelry, I set off along the Holyhead Road, having a certain encampment in my mind’s eye. At the “Goat” Inn, where the by-road turns off for Bettws-Gwerfil-Goch, I made inquiry for the said camp, but the landlord only shook his head. One of his daughters, however, hearing my question, said she knew where it was, and coming with me to the door indicated the whereabouts of the caravans of my quest. By now the rain had ceased, and, in a few moments, round a bend in the highway, the outline of a Gypsy tent, with a caravan and a tilt-cart standing near it, caught my eye against a row of twisted oaks in a wayside field. On entering the camp there were hearty greetings from Gilderoy Gray and Oli Purum, his travelling pal. The ruddy glow in the fire-bucket made the tent’s interior an inviting spot for tea, and there was plenty of fun that evening. Outside: the dark night with a roaring wind in the oak trees. Within: a wood-fire lit up the red blankets stretched over the curved tent-rods, and upon a well-made couch of straw (covered with rugs) we reclined. Oli was in fine form for tale-telling, and his pipe often went out. Gilderoy, too, had heaps of things to tell. Was ever a lover of the road better stocked with anecdotes than he?
In the tilt-cart I made my bed, and slept as soundly as a dormouse.