Much to their credit, the neighbouring gentry had recently opened a subscription for rebuilding between thirty and forty poor people’s houses, which had unfortunately been burnt down; and our hero resolved that every farthing henceforward gained by the grey horse, or otherwise, clandestinely, should be appropriated to this laudable purpose. It was no small satisfaction to him to find that, while it mortified the purse-proud vanity of the haughty squires to see so large a sum attached to his name, it had the good effect of increasing their contributions, resolved not to be outdone, in money matters at least, by so obscure a personage as Twm.
It was necessary for him to disguise himself thoroughly, for he intended, in the first place, to offer the horse for sale. He decided to dress as a country booby; and after he had finished, his most intimate friend would have been puzzled to recognize him. Twm Shon Catty, (we beg his pardon,) Mr. Thomas Jones was effectually concealed in the rough garb of a Welsh country ploughman. His feet got thrust into a very heavy pair of clogs, or wooden-soled shoes, which being stiff and large, maintained such a haughty independence of the inmates, as to need being tied on by a hay-band. His legs were enveloped in a pair of wheat-stalk leggings, or bands of twisted straw, winding round and round, and covering them from the knee to the ankle.
A raw hairy cow-hide formed the material of his inexpressibles, which were loose, like trowsers cut at the knee; and his jerkin was of a brick-dust red, with black stripes, like the faded garb of the Carmarthenshire women. A load of red locks, straight as a bunch of carrots, hung dangling behind, but in front rather matted and entangled, quite innocent of the slightest acquaintance with that useful article, a comb; the whole surmounted with a soldier’s cast-off Monmouth cap, so highly varnished with grease, as to appear waterproof.
Without any apology for a waistcoat, he wore a blue flannel shirt, striped with white, opened from the chin to the waistband, to contain his enormous cargo of bread and cheese and leeks, which, as he was continually drawing upon his store, stood a chance of all becoming wholly inside passengers. Added to this, his booby gait and stupid vacant stare was such that he might have passed muster anywhere for what he pretended to be.
He took up his post on the outskirts of the town, preferring that position to elbowing his way through the busy crowd in the middle of the fair. He did not appear anxious for a customer, and munched his bread and cheese and onions with quiet perseverance. Many persons, in passing by, gazed with wonder at this piece of cloddish rusticity, and asked if the horse was for sale; but receiving such drivelling and dolt-like answers, that it became a matter of wonder who could have trusted their property to such an oaf.
When Twm had stood some time, patiently bearing the ridicule of many bystanders, who cracked jokes at his expense, a gentlemen, well-mounted on a chestnut-coloured hunter, entered the town, and cast an eager eye at the grey horse. Twm recognized him at a glance as a Breconshire magistrate, named Powell, one of the many rejected admirers of the lady of Ystrad Feen. Riding up to our hero, he asked if the horse was for sale. Twm answered in broken English, imitating the dialect of the lower class, “I don’t no but it iss, if I cann get somebody that is not wice, look you, somebody that was fools to buy him.”
“But why,” asked the gentleman, “don’t you take him into the horse-fair?”
“Why inteed to goodness,” answered Twm, “I was shame to take him there; for look you, he has a fault on him, and I do not find in my heart and my conscience to take honest people in with a horse that has a fault on him, for all master did send me here to sell him.”
“Well, and what is this mighty fault?” asked the stranger, smiling.
“Why inteed to goodness and mercy,” replied Twm, “it was a fault that do spoil him—it was a fault that—”