With the utmost coolness he made himself known to the amiable Inco, whose features underwent various contortions at the recognition; nor did they settle to serenity when Twm with provoking laughter told him that he must journey homeward on foot, as it was a settled thing fixed by fate, that he was to have the gallant grey himself. Inco started and stared; but, without answering a word, he hurried to the innkeeper and the hostler, charging them to lock the stable, and assist him to secure a daring delinquent whom he had discovered in the street. On reaching the stable, the grey, like the grey mist of morning, had dissolved from view, and our hero was equally invisible in the ancient town of Machynlleth.
This last transaction sat uneasily on Twm’s conscience. He thought that it hardly came within the legitimate bounds of a joke, although the free and unlicensed spirit of the times permitted a long tether in this respect; he therefore promised himself some mirth in returning the grey horse to Inco, if he could be found in a Welshpool fair, which was probable, as the accumulating clerical magistrate was a great trafficker in farm stock of all kinds. Thither proceeded the gallant Twm, on a fine Monday morning, in the following week; but the purpose of his better thoughts was unluckily thwarted.
On entering this little wool-combing town, a certain countenance burst upon his recollection; the owner of the face made known to him as a stranger, and made overtures for the purchase of the steed. It struck our hero that there would be some fun in selling it to this personage—no other than young Marmaduke Graspacre—as it could not but cause a whimsical altercation with Inco Evans. Accordingly a bargain was struck, and Twm received the amount in hard cash.
Both parties were highly pleased with their transaction, and Twm praised the grey steed still more warmly now that he had pocketed the money. He spoke quite enthusiastically of the animal’s points, remarking that its merits were far away in excess of what he had represented them to be. “I protest to you in honesty and truth,” he exclaimed with much earnestness, “you have a greater bargain than you imagine. As I was not anxious to sell him, I have omitted to inform you of half his good qualities; he is capable of performing such wonderful feats as you never heard of.”
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed the elated Marmaduke, staring alternately at his horse and at our hero. “In fact, I assure you,” cries Twm, with the most sober face imaginable; “and if you don’t believe me, I’ll convince you in a moment, if you will allow me to mount him.” “Oh, certainly, with many thanks,” quoth the delighted heir of Graspacre Hall. Twm very leisurely mounted, and after a variety of postures and curvetings, gradually got out of the fair into the high-road; suddenly giving spur and rein to the “gallant steed,” he astonished Marmaduke by his disappearance.
The “green” one had to confess with bitterness of heart, that the jockey had certainly kept his word, as he showed him such a trick as he never before saw, or heard of. But when he received a note informing him that the horse-dealer was his old “friend” Twm, his wrath was boundless.
The fame of Twm’s cunning and adroitness spread through the whole country round, and his wide-spread reputation brought him many country people to consult him respecting their difficulties.
One morning, while sitting in his favourite corner at the Cat and Fiddle, a person called, who described himself as a small farmer in the neighbourhood, his name Morgan Thomas; and having heard so much of his cleverness, he came to ask his advice on an affair of great weight. He had been annoyed, he said, by the continual trespassing of a certain squire’s pigeons on his ground, which had made such a havoc amid his wheat yearly, that the loss was grievous to him; he had computed his damages, and applied for the amount, for the last four years; reckoning that the forty pigeons would devour at least a bushel of wheat each annually. The squire only laughed at his claims and complaints, telling him he might pound them and be d—d, if he liked when he would pay the alleged damages and not till then.
“Now, to pound them, I should like vastly,” quoth Morgan Thomas, “but without the squire’s polite invitation to be d—ned, at the same time. But,” added the poor farmer, “pounding pigeons, I look upon as impossible; yet as you have done feats no less wonderful, if you will pound those mischievous pigeons for me, I will engage to give you half the amount of my claims.” “Agreed?” cried Twm, and grasped his hand, in token that he undertook the task.
He sent a quantity of hot grains from the brewing, to the farmer, next morning, which he afterwards scattered about the farm-yard. The pigeons came, as usual; and eagerly devouring the grain, each and all soon appeared as top-heavy as the veriest tress-pot in Carmarthenshire; and, like the said fraternity incapable of returning home, they fell in stupor on the ground. Our hero, assisted by the farmer, picked them up, tied their legs, and put the whole party in the pound. The squire, who was no other than Prothero, the laughing magistrate, ever pleased with a jest, especially when cracked by our hero, immediately paid the farmer’s demand; and Twm generously refused the proffered remuneration for his very effective assistance.