“I swear it, so help me God,” repeated Rhys, his curiosity roused.
“Though I began drivin’ o’ pigs, I’m the biggest butcher in trade at Abergavenny, am I not?” cried the old man, putting his hand on Rhys’ knee and giving it a shake. “Well, I sell more mutton than I ever buy. Do ye understand that? Do ye see what you’re lyin’ on?” He pointed to the sheepskins. “George is my man and he finds it for me—him an’ others I needn’t speak of. We’ve taken toll of you before this.”
And, as he chuckled, his eyes disappeared again.
Walters tried to sit up, but grew giddy at once and dropped back on his pillow. He drew a long breath and lay still. The last words made him hate the Pig-driver, but as, at present, he owed him everything, he reflected that hatred would be of little use to him.
“How do you get it all up to Abergavenny?” he inquired at last.
“Ah, you may well ask. And ’tis best you should know, for I’ll be glad to get a hand from you when you’re up again. Do ye know the Pedlar’s Stone? There’s not one o’ they zanys along here will go a-nigh it.”
Rhys knew the place well. On the way to the mountain, about a mile further up, a little rough, stone cross stuck out of the bank, its rude arms overhanging the hedge. It marked the spot where a pedlar had been murdered some hundred years back, and none of the working people would pass it after dark, for even in the daytime it was regarded with suspicion.
“The sheep comes here first, George he knows how. Do ye see them hooks in the ceiling? Did ye take note of the trap ye come down here by? No, I warrant ye didn’t, ye was that mazed when ye come. It’s all cut up here, an’ after that it goes up jint by jint to the place I’m telling you. Williams, he can get two sheep up between ten o’clock and one i’ the morning. If ye go along the hedge behind the stone, there’s a big bit o’ rock close by with a hole scraped in underneath it. It’s deep down among the nettles, so ye wouldn’t see it if ye didn’t know. That’s where they lie till I come round afore daylight wi’ the cart on my way to Crishowell. Crishowell folks thinks I’m at Abergavenny, and Abergavenny folks thinks I’m at Crishowell.”
Though in his heart Rhys hated the Pig-driver for what he had been doing to him and others like him, he could not help admiring his astuteness; but he made no comment, for admiration came from him grudgingly as a rule where men were concerned.