"Fancy I do butter from Wales
with one pinch of salt in him. Tell Winnie to send butter that is
salted."
Martha bought two pounds of butter.
"Mean is his size," Tim grieved.
"Much is his cost," Martha whined.
"Get you one pound of marsherin and make him one and put him on a wetted
cabbage leaf."
The fifth Sunday dawned.
"Next to-morrow," said Martha, "the daughter will be home. Go you to the
jail and fetch her, and take you for her a big hat for old jailers cut
the hair very short."
"No-no," Tim replied. "Better she returns and speak nothing. With no
questions shall we question her."
Monday opened and closed.
"Mistake is in your count," Martha hinted.
"Slow scolar am I," said Tim. "Count will I once more."
"Don't you, boy bach," Martha hastened to say. "Come she will."
At the dusk of Friday Eylwin Jones, his goitered chin shivering, ran
furiously and angrily into the Tabernacle. "Ho-ho," he cried. "In jail
is Winnie. A scampess is she and a whore. Here's scandal. Mother and
father of a thief in the house of the capel bach of Jesus Christ. Robbed
Mistress Harries she did. Broke is the health of the woman nice as a
consequent.
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