CHAPTER II Owen Jones, who in his leathern apron might have been a _moyen age_ smith, looked up and said something lengthy in Welsh, whereupon the eager, alert little crowd, which had gathered round on the chance of a new emotion, echoed something else in Welsh, smiled, nodded, and looked sage. "Well," said Ted impatiently. The smith having no English, the office of translator was taken up by Morris Pugh, who, with a certain appropriative courtesy, had shown them all the beauties of the way with pardonable pride, informed them effusively and charmingly of his past life, his present opinions, told them of his widowed mother with tears in his eyes, of his clever young brother whose ambition was Parliament with a thrill of pride in his voice, and had finally introduced them formally to the smith as an elder of his chapel. "In about half-an-hour they will be ready, he says; and, see you, Owen Jones is an excellent workman, indeed." Here he raised his voice and looked round for approval. "None better, I am sure." "No! Indeed," assented Isaac Edwards, who, another elder, had come from his merchant's shop over the way to help on the general interest, "there will be none better than Owen Jones from Pembroke to Pwlhelli!" The largeness of this proposition suited the hearers. It reflected credit on themselves, their clan, their country; so the quarrymen off duty from their piles of slaty shale among the oak woods, and the boys off school this Saturday afternoon, smiled and saluted _quasi_-military fashion as the two Cruttendens moved off to seek tea in the little inn, where a Cycle Club sign was nearly hidden in a massive cotoneaster--all red berries and white blossoms--which covered the walls from roadway to gable.