But as the possible Welsh surnames were limited to the derivatives from possible Christian names, it followed that they ceased to be sufficiently distinctive, and the local habitation, or the trade had to be appended to the surname, as in England it was once appended to the Christian name. I once asked a friend whether John Davies, whom we had just left, was any relation to William Davies, whom we had seen a week ago. “None whatever,” he said; “what makes you ask?” “Chiefly the name being the same.” “Ah,” he replied, “I suppose in England you would draw that inference: in Wales it would never occur to a man to do so.” In a country inn you might hear, “Have you heard that John Jones, Ty Gwyn, is dead? I met William Roberts, the Gas, and he told me. John Jones’ daughter, you know, married the son of Evan Davies, the Bank, that used to live at Tyn-y-mynydd, and they built a house at Cwm-tir-Mynach, which used to belong to Mrs. Captain Roberts, Garth; and William Roberts, the Gas, is her son.” Then the company identified John Jones. Once, when I was inspecting a Welsh school, being disturbed by the hum of conversation, I called out to a ringleader, “John Jones, don’t make such a noise.” The master looked up in surprise; pondered, and then sidled up to me: how did I know that the boy’s name was John Jones? I retorted that I didn’t know, but that it seemed likely. It turned out that John Jones was the boy’s name, and that there were seventeen John Jones’ on the list. I was firing into the brown. In one part of the district there were seven clergymen bearing the same name, incumbents of seven consecutive parishes. But each had an agnomen, and no one ever confused Mr. Davies, Llanfihangel, with Dr. Davies, Llanfairfechan, or either with John Davies, Llanfor, who wrote indifferent poetry under the bardic name of Job. In these inns we varied gossip with occasional gambling. Once to oblige three hungry players I took a hand at whist. We played long whist for penny points, and we counted “honours, spots, and corners.” Honours were honours: spots, I think, meant the ace of spades; and I am inclined to believe that corners denoted the “Jack of trumph” (knave of trumps); but I plead the Statute of Limitations on behalf of my memory. I know we played till closing time, and I won tenpence. An ardent gambler with a slender purse and a weak heart might try North Wales.