"Kerr?" said the author of the _Sixpenny Guide_, when asked about this. "I suppose you mean Tommy Kerr? Yes, I remember him.--His cottage? That Hafod Unos place?--Yes, it's perfectly true. He did pull it down or put it up again in one night, or at any rate something like it. An uncouth little animal he was; a drunken little beast; still, he did this. Made quite a job of it too.--How? That I can't tell you. But I saw the place the next morning, and it seems to me that at one time during the night both the ends and half the back must have been as open as an empty rick-shed. Of course the whole thing was altogether preposterous. Six men's work. I was staying a little farther up the road, and by daybreak there must have been a thousand people in Pontnewydd Street. Nobody lifted a finger. They just watched. He wasn't to be seen mostly; he was busy inside; but when he did come out he never turned his head.--Sober? Impossible to say. And of course he didn't quite finish the job. But you've heard the rest." The rest was as follows: * * * * * By three o'clock in the morning Tommy was neither drunk nor sober. He was a will and a piece of muscular apparatus, the two things quite separate, yet working together with never a jerk to mar the harmony. As a worn-out old machine will continue to run provided it is not interrupted, so Kerr worked, in a state to which the only fatal thing would have been to stop. The Tommy Kerr Llanyglo knew was a base thing, senseless as the lime and stone through which his chisel drove (with a fearful racket), obstinate as the beams under which he hammered his wedges; but this was another Tommy Kerr--somehow the name yet somehow another--a Kerr who might have been imagined to mutter, as he laboured, that it was a gradely night for a titanic act--that he came from Lancashire, where men did impossible things as a matter of course--and that if any Welshman would pocket his pride and ask him, he would pull down and put up again their whole blasted flashy town for them while he was about it.