Dafydd Dafis, from the top of the pale yellow toast-rack, called something else in Welsh, too quick for John Willie to hear. Then he gazed again. Something else was coming along the Porth Neigr road. Dafydd, who had the eyes of a river-poacher, knew both the cart and the two men who rode on the load. It drew nearer. Sheard and the two men seemed to be explaining something to John Pritchard. After a time John Pritchard walked away. Dafydd Dafis descended from the roof, followed by John Willie Garden. He had put his hammer into his pocket; his little heap of cut nails remained on the coping. The men had gathered into a cluster, but none went over the sandhills to see what was happening. Then a frequently repeated word struck John Willie's ear. He turned to Dafydd Dafis. "Peth a elwir 'adwydd' yn Saesneg, Dafydd?" he asked. Dafydd Dafis looked as if he had never sung in his life. "Post--hedgestake," he replied. Slowly they got out their dinner. As they did so Howell Gruffydd came up from the beach. Formerly, he had rebuked Eesaac Oliver for speaking Welsh in the presence of those who did not understand it; now, John Willie Garden's presence was entirely disregarded. He did not understand six words of the low, rapid conversation. Then in the middle of it a light sound came over the sandhills, and the talk suddenly ceased. They waited. The sound came again. Hedgestakes were being flung from the cart down by the side of the road. The workmen continued to sit after dinner, but not a ladder was mounted again that day. John Pritchard was big and sickly and consumptive, and his farm kitchen was also the Llanyglo Post Office. There John Willie went at six o'clock that evening to post a letter for his mother. Nominally, John's mother, ancient Mrs. Pritchard, whom Dafydd Dafis so greatly loved, was the postmistress, but actually Miss Nancy Pritchard, the schoolmistress, did most of the work. She was sealing the letter-bag from a saucer of melted wax when John Willie entered. The postman's cart waited at the door, and beyond it, past the gate, could be seen the hedgestakes that had been shot down on the opposite side of the road. The postman was explaining something to John Pritchard, and Dafydd Dafis and his labourers listened in silence. In her chair by the fire sat ancient Mrs. Pritchard, seeming old as the Dinas itself, her face a skull with a membrane stretched over it, a black gophered snood surrounding it, her hands anatomies, and her mouth from time to time making a sort of weak baa-ing. Of the hushed and rapid conversation at the door, John Willie caught this time a phrase or two he understood. "Wait and see, whatever," he heard them say; "let them drive them in ... adwydd ... perhaps it be on Thursday ... Saesneg...." He approached the group. "Peth a elwir----" he began. But the men who formerly had made much of him now took no notice of him at all.