My Neighbours
spread themselves easily as far as the door of the Crooked Stairway.
"Now, boys capel," Towy-Watkins said, "we will have a sermon. Fine will Welsh be in the nostrils of the Big Preacher. Pray will I at once."
The prayer ended, and one struck his tuning-fork; and while the congregation moaned and lamented, a tall man, who wore the habit of a preacher and whose yellow beard—the fringe of which was singed—hung over his breast like a sheaf of wheat, passed through the way of the door of the Stairway, and as he walked towards the Judgment Hall, some said: "Fair day, Respected," and some said: "Similar he is to Towy-Watkins."
"Shut your throats, colts," Towy rebuked the people. "Say after me: Go round my backhead, Satan.'"
Go round my backhead, Satan," the people obeyed.
"Catch him and skin him," Towy
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