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MY PEOPLE
turned into the yard of the Drivers’ Arms.
“Fair morning, Tomos the son of Deio,” said the ostler of the Drivers' Arms to him.
“Say you have an empty stall, little son?” Tomos asked. “Surely.”
“Fair morning, Tomos. How was you, man? And how was your old father?”
Tomos turned round and looked into the face of Job of the Stallion.
“Quite well, thanks be to you, Job bach.”
“What’s your errand, boy bach? Old Deio your father did not say anything the day before to-day.”
Job, his small feet planted close together underneath his bandy legs, gazed reproachfully at Tomos.
“Wellwell,” said Tomos, “am I not selling a cask of butter, man?”
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