John Willie began to spend his days up Delyn and his nights elsewhere than at Llanyglo. He too passed them under the night-lights of the stars—for if she could go to bed by those candles, so could he. On the first night on which he did not return to Llanyglo they peeped down on him where he lay, gazing at them, a mile and more over the head of Delyn, to the summit of which he had reascended after bidding her "Nos da" in the Glyn. On the second night he put another mile between herself and him, bathing in the morning in a brook the chilliness of which only a little refreshed him after his night's tossing; he slept for three hours that afternoon, with her keeping watch by his side. And on the third night he lay among the fern, in her own old place behind Sharpe's hut. She did not know that he did not return each night to that dusty town by the sea.

And now once again he was muttering to himself, fiercely and frequently, "No—no——"

June's stay began to draw to a close. Minetta suspected her of moping for John Willie, and told her that he often disappeared for days at a time like that. Sometimes, she added, he called it fishing.

"But he'd be fearfully annoyed if we went to look for him," she said; and she turned away and smiled.

She smiled again when one morning June had a letter from Wygelia, with a postscript for herself. "A bit of gossip for Minetta," the postscript ran. "Ask her if she remembers a girl from Llanyglo father took into one of his shops. He's thinking of sending out search-parties for her. She went off for a holiday, and hasn't turned up again——" etc., etc., etc.

And so it was that John Willie, filled now with one thought only, came to miss quite a number of things that went down into the history of Llanyglo. He missed, for example, those first days of Revival in which the town, self-accused of sin, strove to purify itself. He missed that storm of impassioned evangelicalism in which Eesaac Oliver, walking one day on the Porth Neigr road, stopped at the foot of the lane that led to the quarries, suddenly threw up his hands, broke forth, and presently had the occupants of a dozen brakes and wagonettes listening to him in the great echoing excavation of the quarry itself. He missed, too, an odd little by-product of that gale of spiritual awakening—the black-faced group that one morning made its appearance on the beach, and resembled a troupe of ordinary seaside niggers until it broke, not into Plantation Melodies, but into hymns, one of which had a catchy pattering chorus that told over the names of the blest ones the redeemed would meet in Heaven:

He missed that other great storm of groans and fervour, when the pale young regenerator, mounting the railway embankment from a low-lying meadow near Porth Neigr, began to preach before sunset, preached until the stars came out, and then sent hysterical young women and overstrung young men home in couples along the benighted lanes together, to comfort and enhearten and uplift one another as they went.... And he missed, among these and a multitude of other things, a certain rather famous exploit of his compatriot, Tommy Kerr.

He knew how Tommy had flouted and insulted Llanyglo, and how Llanyglo in return had long been looking for signs that Tommy was drinking himself to death. But neither John Willie Garden nor anybody else had thought of the alternative solution of the inconvenience of Tommy's presence in Llanyglo. This was, not that Tommy himself should fall one night and break his neck, but that something should happen to the house that, having been put up by the four brothers in a single night, was enjoyable by them as long as they or any of them should remain alive.

During Ned's illness, if that listless state in which he had moved between the accident to Harry and Sam and the death of the canary had been an illness, the care of the Hafod had fallen to Tommy; and that was as much as to say that it had been cared for very little. Moreover, the fabric itself was perhaps by this time impaired. The digging of the foundations of the hotels on either side of it had done it no good, and the constant vibration of the Pontnewydd Street trams had done it even less. On a certain Sunday morning, some weeks before the sickening of the canary, Tommy had taken it into his head to make a thorough examination of the place, while Ned had dozed in his chair. That examination had given Tommy a bad fright. Mounting a short ladder and looking up into the roof-space above the single living-room, he had found the loft far lighter than it ought to have been; but it had not been the gap in the roof that had scared him so badly. It had been what he had seen through the gap—the chimney-stack all tottering, hooped out on one side like a barrel....

With boards and baulks, an old pole-mast and other timbers from the unsightly little backyard, it had taken him the greater part of the day to shore the chimney up again.

Whew! He and Ned had been sleeping under that!——

It may be that there had been plotting against Tommy, too—or, if not actually plotting, a great deal of quiet watching to see what would happen, backed by a powerful desire that something should happen. Both Howell Gruffydd and John Pritchard were on the Roads Committee, and—well, it was obvious that Pontnewydd Street could not remain unrepaired merely because these Kerrs happened to live there. Orders had gone forth that its mains were to be seen to, pits had been dug in the street and barriers erected round them, and red flags set there by day and red lanterns by night.

Nothing had happened.

Then the excavations had been filled up again, and the road-metal carts had come. The surface was to be tackled....

So it had been that John Willie Garden returning one night from Delyn, had seen Dafydd Dafis's road-engine drawn up for the night opposite the Imperial Hotel.

The engine had remained in Pontnewydd Street ever since.

It shook the Hafod as if it had been brought there expressly for its destruction. During the very first hour of its slow and ponderous passing backwards and forwards, Tommy's newly cobbled chimney had given a not very loud crack, and, like a heavy sleeper, had settled down into a more comfortable shape. Tommy had come out, and had hailed the man who walked in front of the machine with a red flag. Nervously, almost politely, he had asked him how long they were likely to be. The man had replied that they had orders to "make a job of it." Then Tommy had seen Dafydd Dafis's face, watching him from the cab.... Half an hour later he had met Howell Gruffydd in the Marine Arcade. The Chairman of the Council had stopped. He had patted the shoulder of the common enemy gently with his hand, and his smile had been odiously affable.

"Well, Thomas Kerr," he had said, "how are you? I hear there is improvements at Plas Kerr; you have a grand road to your house soon, whatever! I think we have to assess you higher. How are you, Thomas Kerr?"

Kerr had hated the Welshman's fine, small, regular teeth. They were false, but by no means the falsest thing about his mouth. As he had made to move away Howell had continued.

"I hope Dafydd Dafis does not incommode you with the road-engine, Thomas Kerr? He has orders not to be a nuis-ance to the town. 'Drive as gently as you can, Dafydd Dafis' is his orders.... You are off to the Marine Hotel now, Thomas Kerr? Dear me, it is a curious fas-cin-ation such places have for some pip-ple! Would it not be bet-ter to come to the Chap-pel on Sundays?... Thomas Kerr." (Tommy had been shuffling miserably away.) "Excuse me, Thomas Kerr, but you lose your handkerchief if you are not careful!"

And at this reminder that he had intended to button up his pockets in the presence of his foe, Tommy had been wellnigh ready to weep.

And then Ned had died....

There was a good deal of "edge," or vanity, or self-esteem, or conceit, or whatever you like to call it, about Tommy Kerr. He knew now that that road-engine would not be taken off as long as his crazy house stood, and he was stung and mortified that a few beggarly Welshmen, backed by a pettifogging Railway Company or two, with Kursaals Limited, a miserable District Council, a Pleasure Boats' Amalgamation, a few Hotel Syndicates and other such trifles, should be able to beat him. He felt very lonely without Ned. He would have liked to see Lancashire again, particularly Rochdale, his own town. He wanted to walk its hilly streets, and to see the Asbestos Factory again, and Hollingworth Lake. He would almost rather be found dead there than continue to live among these indigo mountains and pink hotels and chrome-yellow sands.

And so he set about his exploit.

At the very outset they tried once more to baulk him. For the thing that he intended to do certain timbers were necessary, and at six o'clock one night he passed, none too steadily, to a timber-merchant's, and gave an order to a clerk. The clerk smiled, and sent for his principal. Kerr pointed to various pieces in the yard. "Ye can send that—an' that—an' that t'other," he said thickly; "ye can get 'em out now—I'll fetch a cart." Then, looking at the builder's face, he saw that he too, like the clerk, was smiling....

There was no need of words. Howell Gruffydd had been beforehand with him again. If one builder refused to sell to him, so, he knew, would all the others. He was wasting precious time with builders.

How many inns he had been to that day he could not have told, but he now felt the heart in him again. They thought they could dish Tommy Kerr like that, did they? Well, he would show them.... He lurched away to the "Lancashire Rose," in Gardd Street, and then crossed to the "Trafford." But at neither of them did he stay very long. He left the "Trafford" at a little after eight, three hours before he needed to have done so. He wanted those three hours. He also wanted all the hours he could get between then and sunrise.

No sober man would have dreamed of attempting it; but sobriety and large deeds do not always go hand in hand. Neither do large deeds and very clear thinking—which, stout hearts being commoner than unmuddled brains, is lucky for us. Through Kerr's bemused head ran one thought and one thought only, namely, that the Hafod had been built by himself and his three brothers in a night—built in a night—built in a night——

If it had been built in a night it could be rebuilt in a night——

It had taken four of them to build it, but the rebuilding ought not to be nearly so heavy a job——

He would show them he did not come from Lancashire for nothing!

But before entering his dwelling that night he committed an act of theft. That damned road-engine had again been left drawn up opposite the Imperial Hotel, and Tommy, fumbling under the tarpaulin that covered it, stole something from the cab. He chuckled as he seemed to see again Dafydd Dafis's cat-like face looking at him round the fly-wheel. He'd show Dafydd Dafis!——

He entered his house and locked the door behind him.

He had formed no plan, but yet, somehow, he was conscious of a plan, and a reasonably clear one. Where it had come from he did not know; it was as if he heard again, somewhere in the air quite near, the voices of his brothers again, saying, in the loved Ratchet accents, "Never heed that, Sam—here's where th' strain comes—we'll do th' paperin' and put a pot o' geraniums i' th' window after." He saw these vital points and master-members of his plan as if they had been marked in his mind in red. He had not to stop to reason about them. He knew—dead Ned seemed to tell him—that the wall between the living-room and the scullery might stand. He knew—he seemed to have it from Sam—that the whole of the street-frontage was sound. The ends, near the two hotels, were the danger-points; most perilous of all was the main beam under the lately propped chimney. The chimney must be taken down first of all. "To lighten th' beam, ye see," Harry's voice seemed to sound; "nay, donnot fiddle wi' it—shove it ovver into th' alley—we're pushed for time——"

So, whether you call it drink, or whatever you call it, Tommy did not set to work quite unassisted.

At the very beginning he almost came to grief. This was over the chimney, that essential member of the dwelling up whose throat the comfortable smoke had passed on that far-off morning as a token of habitation before the eyes of astonished little Llanyglo. He had climbed out on to the perilous roof and had begun to "study" how best to take it down; then, as cautiously he had unlashed and removed the baulks and the pole-mast, the chimney had suddenly thrust out its stomach at him. His heart gave a jump, and in a twink he had set his back against it, grasping a rope to check his heave.... But the chimney would neither stand, nor yet fall as he wished it to fall, over the end of the Hafod into the side-alley. It wanted to fall inwards, over Tommy's head. He thought his agonised effort would never end.... But end it did. He felt the release of weight. The thing hung poised for a moment, and then....

He was once more down in his kitchen before the windows which had been flung up in the two hotels had closed again. No doubt they had been waiting for days for that crash. They did not know that the scandalous Tommy himself had caused it. The ghost of a malicious smile crossed his face. "Sucks," he muttered, "for Gruffydd."

Then, at eleven o'clock at night, he fell to his house-breaking.

"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.

And perhaps he was not really patching up his tottering cottage at all that night. Perhaps he was rather doing one of those useless and splendid things that alone among man's contrivances do not crumble and fall. Perhaps he was doing in his ruined Hafod pretty much the same thing that Eesaac Oliver Gruffydd did from bandstands and railway embankments and rocks and bedroom windows—setting up an ideal, and bidding men remember, though they might never attain, to strive. Or perhaps he was working from the most religious motive known to man—to please himself, trusting that if he did so he might please Something greater than himself. If so, his idea might have had grandeur, but that grandeur was curiously expressed. For he did not cease to grunt from time to time, as his face became grimy and then washed clean again with perspiration: "Damned Treacle-tongue! I'll sew my pockets up next time! Owd false-teeth—their road-engines—him an' his new brolly!—--"

By four o'clock twenty road-engines could not have shaken down the beam on the chimney side of the house, and without another look at it he turned to the other wall. It was Ned's remembered voice that bade him hasten. As he tackled the second beam he grew quite chatty with Ned. It was Ned who kept him to those red-marked crucial points, and told him that he needn't bother about the walls, for the ceiling-sheets would do to cram into the interstices, and that, if he made haste, the golden days would come again when he had mocked at all Welshmen, and had had on the hip the Railway Companies and Kursaals and Hotels and Steamboats that had done their utmost to get rid of him.

It was soon after this that he became conscious of other whispers than Ned's. At last he had seen the crowd gathered in Pontnewydd Street. But by this time he had ripped his ceiling-cloth down, and the grey incoming day was suddenly darkened again as he ploughed across the talus of debris and made a wall of cloth, fastening it anywise from beam to beam. Ned said that that was quite good enough. You never caught wise old Ned napping. Tommy Kerr had been very fond of his brother Ned. He had gone ratting with him, and alder-cutting, and he remembered a whippet Ned had once had, a rare dog for nipping 'em as they turned, and a canary too....

Then Tommy Kerr's brain, which for more than seven hours had been as steady as a sleeping top, gave a little wobble. This was as he paused in the middle of the floor of his incredible house. There was something else he had to do; what was it?... What was it, now?... He knew there was something else he had to do....

He would have done better to begin his work all over again than to stop and think.

What ... ah yes, he remembered! He remembered and chuckled. Why, he had been on the point of forgetting the cream of the whole joke!——

He stooped by the rounded grey mound of lime and plaster that represented his bed, but his knees gave, and he came with a little thump to the floor. But he rolled over on his side, and his fingers found what they sought, and after a few minutes he rose again. In his hand was the red flag he had stolen from the cab of Dafydd Dafis's road-engine. That was to go up where his chimney had been, that chimney that had emitted that first smoke on that far-off first morning. The town, when it awoke, must on no account miss that. Tommy Kerr wanted to see the faces of Howell Gruffydd, John Pritchard, Dafydd Dafis and Co. when they saw that flag....

He tottered to the ladder that ran up into the loft.

He fell twice from the lower rungs of it, but a foot of lime made his fall soft. He mounted to the top, and crawled on his belly across the open rafters of the loft. He did not know how he got out on to the roof; it seemed to him that he lay below for a long time, gazing up through a gap at the paling sky and wondering how it was to be done, and then miraculously found himself where he wished to be. Then he got on his feet.

Then he saw them, the people in the street below. He had again forgotten they were there. So much the better; they should see him do it. Then he'd give a shout that should wake all Wales, and—and—by that time the pubs ought to be opening....

But the little hand-staff of the flag was not long enough to please him. He wanted a longer one, to make more of a show. It took a whole tree to carry the flag over the Kursaal Dancing Rooms there. It was stupid of Tommy not to have thought of that—not to have brought one up from below, where there were plenty—yes, plenty——

As it happened, he did not need the stick. It all came about very softly and gently. He was standing up, again looking about for a longer stick, when once more his brain gave a wobble. The watchers below saw him lean, as formerly his chimney had leaned, only now Tommy Kerr leaned the other way——

And so gently did he come over, and so comparatively short a distance had he to fall, that you would have sworn it did not hurt him very much. He stuck to the little square of red calico at the end of the short staff; it was still in his hand when they picked him up from the heap of chimney-bricks that choked the little alley where the principal entrance to the Kursaal Gardens now is.

Ancient Mrs. Pritchard, when she heard of it, baa-ed, and said that folk came and went—came and went——