MORNING SERIAL
“WHY should a man spend his time and strength doing this and that for somebody else who’s going to get a profit out of it? Yes, that’s the question you want to answer, Dai Williams. In fact, you have answered it, fifty years ago. Another thing, why should — ?” Ieuan did not wait to hear any more of the old man’s philosophizing.
“So-long, Mr. Williams,” he cried, and ran up Heol Goffa.
*** The boundary walls of the station curved into Llandafen Road. On the corner stood Tony Marasiano’s shop. It was open, and Tony and his buxom, dark-haired daughter were busy serving cigarettes and matches to the customers who had broken their journey to the works to call in for their daily packet of fags.
As Ieuan drew near the shop, the crossing gates swung out. The crowd was galvanized into swift action. The younger people sprinted through the narrowing space left as the four wiremeshed gates closed against them. One boy was too late, and found himself shut in on the railway track. He stepped back, then, measuring his distance, leapt upwards, his hands gripping the top of the gate. Agile as a monkey, he pulled himself over into the roadway on the other side.
The rest of the crowd surged forward to the gates and waited impatiently for the oncoming train to pass. Cyclists drew up, brakes screeching, and sat with one foot on the ground, the other on the pedal. They crouched over their handlebars, posed as if for the start of a cycle race. Ieuan crossed to Tony’s shop and leaned against the window ledge. Two men near him were discussing the previous Saturday’s football match on Potter’ s Park.
“Brilliant try, that one of Billy Bassett’s, wasn’t it, Fred?” “Ay, indeed, but not so good as the one I saw Elfet Bowen score at St. Helen’s last season.
Right between the posts. From his own twenty-five, too. Must have beaten eight men, then gave a beautiful dummy to Joe Rees, full back. Best try of the season it was. Earned him his cap.” A huddle of girls were talking animatedly of the latest films.
“He’s a handsome ma-a- hn, mind you.” “Ricardo Cortez? Ye-e- es,” grudgingly, “but give me Milton Sills every time.”