But he wished purposely to bicycle
the whole way from Swansea and take in with the eye the land of his
fathers. He was postponing as long as possible the test of meeting
his father, the father of the young n'eer-do-weel who had been lying
for months in a South African field hospital the year before. He
halted for a cup of tea at Llandeilotalybont ... Wales has many
place names like this ... and being there not many miles from
Pontystrad was able to glean more recent and more circumstantial
information about the man he proposed to greet as "father."
At half-past six that evening, having perspired and dried, perspired
and dried, strained a tendon and acquired a headache, he halted
before the gate of the Vicarage garden at Pontystrad, having been
followed thither to his secret annoyance by quite a troop of village
boys of whom he had imprudently asked the way. As they talked Welsh
he could not tell what they were saying, but conjectured that his
telegram had arrived and that he was expected.
Standing under the porch of the house was an old man with a long
white beard like a Druid in spectacles shading his eyes and
expectant...
A bicycle might prove an incumbrance in the ensuing interview, so
David hastily propped his against a fuchsia hedge and hurried
forward to meet the old man, who extended hands to envelop him, not
trusting to his eyes.
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