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Paul was distressed and he reported his misgivings to God, and God upbraided the Prophets for their sloth. “Is there no one who can do this for me?” He cried. “Are all the cunning men in Hell? Shall I make all Heaven drink the dregs of my fury? Burnish your rusted armor. Depart into Hell and cry out: ‘Is there one here who knows the Welsh Nonconformists?’ Choose the most crafty and release him and lead him here.”

Lots were cast and it fell to Moses to descend into Hell; and he stood at the well, the water of which is harder than crystal, and he cried out; and of the many that professed he chose Saint David, whom he brought up to God.

“Visit your people,” said God to the Saint, “and bring me their prayers.”

“Why should I be called?”

“It is my will. My Prophets have failed me, and if it is not done they shall be destroyed.”

David laughed. “From Hell comes a savior of the Prophets. In the middle of my discourse at the Judgment Seat the Prophets stooped upon me. ‘To Hell with him,’ they screamed.”

“Perform faithfully,” said the Lord, “and you shall remain in Paradise.”

“My Lord is gracious! I was a Prophet and the living believe that I am with the saints. I will retire.”

“Perform faithfully and you shall be of my Prophets.”

Then God took away David’s body and nailed it upon a wall, and He put wings on the shoulders of his soul; and David darted through a cloud and landed on earth, and having looked at the filthiness of the Nonconformists in Wales he withdrew to London. But however actively he tried he could not find a man of God nor the destination of the fearful prayers of Welsh preachers, grocers, drapers, milkmen, lawyers, and politicians.

Loth to go to Hell and put to a nonplus, David built a nest in a tree in Richmond Park, and he paused therein to consider which way to proceed. One day he was disturbed by the singing and preaching of a Welsh soldier who had taken shelter from rain under the tree. David came down from his nest, and when the mouth of the man was most open, he plunged into the fellow’s body. Henceforward in whatsoever place the soldier was there also was David; and the soldier carried him to a clothier’s shop in Putney, the sign of the shop being written in this fashion:

J. PARKER LEWIS.
The Little (Gents. Mercer) Wonder.

Crossing the threshold, the soldier shouted: “How are you?”

The clothier, whose skin was as hide which had been scorched in a tanner’s yard, bent over the counter. “Man bach,” he exclaimed, “glad am I to see you. Pray will I now that you are all Zer Garnett.” His thanksgiving finished, he said: “Wanting a suit you do.”

“Yes, and no,” replied the soldier. “Cheap she must be if yes.”

“You need one for certain. Shabby you are.”

“This is a friendly call. To a low-class shop must a poor tommy go.”

“Do you then not be cheated by an English swindler.” The clothier raised his thin voice: “Kate, here’s a strange boy.”

A pretty young woman, in spite of her snaggled teeth, frisked into the room like a wanton lamb. Her brown hair was drawn carelessly over her head, and her flesh was packed but loosely.

“Serious me,” she cried, “Llew Eevans! Llew bach, how are you? Very big has the army made you and strong.”

“Not changed you are.”

“No. The last time you came was to see the rabbit.”

“Dear me, yes. Have you still got her?”

“She’s in the belly long ago,” said the clothier.

“I have another in her stead,” said Kate. “A splendid one. Would you like to fondle her?”

“Why, yez,” answered the soldier.

“Drat the old animal,” cried the clothier. “Too much care you give her, Kate. Seven looks has the deacon from Capel King’s Cross had of her and he hasn’t bought her yet.”