Anecdote of Mr. Gladstone.
By J. Rees
ABOUT forty years ago several haulers were employed in carrying pig iron from Brymbo to Queen’s Ferry. Among the number was one William Griffiths, who is still alive. This man, when going down Tinkersdale one day with his load of iron, was accosted by a stranger, who chatted very freely with him. Among other questions the stranger asked how much he got per ton for carrying the iron. “Six and sixpence,” said the carter. “What weight have you on the cart?” “About a ton and a half.” “And what do you pay for gates?” “Eighteen pence.” “How much does it cost to keep the mare?” “Thirteen shillings a week.” Presently they reached the foot of the Mill Hill. “How are you going to get up this hill?” asked the stranger. “Oh, I mun get me shuder and push up here.” “I’ll help you a bit,” said he, and at once put his shoulder to the cart, and pushed up the hill well. When they reached the top the hauler said, “You an’ me’s been as good as a chain horse.” “Well, well,” said the stranger, “I don’t know how the horse’s legs are, but mine ache very much indeed; I suppose you can manage now?” “Yes, thank you,” said the hauler, and, wishing him good-day, they separated. As soon as the stranger was gone, a tradesman asked Griffiths if he knew who had been helping him. “No,” said he, “he’s a perfect stranger to me.” “That was Mr. Gladstone,” said the tradesman. “Mr. Gladstone!” responded the hauler; “I dun know what he’ll think o’ me, then, for I never sir’d him, nor nothin’. I thought he was just some farmer.” —J. Rees.