refuse, sir.
Mr Wells, make a back.
Here. Put this in between your teeth.
Bite it hard.
Well, the scholar.
- Huw, lad.
- Well, I will go to my death.
- Did you get that in school?
- He has cut you to the bone. Who was it?
- Mr Jonas, is it?
- We'll have a word with Mr Jonas.
- No.
- And why not?
- I broke the rule when I fought.
- There is no rule for that.
- But he warned me.
- Rubbish, boy. I'll...
Hush, Davy.
This is Huw's affair. He shall decide.
Say the word, lad, and we will
have the bones hot from his flesh.
No. Leave him alone.
I think our baby brother
is becoming quite a man.
These denominations are used
in measuring distances and...
- Yes?
- Right.
- Good morning, Mr...
- Jonas.
Mr Jonas. We have come
to the right place indeed.
What can I do for you?
A man is never too old to learn,
is it, Mr Jonas?
- No.
- I was in school myself once.
- But no great one for knowledge.
- Look here, what do you want?
Knowledge.
How would you go about taking
the measurement of a stick, Mr Jonas?
- By its length, of course.
- And how would you measure a man
who would use a stick on a boy
one third his size?
- Tell us.
- Now, you are good in the use of a stick.
But boxing is my subject, to the rules laid
down by the good Marquess of Queensberry.
God rest his soul.
And happy I am to pass on
my knowledge to you.
Mr Mottshill. Mr Mottshill.
All right, get him into position, now.
Look, to make a good boxer,
you must have a good right hand.
You see?
Now, that is how you will punish your man,
with a right and a left.
And put your soul into it, with...
The gentleman is talking to you.
- Raise him up.
- Come, come, come. Up, up, up.
Position again.
Could I have your attention, boys and girls?
I am not accustomed to speaking in public...
- Only public houses.
- But this...
Never use. It's against the rules.
Break a man's nose. Now the...
- I'm afraid he will never make a boxer.
- No aptitude for knowledge.
Mr Gruffydd.
Ivor... fell under a tram, lower level.
Ivor!
- We have our first grandson, Gwil.
- Well, give one and take the other.
Tell that to that girl up there.
She will answer you.
- Hist now, Beth. Do not kindle the wrath.
- To hell with the wrath.
And I'm saying it plain to be heard.
'Tis good. With honours, then.
Our son is a scholar.
What is it, Huw? I can't make sense with it.
- Latin, it is.
- Latin, is it?
Why not good Welsh, or even English?
- It is the fashion.
- Fashion.
Frenchies, decimal points,
and bathtubs full of holes.
My poor Huw. They've stuffed
your head with Latin, then?
- Beth, my old beauty, you. A black eye, is it?
- Go ahead, shout. Wake up the baby, then.
There is beautiful.
The image of my father, he is.
What bloody nonsense.
Now then, Huw. What will it be?
To Cardiff to school, then the university
to be a lawyer, is it, or a doctor?
Dr Huw Morgan. Well, Uncle Huw,
that will be something special.
Yes, indeed, with a lovely horse and trap,
and a good black suit and a shirt with starch.
There is good, my little one.
Now, a glass of buttermilk for you,
with all your knowledge.
Yes, Mother. And some of Bron's shortcake.
And my shortcake is
to be fed to the pigs, is it?
No. Only I finished yours yesterday,
and today is shortcake day with Bron.
I'm sorry, Huw.
Only currant bread I made today.
Nobody to eat it now.
Mother. I am lonely without him.
I put his boots and clothes ready every night,
but they are there still in the morning.
There is lonely I am.
Gwil, I will have Bron
here to live if she will come.
Not Bron.
One mistress in the house.
Now, Huw, what will it be?
I will go down the colliery with you, sir.
Have sense, boy.
The colliery is no place for you.
Why not try for a respectable job?
Respectable? Are you and his brothers
a lot of old jailbirds, then?
Leave it now, Beth.
I only want the best for the boy.
If he is as good a man as you
and his brothers, I will rest happy.
I am