i returned to london that evening, my work done, and the municipality happily flattered by my judgement of the slip-decorated dishes. mr brindley had found time to meet me at the midday meal, and he had left his office earlier than usual in order to help me to drink his wife's afternoon tea. about an hour later he picked up my little bag, and said that he should accompany me to the little station in the midst of the desert of cinders and broken crockery, and even see me as far as knype, where i had to take the london express. no, there are no half-measures in the five towns. mrs brindley stood on her doorstep, with her eldest infant on her shoulders, and waved us off. the infant cried, expressing his own and his mother's grief at losing a guest. it seems as if people are born hospitable in the five towns.

we had not walked more than a hundred yards up the road when a motor-car thundered down upon us from the opposite direction. it was mr colclough's, and mr colclough was driving it. mr brindley stopped his friend with the authoritative gesture of a policeman.

'where are you going, ol?'

'home, lad. sorry you're leaving us so soon, mr loring.'

'you're mistaken, my boy,' said mr brindley. 'you're just going to run us down to knype station, first.'

'i must look slippy, then,' said mr colclough.

'you can look as slippy as you like,' said mr brindley.

in another fifteen seconds we were in the car, and it had turned round, and was speeding towards knype. a feverish journey! we passed electric cars every minute, and for three miles were continually twisting round the tails of ponderous, creaking, and excessively deliberate carts that dropped a trail of small coal, or huge barrels on wheels that dripped something like the finest devonshire cream, or brewer's drays that left nothing behind them save a luscious odour of malt. it was a breathless slither over unctuous black mud through a long winding canon of brown-red houses and shops, with a glimpse here and there of a grey-green park, a canal, or a football field.

'i daredn't hurry,' said mr colclough, setting us down at the station. 'i was afraid of a skid.' he had not spoken during the transit.

'don't put on side, ol,' said mr brindley. 'what time did you get up this morning?'

'eight o'clock, lad. i was at th' works at nine.'

he flew off to escape my thanks, and mr brindley and i went into the station. owing to the celerity of the automobile we had half-an-hour to wait. we spent it chiefly at the bookstall. while we were there the extra-special edition of the staffordshire signal, affectionately termed 'the local rag' by its readers, arrived, and we watched a newsboy affix its poster to a board. the poster ran thus—

hanbridge rates lively meeting

—

knype f.c. new centre—forward

—

all—winners and s.p.

now, close by this poster was the poster of the daily telegraph, and among the items offered by the daily telegraph was: 'death of simon fuge'. i could not forbear pointing out to mr brindley the difference between the two posters. a conversation ensued; and amid the rumbling of trains and the rough stir of the platform we got back again to simon fuge, and mr brindley's tone gradually grew, if not acrid, a little impatient.

'after all,' he said, 'rates are rates, especially in hanbridge. and let me tell you that last season knype football club jolly nearly got thrown out of the first league. the constitution of the team for this next season—why, damn it, it's a question of national importance! you don't understand these things. if knype football club was put into the league second division, ten thousand homes would go into mourning. who the devil was simon fuge?'

they joke with such extraordinary seriousness in the five towns that one is somehow bound to pretend that they are not joking. so i replied—

'he was a great artist. and this is his native district. surely you ought to be proud of him!'

'he may have been a great artist,' said mr brindley, 'or he may not. but for us he was simply a man who came of a family that had a bad reputation for talking too much and acting the goat!'

'well,' i said, we shall see—in fifty years.'

'that's just what we shan't,' said he. 'we shall be where simon fuge is—dead! however, perhaps we are proud of him. but you don't expect us to show it, do you? that's not our style.'

he performed the quasi-winking phenomenon with his eyes. it was his final exhibition of it to me.

'a strange place!' i reflected, as i ate my dinner in the dining-car, with the pressure of mr brindley's steely clasp still affecting my right hand, and the rich, honest cordiality of his au revoir in my heart. 'a place that is passing strange!'

and i thought further: he may have been a boaster, and a chatterer, and a man who suffered from cold feet at the wrong moments! and the five towns may have got the better of him, now. but that portrait of the little girl in the wedgwood institution is waiting there, right in the middle of the five towns. and one day the five towns will have to 'give it best'. they can say what they like! ... what eyes the fellow had, when he was in the right company!