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--