htly pinched and chilled air, as though that morning
he had by inadvertence omitted to don those garments which are not
seen. He also, like most of the people there, but not to the same
extent, had a somewhat suspicious and narrowly shrewd regard, as who
should say: 'If any person thinks he can get the better of me by a
trick, let him try--that's all.' But the moment his eye encountered
mine, this expression vanished from his face, and he gave me a candid
smile.

'I hope you're well,' he said gravely, squeezing my hand in a sort of
vice that he carried at the end of his right arm.

I reassured him.

'Oh, I'm all right,' he said, in response to the expression of my hopes.

It was a relief to me to see him. He took charge of me. I felt, as it
were, safe in his arms. I perceived that, unaided and unprotected, I
should never have succeeded in reaching Bursley from Knype.

A whistle sounded.

'Better get in,' he suggested; and then in a tone of absolute command:
'Give me your bag.'

I obeyed. He opened the door of a first-class carriage.

'I'm travelling second,' I explained.

'Never mind. Get in.'

In his tones was a kindly exasperation.

I got in; he followed. The train moved.

'Ah!' breathed Mr Brindley, blowing out much air and falling like a
sack of coal into a corner seat. He was a thin man, aged about thirty,
with brown eyes, and a short blonde beard.

Conversation was at first difficult. Personally I am not a bubbling
fount of gay nothings when I find myself alone with a comparative
stranger. My drawbridge goes up as if by magic, my postern is closed,
and I peer cautiously through the narrow slits of my turret to estimate
the chances of peril. Nor was Mr Brindley offensively affable. However,
we struggled into a kind of chatter. I had come to the Five Towns, on
behalf of the British Museum, to inspect and appraise, with a view to
purchase by the nation, some huge slip-decorated dishes, excessively
curious according to photographs, which had been discovered in the
cellars of the Conservative Club at Bursley. Having shared in the
negotiations for my visit, Mr Brindley had invited me to spend the
night at his house. We were able to talk about all this. And when we
had talked about all this we were able to talk about the singular
scenery of coal dust, potsherds, flame and steam, through which the
train wound its way. It was squalid ugliness, but it was squalid
ugliness on a scale so vast and overpowering