‘Certainly. Hush!’ Mrs Brindley ran to the door and, opening it, listened. The faint, fretful cry of a child reached us. ‘There! You’ve done it! I told you you would!’
She disappeared. Mr Brindley whistled.
‘And who is Annie Brett?’ I inquired.
‘Look here,’ said he, with a peculiar inflection. ‘Would you like to see her?’
‘I should,’ I said with decision.
‘Well, come on, then. We’ll go down to the Tiger and have a drop of something.’
‘And the other sister?’ I asked.
‘The other sister is Mrs Oliver Colclough,’ he answered. ‘Curious, ain’t it?’
Again there was that swift, scarcely perceptible phenomenon in his eyes.
V
We stood at the corner of the side-street and the main road, and down the main road a vast, white rectangular cube of bright light came plunging—its head rising and dipping—at express speed, and with a formidable roar. Mr Brindley imperiously raised his stick; the extraordinary box of light stopped as if by a miracle, and we jumped into it, having splashed through mud, and it plunged off again—bump, bump, bump—into the town of Bursley. As Mr Brindley passed into the interior of the car, he said laconically to two men who were smoking on the platform—
‘How do, Jim? How do, Jo?’
And they responded laconically—
‘How do, Bob?’
‘How do, Bob?’
We sat down. Mr Brindley pointed to the condition of the floor.
‘Cheerful, isn’t it?’ he observed to me, shouting above the din of vibrating glass.
Our fellow-passengers were few and unromantic, perhaps half-a-dozen altogether on the long, shiny, yellow seats of the car, each apparently lost in gloomy reverie.
‘It’s the advertisements and notices in these cars that are the joy of the super-man like you and me,’ shouted Mr Brindley. ‘Look there, “Passengers are requested not to spit on the floor.” Simply an encouragement to lie on the seats and spit on the ceiling, isn’t it? “Wear only Noble’s wonderful boots.” Suppose we did! Unless they came well up above the waist we should be prosecuted. But there’s no sense of humour in this district.’
Greengrocers’ shops and public-houses were now flying past the windows of the car. It began to climb a hill, and then halted.
‘Here we are!’ ejaculated Mr Brindley.
And he was out of the car almost before I had risen.
We strolled along a quiet street, and came to a large building with many large lighted windows, evidently some result of public effort.
‘What’s that place?’ I demanded.
‘That’s the Wedgwood Institution.’
‘Oh! So that’s the Wedgwood Institution, is it?’
‘Yes. Commonly called the Wedgwood. Museum, reading-room, public library—dirtiest books in the world, I mean physically—art school, science school. I’ve never explained to you why I’m chairman of the Management Committee, have I? Well, it’s because the Institution is meant to foster the arts, and I happen to know nothing about ‘em. I needn’t tell you that architecture, literature, and music are not arts within the meaning of the act. Not much! Like to come in and see the museum for a minute? You’ll have to see it in your official capacity tomorrow.’
We crossed the road, and entered an imposing portico. Just as we did so a thick stream of slouching men began to descend the steps, like a waterfall of treacle. Mr Brindley they appeared to see, but evidently I made no impression on their retinas. They bore down the steps, hands deep in pockets, sweeping over me like Fate. Even when I bounced off one of them to a lower step, he showed by no sign that the fact of my existence had reached his consciousness—simply bore irresistibly downwards. The crowd was absolutely silent. At last I gained the entrance hall.
‘It’s closing-time for the reading room,’ said Mr Brindley.
‘I’m glad I survived it,’ I said.
‘The truth is,’ said he, ‘that people who can’t look after themselves don’t flourish in these latitudes. But you’ll be acclimatized by tomorrow. See that?’
He pointed to an alabaster tablet on which was engraved a record of the historical certainty that Mr Gladstone opened the Institution in 1868, also an extract from the speech which he delivered on that occasion.
‘What do you THINK of Gladstone down here?’ I demanded.
‘In my official capacity I think that these deathless words are the last utterance of wisdom on the subject of the influence of the liberal arts on life. And I should advise you, in your official capacity, to think the same, unless you happen to have a fancy for having your teeth knocked down your throat.’
‘I see,’ I said, not sure how to take him.
‘Lest you should go away with the idea that you have been visiting a rude and barbaric people, I’d better explain that that was a joke. As a matter of fact, we’re rather enlightened here. The only man who stands a chance
