an evening paper. When we got into the carriage he seized my
_Punch and kept laughing and calling my attention to the pictures.
As I looked at him, I thought that he made a perfect picture of the
citizen turned countryman, going back of an evening to his innocent
home. Everything was right - his neat tweeds, his light spats, his
spotted neckcloth, and his Aquascutum.

Not that I dared look at him much. What I had learned made me
eager to search his face, but I did not dare show any increased
interest. I had always been a little off-hand with him, for I had
never much liked him, so I had to keep on the same manner. He
was as merry as a grig, full of chat and very friendly and amusing. I
remember he picked up the book I had brought off that morning to
read in the train - the second volume of Hazlitt's _Essays, the last of
my English classics - and discoursed so wisely about books that I
wished I had spent more time in his company at Biggleswick.

'Hazlitt was the academic Radical of his day,' he said. 'He is always
lashing himself into a state of theoretical fury over abuses he has
never encountered in person. Men who are up against the real thing
save their breath for action.'

That gave me my cue to tell him about my journey to the North. I
said I had learned a lot in Biggleswick, but I wanted to see industrial
life at close quarters. 'Otherwise I might become like Hazlitt,' I said.

He was very interested and encouraging. 'That's the right way to
set about it,' he said. 'Where were you thinking of going?'

I told him that I had half thought of Barrow, but decided to try