“But that business o’ yours at Bursley?”

“Here’s my bundle,” he said, “and here’s my best hat.  And I’ve money and a pistol in my pocket.  The only thing I’ve clean forgot is my cornet; but I’ll send for it and I’ll play it at my wedding.  I’m Jock-at-a-Venture.”

And while the van was rumbling in the dark night across the waste and savage moorland, and while the children were sleeping hard at the back of the van, and while the crockery was restlessly clinking in the racks and the lamp swaying, and while he held the reins, the thin, lithe, greying man contrived to take into his arms the vast and amiable creature whom he desired.  And the van became a vehicle of high romance.

THE HEROISM OF THOMAS CHADWICK

I

“Have you heard about Tommy Chadwick?” one gossip asked another in Bursley.

“No.”

“He’s a tram-conductor now.”

This information occasioned surprise, as it was meant to do, the expression on the faces of both gossips indicating a pleasant curiosity as to what Tommy Chadwick would be doing next.

Thomas Chadwick was a “character” in the Five Towns, and of a somewhat unusual sort.  “Characters” in the Five Towns are generally either very grim or very jolly, either exceptionally shrewd or exceptionally simple; and they nearly always, in their outward aspect, depart from the conventional.  Chadwick was not thus.  Aged fifty or so, he was a portly and ceremonious man with an official gait.  He had been a policeman in his youth, and he never afterwards ceased to look like a policeman in plain clothes.  The authoritative mien of the policeman refused to quit his face.  Yet, beneath that mien, few men (of his size) were less capable of exerting authority than Chadwick.  He was, at bottom, a weak fellow.  He knew it himself, and everybody knew it.  He had left the police force because he considered that the strain was beyond his strength.  He had the constitution of a she-ass, and the calm, terrific appetite of an elephant; but he maintained that night duty in January was too much for him.  He was then twenty-seven, with a wife and two small girls.  He abandoned the uniform with dignity.  He did everything with dignity.  He looked for a situation with dignity, saw his wife and children go hungry with dignity, and even went short himself with dignity.  He continually got fatter, waxing on misfortune.  And—­another curious thing—­he could always bring out, when advisable, a shining suit of dark blue broadcloth, a clean collar and a fancy necktie.  He was not a consistent dandy, but he could be a dandy when he liked.