’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 of getting his teeth knocked down his throat here is the ingenious person who started the celebrated legend of the man-and-dog fight at Hanbridge.  It’s a long time ago, a very long time ago; but his grey hairs won’t save him from horrible tortures if we catch him.  We don’t mind being called immoral, we’re above a bit flattered when London newspapers come out with shocking details of debauchery in the Five Towns, but we pride ourselves on our manners.  I say, Aked!’ His voice rose commandingly, threateningly, to an old bent, spectacled man who was ascending a broad white staircase in front of us.

‘Sir!’ The man turned.

‘Don’t turn the lights out yet in the museum.’

‘No, sir!  Are you coming up?’ The accents were slow and tremulous.

’Yes.  I have a gentleman here from the British Museum who wants to look round.’

The oldish man came deliberately down the steps, and approached us.  Then his gaze, beginning at my waist, gradually rose to my hat.

‘From the British Museum?’ he drawled.  ’I’m sure I’m very glad to meet you, sir.  I’m sure it’s a very great honour.’

He held out a wrinkled hand, which I shook.

‘Mr Aked,’ said Mr Brindley, by way of introduction.  ’Been caretaker here for pretty near forty years.’

‘Ever since it opened, sir,’ said Aked.

We went up the white stone stairway, rather a grandiose construction for a little industrial town.  It divided itself into doubling curving flights at the first landing, and its walls were covered with pictures and designs.  The museum itself, a series of three communicating rooms, was about as large as a pocket-handkerchief.

‘Quite small,’ I said.

I gave my impression candidly, because I had already judged Mr Brindley to be the rare and precious individual who is worthy of the high honour of frankness.

‘Do you think so?’ he demanded quickly.  I had shocked him, that was clear.  His tone was unmistakable; it indicated an instinctive, involuntary protest.  But he recovered himself in a flash.  ’That’s jealousy,’ he laughed.  ’All you British Museum people are the same.’  Then he added, with an unsuccessful attempt to convince me that he meant what he was saying:  ’Of course it is small.  It’s nothing, simply nothing.’

Yes, I had unwittingly found the joint in the armour of this extraordinary Midland personage.  With all his irony, with all his violent humour, with all his just and unprejudiced perceptions, he had a tenderness for the Institution of which he was the dictator.  He loved it.  He could laugh like a god at everything in the Five Towns except this one thing.  He would try to force himself to regard even this with the same lofty detachment, but he could not do it naturally.