I gathered from his solemnity that cigarettes counted in the life of Mr Brindley. He could not take cigarettes other than seriously. The worst of it was that he was quite right. The cigarette which he constructed for me out of his wretched B.D.V. tobacco was adorable, and I have made my own cigarettes ever since. You will find B.D.V. tobacco all over the haunts frequented by us of the Museum now-a-days, solely owing to the expertise of Mr Brindley. A terribly capable and positive man! He KNEW, and he knew that he knew.
He said nothing further as to Simon Fuge. Apparently he had forgotten the decease.
'Do you often see the Gazette?' I asked, perhaps in the hope of attracting him back to Fuge.
'No,' he said; 'the musical criticism is too rotten.'
Involuntarily I bridled. It was startling, and it was not agreeable, to have one's favourite organ so abruptly condemned by a provincial architect in knickerbockers and a cap, in the midst of all that industrial ugliness. What could the Five Towns know about art? Yet here was this fellow condemning the Gazette on artistic grounds. I offered no defence, because he was right—again. But I did not like it.
'Do you ever see the Manchester Guardian?' he questioned, carrying the war into my camp.
'No,' I said.
'Pity!' he ejaculated.
'I've often heard that it's a very good paper,' I said politely.
'It isn't a very good paper,' he laid me low. 'It's the best paper in the world. Try it for a month—it gets to Euston at half-past eight—and then tell me what you think.'