Crossing the bridge of Erwyd, we directed our course to the south-east.
“What young man is that,” said I, “who is following behind us?”
“The young man, sir, is my son John, and the dog with him is his dog Joe.”
“And what may your name be, if I may take the liberty of asking?”
“Greaves, sir; John Greaves from the county of Durham.”
“Ah! a capital county that,” said I.
“You like the county, sir? God bless you! John!” said he in a loud voice, turning to the lad, “why don’t you offer to carry the gentleman’s knapsack?”
“Don’t let him trouble himself,” said I. “As I was just now saying, a capital county is Durham county.”
“You really had better let the boy carry your bag, sir.”
“No,” said I, “I would rather carry it myself. I question upon the whole whether there is a better county in England.”