"Pretty fair."
"Come on then. I'll show you a field."
Carstairs looked pained. "The landlady," he remarked, "described that acre or so of bare earth opposite our window, as a field."
"I know, but this is a real field with grass and all that."
"Come on then," Carstairs said, briskly.
Darwen stopped and looked at him impressively. "Mind, I promise nothing! But last time I was there, there were three cows in it." He suddenly relaxed into a sunny smile. "Come on," he said, and started off briskly.
They walked about five miles, past endless rows of symmetrical, dingy, box-like, red brick houses. It was getting dark when they reached the field, but the cows were there—three sorry specimens, grazing on the smoke-grimed, subdued-looking grass. The young engineers sat on the gate and looked at them in amused pity.
"We've come through one town, and we're on the borders of another," Darwen remarked. "It's hard to say just what town you're in at any given moment, about here."
"It seems very bracing although it's so smoky," Carstairs said. "I wonder why any one lives here who could live anywhere else."
"Lord! Don't tell 'em that. I nearly got mobbed for making a similar remark last week. They think these places are very fine towns. When they've made their pile they still stay here."