needlework she quitted the bar and coming out into the room took a chair near his own.
"It makes you thankful to see a funeral go by here," she remarked. "It's about all that one ever does see."
"Are there many?" asked Spargo. "Do the inhabitants die much of inanition?"
The damsel gave Spargo another critical inspection.
"Oh, you're joking!" she said. "It's well you can. Nothing ever happens here. This place is a back number."
"Even the back numbers make pleasant reading at times," murmured Spargo. "And the backwaters of life are refreshing. Nothing doing in this town, then?" he added in a louder voice.
"Nothing!" replied his companion. "It's fast asleep. I came here from Birmingham, and I didn't know what I was coming to. In Birmingham you see as many people in ten minutes as you see here in ten months."
"Ah!" said Spargo. "What you are suffering from is dulness. You must have an antidote."
"Dulness!" exclaimed the damsel. "That's the right word for Market Milcaster. There's just a few regular old customers drop in here of a morning, between eleven and one. A stray caller looks in—perhaps—during the afternoon. Then, at night, a lot of old fogies sit round that end of the room and talk about old times. Old times, indeed!—what they want in Market Milcaster is new times."
Spargo pricked up his ears.
"Well, but it's rather interesting to hear old fogies talk about old times," he said. "I love it!"
