But such dogs are not common dogs. He tied his
necktie exquisitely; caressed his hair again with two brushes; curved
his young moustache, and then assumed his waistcoat and his coat; the
trousers had naturally preceded the collar. He beheld the suit in the
glass, and saw that it was good. And it was not built in London, either.
There are tailors in Bursley. And in particular there is the dog's
tailor. Ask the dog's tailor, as the dog once did, whether he can really
do as well as London, and he will smile on you with gentle pity; he will
not stoop to utter the obvious Yes. He may casually inform you that, if
he is not in London himself, the explanation is that he has reasons for
preferring Bursley. He is the social equal of all his clients. He
belongs to the dogs' club. He knows, and everybody knows, that he is a
first-class tailor with a first-class connection, and no dog would dare
to condescend to him. He is a great creative artist; the dogs who wear
his clothes may be said to interpret his creations. Now, Ellis was a
great interpretative artist, and the tailor recognised the fact. When
the tailor met Ellis on Duck Bank greatly wearing a new suit, the scene
was impressive. It was as though Elgar had stopped to hear Paderewski
play 'Pomp and Circumstance' on the piano.

Ellis descended from his bedroom into the hall, took his straw hat,
chose a stick, and went out into the portico of the new large house on
the Hawkins, near Oldcastle. In the neighbourhood of the Five Towns no
road is more august, more correct, more detached, more umbrageous, than
the Hawkins. M.P.'s live there. It is the link between the aristocratic
and antique aloofness of Oldcastle and the solid commercial prosperity
of the Five Towns. Ellis adorned the portico. Young (a bare twenty-two),
fair, handsome, smiling, graceful, well-built, perfectly groomed, he was
an admirable and a characteristic specimen of the race of dogs which,
with the modern growth of luxury and the Luxurious Spirit, has become so
marked a phenomenon in the social development of the once barbarous Five
Towns.

When old Jack Carter (reputed to be the best turner that Bursley ever
produced) started a little potbank near St. Peter's Church in 1861--he
was then forty, and had saved two hundred pounds--he little dreamt that
the supreme and final result after forty years would be the dog. But so
it was. Old Jack Carter had a son John Carter, who married at
twenty-five and lived at fi