He had been in, and he had gone out again, so we came away, and saw nothing of him.

Farther down towards the town, we passed through Acton Square, which is a cleaner place than some of the abominable nooks of Scholes, though I can well believe that there is many a miserable dwelling in it, from what I saw of the interiors and about the doorways, in passing.
The last house we called at was in this square, and it was a pleasing exception to the general dirt of the neighbourhood.

It was the cottage of a stout old collier, who lost his right leg in one of Wright's pits some years ago.

My friend knew the family, and we called there more for the purpose of resting ourselves and having a chat than anything else.

The old man was gray-haired, but he looked very hale and hearty--save the lack of his leg.