South Riding by Winifred Holtby

was an agnostic. Snaith upheld the proud intellectual traditions of nonconformity with a theological precision far above Huggins’ head. But it was Huggins whom he praised.
    “He took as his text ‘The habitation of dragons . . .’ and turned it against East Kingsport housing conditions. D’you know Gladstone Passage? Ah—I thought you had it in mind— — You too, Astell. As magistrate in the Junior Court I had a case up from there last Wednesday. Girl. Thirteen. Soliciting. Eight people at home sleeping in one room. Elder sister pregnant by the father, procured an abortion. This child told us. Mother in mental hospital. Pretty, eh?” Snaith delicately clipped the end of his cigar. “Eh, Astell?”
    “You know what I think. You know too that Gladstone Passage is Kingsport’s responsibility. But we’ve got some pretty warrens ourselves in Dollstall and Spunlington and Flintonbridge.”
    “I know. I know. I’m quite ready to pluck the beam out of our own eye—and if I wasn’t, you’d soon prompt me to it, Astell. As a matter of fact . . . it was queer you preaching that sermon to-night, Huggins. Because I’d asked you two up here with a special purpose. You’re both men who have specialised in housing one way or another. You know, I think, that Kingsport feels it can’t go much further by itself. It’s got to that point when it needs our co-operation.”
    “More land for housing estates, you mean?”
    “Precisely. Ever thought about Leame Ferry Wastes, Astell?”
    “No drainage, is there?”
    “But supposing the Ministry sanctions the new road from Skerrow to Kiplington. It would pass right across the wastes. We should have to drain to some extent any way. And it would make the place exceedingly accessible.”
    On the table in the great bow of the window lay piles of papers. Snaith switched on a lamp. Light flooded them. “I should like you, if you will, to come here for a moment and look at these. I’ve been having some plans made out—partly for my own amusement. But I want you to help me to decide if there might not be something more than amusement in it. Now here’s the Waste—two and a half square miles of absolutely useless property—at present. Belongs to the Rammington Panel Company. Going for a song. But it’s no further from Kingsport than Clixton Garden Village—in fact it’s much nearer for men working in Skerrow and Fleetmire. And, if the Ministry of Health would let us drain it as part of a big town planning scheme—and co-operate with Kingsport to move out the families from Skerrow yards and Gladstone Passage way—It’s a dream, of course, and Westminster may turn us down, but . . .”
    His two guests, bending over the papers, were aware that Snaith’s dreams had a habit of coming true. That house itself, that library, that admirable supper which they had just eaten, must have seemed an impossible dream to the undersized raw out-of-elbows boy once running errands in a back street insurance office.
    Snaith talked well and he talked eagerly. When he became enthusiastic he became likeable. It appeared that he had gone further into facts and figures than he had at first suggested. He had foreseen possibilities and met difficulties.
    A new market would be opened up for that part of the South Riding. The figures for tuberculosis, rickets and other infantile scourges in East Kingsport would be reduced. The children could have an elementary school of their own; but secondary school pupils could be divided between Dollstall, Kiplington and Kingsport. Fresh air, space and freedom could work wonders for them. Perhaps far-sighted industrialists could be persuaded to move their factories out of the grime and congestion of the city.
    “We’ve got to plan. We’ve got to build for the future,” said Snaith. “We’ve got to justify our power.”
    Huggins could feel a slight nervous hand gripping his arm. “Here’s your desert all right, Huggins. The question is—can we make it