Right astern, over Mr.Bossom's shoulder, rose the clustered chimneys, tall stacks, church spires of the dreadful town, already wreathed in smoke.

It seemed to Tilda, although here were meadows and clean waterflags growing by the brink, and a wide sky all around, that yet this ugly smoke hung on their wake and threatened them.
"Why are we stoppin' ?" she demanded again, as Sam Bossom, with a hurried if friendly nod, resumed his calculations.
"And four is fifteen, and fifteen is one-an'-three," said he.

"Which," he added, looking up as one who would stand no contradiction, "is the 'alf of two-an'-six.

.

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