Back in Scotland, Jack Carstairs took up the thread of his work where
he had left off, stepped into the old routine again. He had "started
applying," that is to say he carefully scanned the advertisement
columns of the _Electrical Review_, and then in dignified and
appropriate language submitted a list of his qualifications to those
people (and at this time their name was legion) who required the
services of junior station engineers. Nearly all of these were
municipalities, and they set out gaudy, lengthily worded
advertisements occupying about a quarter of a column, with elaborate
specification of duties and qualifications. They finished up with
the mild and modest statement that the salary (?) would be at the
rate of one pound (or perhaps twenty-five shillings) per week.
Jack answered dozens of these; sometimes he received a little printed
slip to inform him that his application had not been successful,
which usually arrived by the time he had forgotten all about it, or
else he heard nothing whatever. He usually wrote out these
applications at the works and posted them on his way home. His
route, via the post-box, lay along a road deeply shaded with big
beech trees on one side and an open space on the other, the footpath
ran along under the trees.
One night, coming off duty at midnight, as he pursued his usual way
home, enjoying the deep peace of the night, carrying a bundle of
letters in his hands, he felt a sudden, violent blow on the back of
the head, and the next thing he knew was that he woke up with a
violent headache, and found himself lying on his back, under the
shade of one of the big trees. He put his hand to the back of his
head and felt a big lump there. He staggered to his feet and
searched his pockets; everything was intact, nothing gone or
displaced; his letters were lying scattered on the ground; painfully
and slowly he gathered them up, the stooping made his head seem about
to burst. Then he staggered home to his diggings, posting his
letters on the way, and wondering with the vague and painful
persistence of the fevered brain who or what had struck him and why.
He let himself into his diggings, and going to his bedroom, carefully
sponged his head with water. Then he wiped it dry, sat down and ate
his supper, and went to bed.
His sleep was somewhat fevered and disturbed, but he woke up in the
morning feeling only a bad headache.
"Damn funny thing," he said to himself, then he turned over and went
to sleep again. His landlady knocked at his door and told him it was
very late, so he got up and felt fairly fresh.
"You're looking pale, Mr Carstairs," his landlady remarked.
"Yes, I'm feeling a bit pale," he answered.
She looked at him searchingly. Scottish women have an equal
curiosity with other women but less tongue; she said nothing, and he
volunteered no further information, partly because he was naturally
uncommunicative, and partly--well, he could not say why exactly, but
he did not.
There are so many things which one does not quite know why one does,
which afterwards prove of vast consequence, which is probably why
most men who observe and think are superstitious, religious, or
fatalistic. The man who can only read plain print does not believe
in these things.
Jack Carstairs said nothing, but he went down to the works as usual,
and they remarked there that he looked pale and had a lump on the
back of his head.
"What's up?" the vociferous young English engineer asked (it is
astonishing what a number of English electrical engineers there are
in Scotland).
"The sky," Jack answered, laconically.
"Alright! Go to the devil!" the other man answered, and went away.
The bearded, blue-eyed Scotsman looked at him in solemn seeing
silence; he said nothing, and his gaze was not obtrusive. The Scotch
are a pleasant people to live with because they have grasped, above
all others, the art of minding their own business, which possibly
also explains why Scotsmen occupy high places all over the world.
Carstairs went back the same way that night again, but he took a
handy piece of light, strong iron piping with him. He walked clear
of the trees and looked carefully all around, but saw no one.
He walked on and had just reached his diggings when he heard a light
step behind him; he turned and saw a tall girl quite close to him.
"Good evening, sir," she said. It was the gipsy girl.
Carstairs face brightened with pleasure and surprise. "What are you
doing here?" he asked.
Her eyes seemed to glow as she looked into his. "Following you," she
answered.
Suddenly he noticed she carried a substantial ash cudgel. A great
wave of wonder passed over him. "Good God, was it you who flattened
me out last night?
"No, that was Sam."
His face relaxed with a look of relief. "Were you there, then?"
There was an involuntary twitch of the cudgel in her hand. "He
wouldn't have done it if I'd been there."
Carstairs' look showed admiration and appreciation. "That's jolly
good of you," he said. "Where are you--er--where is the camp?"
She mentioned a place twenty miles away.
He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "How did you get here, then?"
"Walked," she answered, simply.
"How'll you get back?"
"Walk," she said, again.
"But you can't walk all night--all that distance." He glanced
helplessly up at the window of his little sitting-room.
She followed his glance. "I'll have a sleep out in the fields before
I start," she said. She stepped up closer and looked into his eyes.
"Sam's going to 'do' for you." She watched him intently. The grey
eyes hardened down till they glinted like steel in the moonlight.
"That's very kind of him," he said.
"But he won't do it," she added. "You'll do for him."
"Perhaps," he admitted, slowly. "I rather hope not. Are
you--er--married yet?"
"No! Not going to be."
"Oh!"
"Mother said I needn't, and I don't want to. I'm going to work in a
house, a farm," she watched him closely, "not far from here."
With a spontaneous movement he held out his hand. "Good, then I may
see you sometimes. Good-bye."
She held up her face expectantly and he kissed her on the lips.
"Good-bye again. You're quite alright now?"
"Yes, sir."
"Dash it! Drop the sir. Can I bring you out some food?"
"No, thank you."
"Well, good-bye. Come over and look me up at the works when you've
time, will you?"
"Yes," she answered. She turned and went away. He stood looking
after her as she went away down the long moonlit street. He stood at
the mouth of the "close" (the common entrance to a number of flats),
his latchkey at his lips, whistling softly, in doubt. Suddenly he
started off at a run after her. She turned quickly, grasping her
cudgel, at the sound of his footsteps.
"Look here, I'll let you into my digs, my rooms, you know, and you
can stay there till the morning. I'll stroll around."
"No!" she answered, not aggressively, but quite decisively.
"Alright! I'll stay out with you then, till it's light."
She laughed in real amusement. "I'm going to sleep," she answered.
He looked at her and saw she meant it; doubt again assailed him. "I
suppose you're used to it?" he asked.
She laughed aloud. "I've never slept in a bed," she answered.
He laughed too. "I've never slept out of one," he said, "good-bye."
He went back again and let himself into his diggings, and went to bed.
Next morning there were two letters waiting for him, both with the
city arms of a municipality embossed on the flap of the envelope.
"The mayor and corporation, or the City Electrical Engineer regret,"
he said to himself with a smile as he opened them. In the first, the
city electrical engineer of a municipality in the north of England
had to inform him that his application for the post of switchboard
attendant at a salary of one pound per week had been successful, and
would be pleased to know the earliest date on which he could take up
his duties.
Carstairs read over the short, concisely worded document a second
time. With a little thrill of pleasure he repeated the name of the
town to himself. "That's a big job," he said, "and likely to grow."
He opened the other letter. Another Borough Electrical Engineer in
the Midlands had pleasure in offering him an appointment as
switchboard attendant at a salary of one pound per week, and desired
that he start as soon as possible.
He smiled over his lonely breakfast table, at the soup plateful of
porridge, at the fried bacon and eggs, at the brown bread and the
coffee-pot. It was the sort of smile one must share with somebody or
something, or burst; for Jack Carstairs was nineteen. He ate his
breakfast with much zest, but before it was over he got up and fished
out directories and lists of Central Stations from a pile of books
and papers in a cupboard; with these spread out on the table before
him, or propped up against the sugar basin, he took intermittent
mouthfuls of food while he carefully scanned the lists. Then having
found both the towns and noted the capacity and peculiarity of their
plant, the population, etc., he gave his whole attention to his
plate, thinking deeply as he ate. "Not much to choose between them,"
he said to himself.
Then he went out for a walk and walked along, deep in thought. "I
think," he said to himself, at the end of his stroll, "I think
Muddleton (the town in the Midlands) will be the better experience."
He went down to the works to see his chief and find out if he could
get away earlier than his legal agreement allowed him to. Then he
went back to his digs and wrote accepting one and refusing the other.
In after life he often wondered what would have happened had he
chosen the other. This seeming free choice, is it really free, and
if so, how far?
Next day he hired a bicycle (he did not own one, could not afford the
time to use it and look after it, he said) and cycled over to the
place where the gipsy girl had told him their camp was pitched. He
tried every road that led out of the little Scotch village, but could
find nothing of the camp. He made inquiries, and the dour highland
policeman looked at him with open suspicion.
"Gipsy camp," he repeated, "na, there's nae gipsy camp around here."
So Carstairs went back the way he had come, and in a week was in the
train for England. He was hurried out of Scotland, over the
moorlands and southwards through the wilderness of little towns that
cluster, thick as blackberries (and about the same hue), all about
the heart of England. At four o'clock in the morning, he was turned
out, bag and baggage, in a great industrial centre, on the middle
platform of a vast and gloomy station. By eight o'clock a.m. he had
reached his destination.
He got out at the dirty little station with somewhat of the edge
taken off his enthusiasm. Leaving his luggage in the cloak-room, he
went out and wandered round the town, looking at the smoke stacks and
the factories, the squalor and the dirt.
He located the works in the lowest and dirtiest part of the town, and
next to the gas-works, as usual. The extent of the buildings and the
two towering chimney stacks acted like a tonic on his somewhat jaded
spirits. At ten o'clock he went round again and interviewed his new
chief, a tall clean-shaven young man of twenty-six, who drew a modest
salary of £400 per annum; he was very affable and pleasant, but not
in the least impressed by the gravity of the situation.
"Oh, yes! you're the new switchboard attendant. Have you had a look
round? No? Oh, go out and stroll round the works, then. Mr Thomson
will be in shortly."
Carstairs went out into the engine room and wandered in and out
amongst the big engines, till another very young man, in his shirt
sleeves, came up and asked him what he wanted.
Carstairs explained.
The young man smiled a pleasant smile, and held out his hand. "I'm
the Shift Engineer. My name is Smith. Come on upstairs." He took
Carstairs up the switchboard steps, along the gallery, and into a big
room at the end. It was very light, with large windows and glass
doors, and numerous lights, all burning. Five other young men, very
young (the eldest of them not over twenty-two), were lounging around
on tables and chairs. All had their coats off, and some their
collars as well. One had a piece of flexible wood with a large piece
of cardboard fastened across the end; with this instrument he gravely
hunted flies, squashing them flat on walls or window panes, remarking
"exit," in a mechanical sort of voice at every stroke. A long
sloping-topped drawing table occupied the whole length of the room
under the windows, another large drawing board was supported on light
trestles in another part, an ordinary writing table occupied the
centre. Instruments, paper, pencils, ink, technical journals, and
pocket books, were scattered about broadcast.
Seated on the table in the middle, idly swinging his legs, a young
man was telling a story; all the others, except the fly hunter,
listened attentively. He was tall and dark, with a small neat
moustache and marvellous large brown eyes.
The Shift Engineer introduced them. "Darwen, this is Carstairs, the
new switchboard attendant."
The dark young man reached out a hand--a strong, sinewy hand, with
long, taper, artistic fingers; he smiled, such a genial, winning
smile, that Carstairs felt friendly towards him at once.
The Shift Engineer continued the introduction with a light wave of
the arm. "Green, Brown, Jones, Robinson." Then he perched himself
on the table. "Go on with the yarn, Darwen," he said.
The dark man smiled, and Carstairs noted the remarkable perfection of
his face; the forehead was broad and not too high; the nose strong
but delicately chiselled; the chin, well moulded and firm but not
aggressively prominent; the mouth was almost perfect. The whole man
presented a striking picture: the head was perfectly shaped, and the
figure gave every indication of great strength and activity; the
deltoid muscles at the angle of the shoulder showed very prominently,
the neck was big and firm. The pectoral muscles were clearly defined
under the tight-fitting waistcoat, the leg, bent over the table,
showed a well-developed thigh and knee.
Carstairs eyed him with pleasure, he had a keen appreciation of a
well-built man. Darwen's brown eyes seemed continually to meet
Carstairs' steady grey ones, and always there was the light of
pleasure in them. He went on with his tale, and the others listened
and laughed at the right place, which was the end. Carstairs smiled
a solemn sort of smile, The story did not appeal to him very much.
Darwen caught the smile, and his own eye seemed to kindle with an
appreciation, though it was his story. "What shift are you on?" he
asked.
"I don't know yet. I've got to see Mr Thompson."
"He'll be in now, I expect." With a sudden spring he threw himself
off the table and went to the glass door. "There he is, down in the
engine room now," he said.
Carstairs went out and perceived another very young man talking to an
engine fitter down below. At that time Central Stations were very
young and most of the staffs were very young also. When
municipalities were putting up electric lighting stations faster than
men were being trained to fill them, young men passed quickly from
charge engineer to chief engineer, and from that to bigger chiefs.
All sorts and conditions of men drifted into station work. Now they
are drifting out again; sick of councillors and contractors; sick of
mayors and corporations; sick of red tape and Bumbledom; sick of life.
Mr Thompson was smartly, rather horsily dressed. He eyed Carstairs
over somewhat in the manner of a horse fancier. He let it be evident
also that he was satisfied.
"Have you been round yet?" he asked.
"No, not all round," Carstairs answered.
"Alright, come round with me."
"Thanks," Carstairs said. Thompson, he thought, was probably only
about three or four years older than himself, and he looked less.
They walked round together, Thompson explaining and pointing out
peculiarities, Carstairs listening and asking questions. In ten
minutes they were as chummy as school boys.
"Have you got digs?" Thompson asked, suddenly, pulling out his watch.
"No, not yet."
"Well, look here, you'll be on the day shift this week; you can go
out now and get fixed. Some of the other fellows will perhaps be
able to give you some addresses."
"Thanks, I'll try." Carstairs went up to the drawing office again.
"I say, can any one put me up to some digs?"
Darwen was leaning over a drawing board doing some fine work,
whistling softly to himself. "I can," he said. "Half a minute." He
put in one or two more strokes, then he looked up. "I've got pretty
decent digs; there's another bedroom empty in the house I know. You
can share the sitting room with me, if you like."
"Right you are! What's your address, and how do I get there? I'll
go round and fix it up at once. Thompson said I could."