About an hour after a turbulent portion of my night's rest, later
identified as something being done to the train in the yards at Buffalo,
the porter aroused me, and I made such preparations as a Pullman makes
possible to face the new day and a new world. We were rapidly drawing
near Deep Harbor, and Knowlton's briskness at the imminent approach of
business increased even beyond its normal. It was akin to the pawing of
the mediaeval charger when he knew it near the time for the oriflamme to
be advanced. The diner was not yet ready, so Knowlton sat beside me and
pointed out the potential and actual resources of the country as we
whizzed along. For me, my first sight of Lake Erie lying blue and serene
in a hot early morning July sun was sufficient. I cared little for
statistics in the face of that. In spite of the heat the vegetation was
still vividly green and fresh, washed from the showers of the day
before. At frequent intervals turbulent and muddy little brooks rushed
lakewards through red shale gorges full of moss, ferns, and gorgeous old
trees. From the railway tracks to the mile-or-so-distant lakeshore
interminable vineyards stretched, interspersed with an occasional field
of Indian corn. On our left, low-lying hills rolled backward to the
horizon. The sunlight was vivid, almost painful, and the whole country
seemed to glow and teem with life.
The villages were less encouraging. As a rule they were straggly and
unkempt, with tumble-down wooden houses and barns, and showed no pride
in neatness, apart from a well-kept school-house or other solitary
public building. There were few if any flowers about the cottages, and
what few there were were neglected. The gardens were composed of grass,
which the more careful owners were already out sprinkling with garden
hose. In fact the garden hose seemed almost the only sign of community
pride. Even kitchen gardens were few and badly cultivated.
"What do they do with these millions of grapes?" I asked Knowlton.
"Make grape-juice of them," he answered. "See--there's a grape juice
factory over there."
It seemed to me a strange way of repaying Heaven's bounty, as I felt
quite certain these same grapes would make excellent claret, but I knew
better than to say this to Knowlton.
"I suppose," I said at last, as the vineyards began to get a little on
my nerves, "that, like everything else over here, these are the largest
vineyards in the world?"
"No," he surprised me by replying, "the California vineyards are much
more extensive." Knowlton had a weakness for words like "extensive."
When he abandoned slang he used in its place, not always accurately, a
language of almost eighteenth century formality.
"There's Deep Harbor," he suddenly exclaimed in much excitement; "you
can see the towers of the Polish cathedral."
"Polish cathedral?" I asked in utter amazement, thinking perhaps this
was one of Knowlton's jokes.
"Sure. All the unskilled labour in Deep Harbor is Polish--that's their
church. Just beyond are the chimneys of the Lake Board Paper Company.
These are the yards--get your suit-case."
"Polish!" I thought. "Here is an unexpected complication." There was no
time to ask more about the "sledded Polacks," for at that moment the
train stopped with a jerk and we got off.
"Right on time--5.30 to the second," said Knowlton, consulting his
watch. "We'll just go down State Street to Schaefer's Hotel, leave our
grips, and get breakfast. Then to work."
The train was already moving--evidently one had to be quick in order to
disembark at Deep Harbor. I glanced about. The platform of the station
was of rotten and irregularly laid planks. The station itself was a
grey, forbidding-looking structure with a tower on which was the date
1864. A truck load of trunks charged us profanely, and we were just able
to dodge aside. A youth offered to sell me some sandwiches wrapped in
tissue paper. I was seized with an irresistible desire to test Knowlton
at his own briskness.
"Why not breakfast here on sandwiches and then go straight out to the
factory? We can save an hour."
Knowlton snorted. "Not much. Railroad sandwiches! I must have a cup of
coffee; besides, we can't get in until quarter of seven."
"Oh," I said, "then these people do get some sleep." Knowlton ignored
this. "Is Schaefer's far? My suit-case is heavy--let's take a cab."
Knowlton laughed. "I doubt if you can get a hack at this hour of the
morning--and why waste two dollars? We can take the trolley."
With that we dodged across a maze of terrifying tracks, between charging
switch engines and lines of freight cars in the throes of some internal
convulsion, to emerge safely at last on the opposite side, where a pale
yellow trolley car was awaiting us. As I climbed aboard, the conductor
spat with amazing, albeit disturbing, accuracy one inch to the right of
my ear, but gave no other sign in answer to our mild query if he went by
Schaefer's. Concluding that silence gave consent, we sat down.
Schaefer's proved surprisingly near--so near that the trolley, which
seemed to me to travel at a fearful speed, carried us one street too far
before the non-committal conductor could be induced to pull the signal
bell. As we left I felt certain that, for some unknown reason, we had
earned his disapprobation.
Schaefer's was an old, dirty-looking building, with a large plateglass
window giving on to the pavement. Behind the window was a row of large
golden oak rocking chairs, and beside each chair a highly polished brass
vessel of convenient height. We entered its portal to encounter a
strange, musty odour composed in part of sawdust, warm rubber, and
generations of bad cooking. Behind a desk, on which was spread open a
large book, a young man with glazed hair and an unpleasant cravat was
chewing a wooden toothpick. Without even glancing at us he removed a pen
from a raw potato and silently handed it to Knowlton. I wanted to ask
why pens were kept sticking in raw potatoes, but decided to wait for a
more opportune time. Knowlton signed his name in a fine Spencerian
flourish with beautifully shaded lettering, added "New York," and passed
the pen to me. Underneath I wrote mine in a somewhat trembling hand,
most self-conscious under the eyes of the young man with the toothpick,
and placed "London" after my signature. The clerk suddenly revolved the
book as if it were on a pivot and studied our handiwork attentively.
When, in the course of a moment or two, he reached my signature he took
a pen from behind his ear--the other equivalent of a raw potato, I
thought--and gratuitously scratched "Canada" after the "London." I took
the book, revolved it as I had seen him do it, silently crossed out the
"Canada" and wrote in "England." Once more the book was revolved and
this alteration examined. Satisfied that the word was no other than the
one I had apparently written, he calmly looked me over from head to foot
and again waited, silently as before.
"Two breakfasts," said Knowlton.
"Front!" the clerk ejaculated the length of his toothpick. "Show Mr.
Knowlton and his friend to the dining room. Check the grips."
"Front" was another pale youth, of tender years, but with an evil leer
in his face. He seized our hand luggage.
"This way, gents!"
We followed.
"Does the clerk know you?" I asked Knowlton. The latter shook his head.
"But he called you by name," I protested.
"He read my name in the register."