From Job to Job around the World

by Alfred C. B. Fletcher

I drifted with the crowds along the Strand. I continued down Holborn Street and came to Ludgate Circus, where I went into the office of Thomas Cook and Son. There I found a letter from Norway. It was from Mr. Scott Turner, manager of the Arctic Coal Company, offering me a position in Tromso, Norway, and on the island of West Spitzbergen, at one hundred dollars a month and expenses.

This letter was the opening sentence in a volume of adventure.

I had foreseen that my funds would soon run out, and, while in Italy, had written several letters to a number of business concerns asking for work. One of these was to Mr. Scott Turner, whom I had known years ago in Seattle and of whose whereabouts I had lost track. On receipt of Turner's address from my brother in America, I wrote him for a job, telling him that I was working my way around the world, and that being a poor man there was little luxury in it. In his reply he said that he thought he could make use of a man of about my size and shape, and he outlined a most bewildering list of duties. I was to spend two months in Tromso arranging the company's files, running errands and doing general office work. On the first of June I was to sail for Spitzbergen at the expense of the company, where I was to have charge of the mine office, operate the store, look after the supplies in four warehouses and have charge of the commissary department, which fed two hundred and fifty men. Turner stated that these duties would take up about fifteen hours each day, and that if I was not needed in the mine I could have the rest of the time to myself.

After reading Turner's letter I at once looked up Tromso and Spitzbergen on a map. Tromso I found to be three hundred miles north of the Arctic Circle, or four hundred miles farther north than Nome; while Spitzbergen was about one thousand miles from the North Pole. The Arctic Coal Company was an American corporation mining coal on the island of West Spitzbergen and its purchasing office was in Tromso.

Fifteen minutes after reading this letter I was on my way to the Arctic Circle—in a third-class coach going to Newcastle. En route I stopped off for a few days' visit with an uncle of mine, the vicar of the English church in a small village called Needham Market. He had not seen me since I was an infant in Canada, and I suppose that he was curious to see what sort of a specimen his tramp nephew would prove to be. I was, at the same time, anxious to make a good impression on the old gentleman, whom I knew to be full of aristocratic British ideas.

England turned out to be a land in which I was destined to live in luxury. That evening I sat at the vicarage dining table and put away a thoroughly good meal, which included wine and which was served with all the ceremony that an English household could muster. I had no evening clothes. My uncle thoughtfully dispensed with such garments himself out of consideration for me. I found him to be a high Churchman, a staunch Conservative and a man who gave the impression that he disliked everything American. He considered us a crude lot, with a few virtues but somewhat vulgar and best tolerated at a distance. The Monroe Doctrine was to him like a red rag to a bull. He argued that the population of America was made up of half castes through inter-marriage with negroes, and that our climate was so hot that it produced a lazy race of people. I laughed at such statements and tried to accept his hospitality in as gracious a manner as I could.

He lent me his bicycle and I rode to the neighbouring village of Stowmarket. Here I visited the parish church, obtaining the key of the edifice from the bar-keeper across the road. This obliging person was very courteous and kindly. He conducted me through the church, discoursing on its points of interest and displaying great pride in the building. On the walls of his saloon, behind the bar, were pictures of the church choir and building. He gave me a notice with a list of Lenten services. I bought a drink.

Upon leaving my uncle's he very kindly offered me some money to help defray the expenses of my trip. I did not, however, accept this well-intended assistance.

The road passes through many interesting places from Needham to Newcastle, and I regretted very much that I was compelled to get nothing but a train-window glimpse of the great cathedrals at Ely, Lincoln, York and Durham. After lodging at Newcastle in a cheap hotel I sailed for Norway as a steerage passenger on the Jupiter, a small steamer belonging to a Norwegian company with the overpowering name of Det Nordenfjeldske Dampskilsselskab. My steerage ticket cost me twenty-five dollars, which left but three dollars to see me through to my destination. I soon discovered that the price of this ticket did not include meals. The journey from Newcastle to Tromso requires seven days, and I was therefore confronted with the problem of stretching three dollars over a period of one week. With this sum I had to buy food from the steerage steward. When it gave out I had to fast.

There are few attractive features connected with Norwegian steerage accommodations, which rival those of Italian ships in their lack of conveniences. But ups and downs were a part of the game, and I recalled with pleasure—and regret—the good meals and beds I had enjoyed during my sojourn in England.