"Yes," Humphrey said. It seemed strange to him that they should be discussing such an appalling disaster so dispassionately; considering it only from their point of view. There was no sense of tragedy, of deep gloom, in their talk. It was all part of their business—a lecture, a murder, an interview, a catastrophe—it was all the same to them. They were merely lookers-on.
When they arrived at Euston, a tall man, whose chief characteristics were gold-rimmed spectacles and a black moustache, came towards them. He wore a red tie and carried a heavy ash stick in his hand. "What—ho! Wratten," he said, jovially, "coming up?"
"Hullo, Grame," said Wratten, "anybody else here yet?"
"Oh! the whole gang. We're for'rard in a reserved compartment."
Kenneth Carr, white-faced and breathless, arrived at the last moment. "Hullo!" he said, "isn't this awful.... Two hundred men! I'll join you as soon as possible."
"Poor Kenneth!" Wratten remarked to Quain, as they followed Grame to the carriage. "He really feels this quite keenly. He realizes the immensity of the tragedy to which we're going to travel. It's a mistake. It hampers one."
"I should have thought it would make you do better work," Quain answered, "if you really felt the tremendous grief of it all."
"Not a bit. It makes you maudlin. You lose your head and go slobbering sentimental stuff about. Remember, you're no one—you don't exist—you're just a reporter who's got to hustle round, find out what's happened, and tell people how it happened. Never mind how it strikes you—The Day ain't interested in you and your sensations—it wants the story of the mine disaster."
"But—" Humphrey began.
Wratten turned on him savagely. "Oh! Good God! don't you think I feel it too? Don't you think I hate the idea of never being able to write it as I see it? By God! I wouldn't dare tell the story of a mine disaster as I see it. The Day would never print it—it would be rank socialism."