He was not popular with the reporters of the papers: he kept himself away from them, and restricted his friendship to one or two men. The reason of his unpopularity was simply because others feared him as a rival, and Humphrey found, later, that there was merit in that sort of unpopularity. The strong men are never popular.
The train had now sped past Rugby, and the green valleys and chequered landscapes ran by in a never-ending panorama. The sunshine held with them as far as Crewe, and then, as they came into an unlovely stretch of land bristling with factory chimneys, the clouds gathered, and the greyness settled over the day. The three friends sat silently now: Wratten and Carr, seated opposite, were looking out of the window, and Humphrey over Carr's shoulder caught glimpses of the little world to which they were journeying. He saw the great brick chimneys everywhere now, breathing clouds of foul black smoke, and then, wherever he looked, the strange-looking gearing-wheels of the coal-mine shafts came into view. Some of them were quite near the railway line, and he could see the light twinkling between their spokes as the great shaft wheels moved round, hauling up invisible cages. There were tangles of iron-work, and buildings of grimy brick, and, as they rushed on, they passed gaunt sidings where coal-stained trucks waited in a long line.
They were in a world of brick and iron and coal: down below them, beneath the throbbing wheels of the express, the earth was a honeycomb of burrows, where half-naked men sweated and worked in the awful heat and close darkness. This was a hard world, spread around them, a world where men lived hard, worked hard, and died hard. A world without sunshine,—all grimy iron and coal and brute strength. And again Humphrey could not help feeling the pitiful artificiality of his own work, that mattered so little, compared with this real and vital business of dragging coal from the heart of the earth to warm her children.
They had to change at Wigan: the bookstalls were covered with placards of Manchester and Bolton newspapers telling of the horror of the disaster. They bought copies of every paper, and saw the whole terrible story, hastily put together, and capped with heart-rending headlines. They would have to wait thirty minutes for the train to Hyde: Wratten twitched Humphrey's sleeve and drew him aside. "Look here," he said, "I don't know what the other fellows are going to do. Trains are no good to me—I mayn't be able to get back to Wigan to wire, and the Hyde post-office will be a one-horse show. I'm going to get a motor-car. Come on." So they left the group. Social friendship was at an end: there were no "Good-byes," each man was concerned with himself and his own work.
Motor-cars were not used by newspapers at that time to the extent that they are used to-day; they were doubly expensive, and even a little uncertain, but The Day was always generous with expenses when it came to getting news.
They went outside, and Wratten hailed a dilapidated four-wheeler. "Drive to a motor garage—quick," he said.
"Won't t' old hoss do, guv'nor?" asked the cabby, with the broad Northern accent.
"No, it won't, and look slippy," growled Wratten. The old cab rattled over the stones and down a steep hill.
"This is a pretty dull hole," Humphrey said, looking out at the town, which seemed to be oozing coal from all its pores.