"The lady you didn't write to," answered his mechanician. "Good night."
The next morning Corrie Rose went to the little railway station, alone.
XI
GERARD'S MAN
The hard, glittering macadam track that swept around the huge western factory of the Mercury Automobile Company and curved off behind a mass of autumn-gray woodland, was swarming with dingy, roaring, nakedly bare cars. The spluttering explosions from the unmuffled exhausts, the voices of the testers and their mechanics as they called back and forth, the monotonous tones of the man who distributed numbers for identification and heard reports from his force, all blended into the cheery eight-o'clock din of a commencing work-day. Three brawny, perspiration-streaked young fellows were engaged in loading bags of sand on the stripped cars about to start out, to supply the weight of the missing bodies, and whistling rag-time melodies to enliven their labors.
In the shadow of one of the arched doorways Corrie Rose stood to watch the scene, drawing full, hungry breaths of the gasoline-scented, smoke-murked air. There was more than frost this December morning; ice glinted in the gutters and on the surface of buckets, the healthful lash of the wind flecked color into the men's faces as they pulled on heavy gloves and hooded caps. The spirit of the place was action; the lusty vigor of it tugged with kindred appeal at the inactive, wistful one who looked on.
The heavy throb of the machinery-crowded building smothered the sound of steps; a touch was necessary to arouse the absorbed watcher.
"You've been here for almost a week, Corrie. Don't you feel like getting to work?" queried Gerard's pleasant tones.
The boy swung around eagerly.