“Of course. I don’t let a friend slip when I’ve found one.”
And gladly René said:
“A friend. I begin work to-morrow at old Martin’s.”
“There’s a man,” answered Kilner. “I must paint his heavy, happy face. It’s the kind of face there won’t be again. The world’s changing. Man wants but little here below? Never again. We want all there is.”
[IV
LEARNING A TRADE]
’Tis my vocation, ’tis no sin for a man to labor in his vocation.
FOR some weeks our adventurer divided his time between working in Mr. Martin’s yard and office, studying the map of London, and being driven about the city in a car of instruction with seven or eight other aspirants to the taxi-driving profession. Most of them were depressed and bored, smoked incessantly, and spoke little, but every now and then René would find one to talk to him and take pity on his gentility and give him advice and consolation. The drives would begin cheerfully enough, often with excitement and humor, but soon listlessness would creep over the party, the more sober individuals would produce maps and notebooks, while the younger would conceitedly assume that their knowledge could not be enlarged, or perhaps they were ashamed to be caught out in ignorance. On the whole, they made René unhappy, for most of them were drifting so helplessly and with such dull indifference. By contrast the energy, the power, and richness of London streets were almost appalling.
He would return home exhausted and confused, and, to avoid thought, would go on with his map, taking Hyde Park Corner, Oxford Circus, and the Bank as the centers of three circles into which he had divided the city of his future operations. He found it easy to memorize the thoroughfares that connected them and their dependent roads. He had observed that certain districts were devoid of cabs or cab-ranks, and marking these districts off on his map, he concentrated upon the rest. The cabs served to connect one moneyed region with another, and with the stations and places of business and pleasure. And he selected the moneyed district where he would begin when he had his cab.
Casey was a Liverpool Irishman who had begun life as a clerk in a shipping office and had then, at twenty-seven, revolted and gone out to South Africa to work in the mines until one of his lungs gave out. Then he came home and had a nasty time in London in an office until he was told by a doctor that he must find some outdoor occupation. With the little money he had left, he had learned how to drive and repair a car, had been with one of the big companies for some time; then married a niece of old Martin’s and thought he could do better by working for him on a profit-sharing basis. That was René’s arrangement; he was given the alternative of buying his car on the hire-purchase system and using the yard as a garage, but on Casey’s advice chose the first proposition. Casey said it was better, because you needed capital to stand the heavy wear and tear of a car in constant use in London traffic. That settled, Casey took his novice out in the early morning to satisfy himself that the car would not suffer at his hands. He was delighted with the way the machine was handled. René, too, was pleased. He had been rather nervous at the thought of driving a more powerful engine than that to which he had been accustomed; but the greater power was only an added pleasure and no difficulty.