I Walked in Arden

by Jack Randall Crawford

The train was already moving—evidently one had to be quick in order to disembark at Deep Harbor. I glanced about. The platform of the station was of rotten and irregularly laid planks. The station itself was a grey, forbidding-looking structure with a tower on which was the date 1864. A truck load of trunks charged us profanely, and we were just able to dodge aside. A youth offered to sell me some sandwiches wrapped in tissue paper. I was seized with an irresistible desire to test Knowlton at his own briskness.

"Why not breakfast here on sandwiches and then go straight out to the factory? We can save an hour."

Knowlton snorted. "Not much. Railroad sandwiches! I must have a cup of coffee; besides, we can't get in until quarter of seven."

"Oh," I said, "then these people do get some sleep." Knowlton ignored this. "Is Schaefer's far? My suit-case is heavy—let's take a cab."

Knowlton laughed. "I doubt if you can get a hack at this hour of the morning—and why waste two dollars? We can take the trolley."

With that we dodged across a maze of terrifying tracks, between charging switch engines and lines of freight cars in the throes of some internal convulsion, to emerge safely at last on the opposite side, where a pale yellow trolley car was awaiting us. As I climbed aboard, the conductor spat with amazing, albeit disturbing, accuracy one inch to the right of my ear, but gave no other sign in answer to our mild query if he went by Schaefer's. Concluding that silence gave consent, we sat down. Schaefer's proved surprisingly near—so near that the trolley, which seemed to me to travel at a fearful speed, carried us one street too far before the non-committal conductor could be induced to pull the signal bell. As we left I felt certain that, for some unknown reason, we had earned his disapprobation.

Schaefer's was an old, dirty-looking building, with a large plateglass window giving on to the pavement. Behind the window was a row of large golden oak rocking chairs, and beside each chair a highly polished brass vessel of convenient height. We entered its portal to encounter a strange, musty odour composed in part of sawdust, warm rubber, and generations of bad cooking. Behind a desk, on which was spread open a large book, a young man with glazed hair and an unpleasant cravat was chewing a wooden toothpick. Without even glancing at us he removed a pen from a raw potato and silently handed it to Knowlton. I wanted to ask why pens were kept sticking in raw potatoes, but decided to wait for a more opportune time. Knowlton signed his name in a fine Spencerian flourish with beautifully shaded lettering, added "New York," and passed the pen to me. Underneath I wrote mine in a somewhat trembling hand, most self-conscious under the eyes of the young man with the toothpick, and placed "London" after my signature. The clerk suddenly revolved the book as if it were on a pivot and studied our handiwork attentively. When, in the course of a moment or two, he reached my signature he took a pen from behind his ear—the other equivalent of a raw potato, I thought—and gratuitously scratched "Canada" after the "London." I took the book, revolved it as I had seen him do it, silently crossed out the "Canada" and wrote in "England." Once more the book was revolved and this alteration examined. Satisfied that the word was no other than the one I had apparently written, he calmly looked me over from head to foot and again waited, silently as before.

"Two breakfasts," said Knowlton.

"Front!" the clerk ejaculated the length of his toothpick. "Show Mr. Knowlton and his friend to the dining room. Check the grips."

"Front" was another pale youth, of tender years, but with an evil leer in his face. He seized our hand luggage.