"All right, Ted. Some get theirs shooting tigers; others falling off the Alps; still others by being just plain damn fools. I'm thinking you'll look a little strange on your way to breakfast aboard the seven-five trolley."
At this I turned a little pale; I had not thought of the journey back by broad daylight. It was too late to back out. I went down to the machine shop with my fortitude somewhat shaken, only to discover my fears groundless and Knowlton's warning unnecessary. No one but an occasional apprentice or mechanic's helper so much as bothered to look at me, much less make any comment. The office might always have worn similar regalia, as far as outward signs were concerned.
Until about one in the morning I found the factory by night a picturesque place. Every machine was running at full capacity. Overhead blinking white arc lamps, whose rays were shot through with spluttering purple, danced and hissed. At the lathes grey-headed mechanics, fine-looking shrewd-faced men most of them, bent and peered at the Medusa-like tresses of steel the tools sheered off from the castings. Helpers leaned over them with wire-enclosed electric bulbs, lighting up the faces of the chief actors as in a theatre. Belts raced and flapped from nosy shafts along the ceiling—a steady, uninterrupted din. An occasional machine would shriek or groan in the agony of its task. Further down the shop the compressed air chisels were beating a devil's tattoo against the rougher castings. Boys trundled trucks piled with metal parts on their way from one machine to another. Foremen, pad and pencil in hand, went about keeping a record of each machine's progress. The place smelt of hot oil, of grimy cotton waste, and of sweaty human bodies.
As the novelty of the picture wore off I became sleepy and bored. By two o'clock it was clear that as superintendent I had a sinecure. This automaton of a factory was quite capable of running itself. No one referred any questions to me or asked my advice. I lingered hopefully here and there when I saw a machine slow down or stop for a moment, but whatever the reason of these stoppages, I was not consulted.
Upstairs to the laboratory I went, leaving word with the chief foreman where I was to be found. Work was out of the question; I was too sleepy. I tried my hand at a few pages in the diary—to recapitulate my thoughts on the subject of grey eyes. As usual when I most wanted to write or felt that I had a topic worth writing about, no words would come. I fell asleep in my chair once, with my feet upon my desk, to wake with a horrible start when they slid off with a thump. "Six weeks of this"—I thought with a shudder—"only the other nights will not be quite so bad, because I am to do my regular work at night and sleep by day." A dreadful inversion of one's normal life, whichever way one looked at it. It meant bringing a midnight supper for one thing—and where was the restaurant in Deep Harbor to prepare a tempting supper? Then I was annoyed at myself because my mind had seized upon such a petty factor as a question of supper to magnify into importance.
I tried to get back to grey eyes, but I was too sleepy to be sentimental. What was it we were to do Sunday? Oh, yes—go for a ride. Where? I wondered. Heavens! I had no riding clothes! I scribbled a hasty memorandum and heard the town hall clock strike three. "Take a look around once an hour," Knowlton had said. "To make sure, punch the clock in the front office each time you pass." To punch a clock was to register one's number on a circular mechanism which also recorded the time as well. My number was seven. As I had rather resented being numbered, Knowlton allowed me to choose my own. His was one. I remember chosing seven because it was lucky. At this point I pulled myself together and started another tour.
Hour by hour the endless night went by; the dawn, turning the lake to mauve and next to gold, gave promise that soon the factory gates would open to let me pass. I was tired—too tired to think or care for anything but bed. I had still to report to Knowlton when I successfully passed the ordeal of going down-town in evening clothes. Fortunately I was able to borrow a raincoat.
"Run home and get all the sleep you can. You are off until six this evening."
At two in the afternoon I awoke; and, try as I would, further sleep was impossible. I got up, had a shower, and telephoned Helen. Of course her mother answered. It appeared that Helen was out, nor, to judge from her mother's explanations, did there seem any likelihood Helen would ever be home again. "Something will have to be done about mama," I reflected. What was it I must do today? Oh, yes—riding clothes. I hurried out in search of a tailor who would engage himself on his honour to make me riding clothes by Sunday morning. Two declared it could not be done by mortal man, since it was now Friday afternoon; one was doubtful. He had heard of things done in such haste, but was skeptical concerning results. I insulted him into accepting the commission. Our contract was finally settled on the basis of midnight Saturday or no pay. "Where does one obtain horses in this town?" I pondered, strolling down State Street, which was respectable for four blocks and most ragged and disreputable top and bottom. At Frazee's famous soda-water-and-candy store whom should I see inside but Helen! After all, the coincidence was not so remarkable, I muttered. If one were out at all in Deep Harbor one was limited to State Street's four blocks of stores or to Myrtle Boulevard. The rest of the town was chiefly built up of slums and factories, except for one or two lesser streets on which people lived, but never walked. I went in to Frazee's and only needed Helen's welcoming smile to join her at the little marble-topped table.
"What on earth are you eating?" I asked, not very polite, as I pointed at a little mess in a dish before her.