"When I go back to the old pals,
'Tis a glad, glad boy I'll be;
With them will I share the doss-house bunk
And join their revels with glee,
And the lean men of the lone shacks
Will share their tucker with me."
—From Songs of the Dead End.
I pawned my good clothes, my overcoat, and handbag in Glasgow, took a bed in Moran's model by the wharf, and once again recommenced my search for Norah.
The search was both fruitless and tiring. Day after day I prowled through the streets, and each succeeding midnight found me on the spot where I had met Norah on the evening of my wrestling encounter. For hours I would stand motionless at the street corner and scrutinise every woman who passed me by. Sometimes in these children of the night I fancied that I detected a resemblance to her whom I loved. With a flutter in my heart I would hurry forward, only to find that I was mistaken. Disappointed, I would once again resume my vigil, and sometimes the grey smoky dawn was slanting across the dull roofs of the houses before I sought my model and bed. It is a weary job, looking for a friend in a great big city. One street is more perplexing than a hundred miles of open country. A window or a wall separates you from her whom you seek. You pass day after day, perhaps, within speaking distance of her whom you love, and never know that she is near you. Every door is a puzzle, every lighted window an enigma. The great city is a Sahara, in which you look for one special grain of sand; and doubt, perplexity, and heart yearning accompany you on your mission. I could not write, neither could I turn my attention to manual labour. My whole being was centred on my search, and the thought of anything else was repugnant to me. My desire for Norah grew and grew, it filled my soul, leaving no room for anything else.
To Moran's, where I stayed, the navvies came daily when out on their eternal wanderings, and here I met many of my old mates. They came, stopped for a night, and then padded out for Rosyth, where the big naval base, still in process of construction, was then in its first stages of building. Most of the men had heard of my visit to London, and none seemed surprised at my return. None of them thought that the job had done me much good, for now my hands were as white as a woman's. Carroty Dan, who came in drunk one night, examined me critically and allowed that he could knock me out easily in my present condition, but being too drunk to follow up any train of reasoning he dropped, in the midst of his utterances, on the sawdust of the floor and fell asleep. Hell-fire Gahey, Clancy of the Cross, Ben the Moocher, and Red Billy Davis all passed through Moran's, one of their stages on the road to Rosyth. Most of them wanted me to accompany the big stampede, but I had no ear for their proposals. I had a mission of my own, and until it was completed no man could persuade me to leave Glasgow.