His new acquaintance began to tell of his own woes. After honourable service to his country, he had been reduced to living in a common lodging-house, seeking work in a Labour Exchange. A horrible humiliation!
“Why?” asked Bertram. “I take it that a Labour Exchange is to exchange labour? A pretty useful thing.”
The man with a dyed moustache stared at him blankly.
“I hope you don’t think I’m a damned labourer?” he asked, aggressively.
“I wish I were!” said Bertram. “Anything rather than lounging.”
He was saved further argument by the boy scout, who called his name and opened the inner door.
The Labour Exchange secretary rose as he entered the office, and said, “Take a seat, won’t you, Major?”
Bertram saw that he was in the presence of a man about his own age, twenty-five, and a pleasant-looking fellow, typical of the “temporary officers” who had poured out in their thousands to France.
“Anything I can do for you, sir?” said the secretary, offering a box of cheap Virginia cigarettes.
Bertram explained that he was looking out for a good job of any kind, and was disconcerted when the Labour Exchange man laughed, dropped the “sir” hurriedly, and said, “No good coming here, old man! Surely you’re not so hard put to it as all that?”