CHAPTER IV
Back in Scotland, Jack Carstairs took up the thread of his work where he had left off, stepped into the old routine again. He had "started applying," that is to say he carefully scanned the advertisement columns of the Electrical Review, and then in dignified and appropriate language submitted a list of his qualifications to those people (and at this time their name was legion) who required the services of junior station engineers. Nearly all of these were municipalities, and they set out gaudy, lengthily worded advertisements occupying about a quarter of a column, with elaborate specification of duties and qualifications. They finished up with the mild and modest statement that the salary (?) would be at the rate of one pound (or perhaps twenty-five shillings) per week.
Jack answered dozens of these; sometimes he received a little printed slip to inform him that his application had not been successful, which usually arrived by the time he had forgotten all about it, or else he heard nothing whatever. He usually wrote out these applications at the works and posted them on his way home. His route, via the post-box, lay along a road deeply shaded with big beech trees on one side and an open space on the other, the footpath ran along under the trees.
One night, coming off duty at midnight, as he pursued his usual way home, enjoying the deep peace of the night, carrying a bundle of letters in his hands, he felt a sudden, violent blow on the back of the head, and the next thing he knew was that he woke up with a violent headache, and found himself lying on his back, under the shade of one of the big trees. He put his hand to the back of his head and felt a big lump there. He staggered to his feet and searched his pockets; everything was intact, nothing gone or displaced; his letters were lying scattered on the ground; painfully and slowly he gathered them up, the stooping made his head seem about to burst. Then he staggered home to his diggings, posting his letters on the way, and wondering with the vague and painful persistence of the fevered brain who or what had struck him and why.
He let himself into his diggings, and going to his bedroom, carefully sponged his head with water. Then he wiped it dry, sat down and ate his supper, and went to bed.
His sleep was somewhat fevered and disturbed, but he woke up in the morning feeling only a bad headache.
"Damn funny thing," he said to himself, then he turned over and went to sleep again. His landlady knocked at his door and told him it was very late, so he got up and felt fairly fresh.
"You're looking pale, Mr Carstairs," his landlady remarked.
"Yes, I'm feeling a bit pale," he answered.
She looked at him searchingly. Scottish women have an equal curiosity with other women but less tongue; she said nothing, and he volunteered no further information, partly because he was naturally uncommunicative, and partly—well, he could not say why exactly, but he did not.