Seated on the table in the middle, idly swinging his legs, a young man was telling a story; all the others, except the fly hunter, listened attentively. He was tall and dark, with a small neat moustache and marvellous large brown eyes.
The Shift Engineer introduced them. "Darwen, this is Carstairs, the new switchboard attendant."
The dark young man reached out a hand—a strong, sinewy hand, with long, taper, artistic fingers; he smiled, such a genial, winning smile, that Carstairs felt friendly towards him at once.
The Shift Engineer continued the introduction with a light wave of the arm. "Green, Brown, Jones, Robinson." Then he perched himself on the table. "Go on with the yarn, Darwen," he said.
The dark man smiled, and Carstairs noted the remarkable perfection of his face; the forehead was broad and not too high; the nose strong but delicately chiselled; the chin, well moulded and firm but not aggressively prominent; the mouth was almost perfect. The whole man presented a striking picture: the head was perfectly shaped, and the figure gave every indication of great strength and activity; the deltoid muscles at the angle of the shoulder showed very prominently, the neck was big and firm. The pectoral muscles were clearly defined under the tight-fitting waistcoat, the leg, bent over the table, showed a well-developed thigh and knee.
Carstairs eyed him with pleasure, he had a keen appreciation of a well-built man. Darwen's brown eyes seemed continually to meet Carstairs' steady grey ones, and always there was the light of pleasure in them. He went on with his tale, and the others listened and laughed at the right place, which was the end. Carstairs smiled a solemn sort of smile, The story did not appeal to him very much.
Darwen caught the smile, and his own eye seemed to kindle with an appreciation, though it was his story. "What shift are you on?" he asked.
"I don't know yet. I've got to see Mr Thompson."
"He'll be in now, I expect." With a sudden spring he threw himself off the table and went to the glass door. "There he is, down in the engine room now," he said.
Carstairs went out and perceived another very young man talking to an engine fitter down below. At that time Central Stations were very young and most of the staffs were very young also. When municipalities were putting up electric lighting stations faster than men were being trained to fill them, young men passed quickly from charge engineer to chief engineer, and from that to bigger chiefs. All sorts and conditions of men drifted into station work. Now they are drifting out again; sick of councillors and contractors; sick of mayors and corporations; sick of red tape and Bumbledom; sick of life.