In a week he left the grimy, little midland town, but before he went, there was a solemn gathering of the shift engineers and switchboard attendants in the drawing office for the purpose of presenting him with a standard work on electricity (Darwen had had a silver cigarette case). Smith made the presentation. In a somewhat nervous little speech, he expressed regret at Carstairs' departure, and rosy hopes of his future, with a few glowing tributes to his personal qualities. Carstairs thanked them very solemnly, and deflected the glowing tributes on to the assembled company. These little gatherings were a recognized institution in Central Stations; about every three or four months there would be a "whip round" of half a crown or so each to present some man who had been there about six months with a small token of esteem on the occasion of his departure to a better job. Some men have quite a collection of pipes, cigarette cases, walking sticks, slide rules, books, etc. Just before he left the works for the last time, Foulkes, the stoker, accosted him. "There was some gipsy-looking bloke asking if a man called Carstairs worked here, yesterday," he said. "Did he say he wanted to see me?" "No, sir, just asked if you worked here." "What did you tell him?" "I said you'd just got another job at Southville." Carstairs was very serious. "What was he like?" he asked. "Not quite as tall as you, sir. A rough-looking cove. Walked with a bit of a limp, like as though he'd bin shot or something sometime." "A young man?" "'Bout the same age as yourself." "Ah. Poor devil! Limp, eh?" "Not much, sir." "Still quite enough, I expect. Poor devil! Well, thanks very much, Foulkes, good-bye." Carstairs held out his hand. "May bump up against you again some day. Good-bye!" He turned and walked out across the yard, and the burly stoker looked after him with interest and curiosity. "They comes and goes," he soliloquized. "Rum thing about that gipsy bloke, still it ain't no business o' mine." Which was a point of view he had acquired in the army. Darwen met Carstairs on the platform at Southville station. "You're on with me for the first week," he said. His marvellous eyes sparkled with delight. "Where's your luggage? I've got a cab waiting. The new digs (I swopped this morning) are about two miles out, first-class place; thirty bob a week each. You don't mind that, do you? Piano too. Do you vamp? Never mind, I can do enough for two." He seemed unusually excited. Carstairs couldn't help feeling flattered at the obvious pleasure his arrival caused. As they rattled away in the cab, Darwen explained: "I'm jolly glad you've come, sort of levels up over that misunderstanding about this job." "Oh! that's all right." "Yes, it is now. You're a damn good sort, you know, Carstairs. You and I ought to run this job. Chief and chief assistant. How would that suit you?" Carstairs smiled, a steady smile. "First-class," he answered.