吃完茶点，所有的焊气灯都亮了，工作节奏快了，因为要赶夜间邮班发货。工场里送来的长袜刚熨好，还是带着暖暖的余温呢。保罗已经开好了发票。现在，他还得捆绑和写地址，然后还得将装袜子的邮包放到秤上秤一下。到处都是报重量的声音，还有脆脆的金属声，绳子扯断的声音，匆匆地向麦林先生要邮票的声音。终于，邮递员拿着他的邮袋，兴冲冲地来了。这时，紧张的节奏才松懈下来，保罗拿起饭篮跑向车站赶八点二十的火车。这一天在工厂里待了十二个小时。
母亲坐在那里十分焦急地等着他。他得从凯斯顿步行回家，所以直到九点二十左右才到。早晨七点前他就得从家离开。莫瑞尔太太最担心他的健康问题。她本人已历尽磨难，因此她想到孩子们也会那样去经受艰难坎坷，他们必须忍受世道的艰难和人生的痛苦。保罗就一直在乔丹厂里工作，那里阴暗潮湿，空气污浊，工作时间长，这些严重地影响了他的健康。
他脸色苍白地走了进来，神气疲倦。母亲端详着他，看到他很欢天喜地的样子，她的焦虑烟消云散了。
“哦，怎么样？”她问。
“从没这么有趣过，妈妈，”他回答道，“用不着那么辛苦地工作，他们对人很好。”
“你干得还好么？”
“还好，只是他们嫌我写的字难看。但是帕普沃斯先生——他是我的上司——对乔丹先生说我会写好的。我在蜷线车间工作，妈妈，你应该去看看，那地方真不错。”
他很快就喜欢上了乔丹先生的公司，帕普沃斯先生有那么一种“酒肉朋友”的风韵，待人豪爽自然。他对保罗就好象是朋友一般。有时候，这个“蜷线车间的老板”心情不顺，这时就大口大口地咀嚼着口香糖，然而即使这时，他也不令人讨厌。但有一点，这种脾气暴躁的人对自己身体的伤害比对别人的伤害更厉害。
“你干完那个活没有？”他会大喊着问：“加油干吧，别磨磨蹭蹭。”
这人一高兴起来就忘乎所以，喜欢开开玩笑，弄得保罗不明就里。
“明天我打算把我的约克郡狼狗带来。”他兴奋地对保罗说。
“约克郡狼狗是什么？”
“不知道什么是约克郡狼狗？不知道什么是约克郡……”帕普沃斯先生非常吃惊。
“是不是那种毛很光滑——铁灰和银灰色的？”
“是的，伙计。这是个稀罕物。它生的狗崽子可以卖五镑了，它本身也值七镑多，可它还没二十盎斯重呢。”
第二天，这只 母狗果真被带来了，是只浑身发抖，可怜兮兮的小东西。保罗对它不感兴趣，活像一块从 来没干过的湿抹布。一会儿，一个男人来看这只狗，并开起粗俗的玩 笑。但帕普沃斯先生冲保罗这个方向点了点头，玩笑声就小了一些。
乔丹先生又来看过保罗一回，这次他发现的唯一的错就是看见保罗把钢笔放在柜台上。
“如果你打算作一个办事员的话，就把你的笔夹在耳朵上！”
一天他又对这孩子说：“为什么不把你的背挺直点？到这儿来。”他把孩子带进了玻璃办公室，给他穿上特别的背带，以保持肩膀端正。
保罗最喜欢的还是女工们。男人们似乎庸俗无聊，他喜欢他们每个人，但他们提不起他的兴趣。楼下一个矮小敏捷的监工波莉， 看见保罗在地下室吃饭，就问他，是否需要她帮忙在她的小炉子上热热饭。第二天，母亲就给他带了一盘可以热着吃的菜。他把菜拿到了那个舒适干净的房间里给了波莉，于是很快就形成了一条彼此默契的习惯：他们在一起吃饭。每天早晨11点 来的时候，他把饭篮给她，一点钟他下去时，她已经把他的午饭准备好了。
她不太高，脸色苍白，浓密的栗色头发，不合比例的长相，还有一张大嘴巴。她就像一只小鸟，他常称她“知更鸟”。虽然他天性就安静，可在她身边他会侃侃而谈，一聊就好几个小时，跟她聊自己的家。女孩子们都喜欢听他说话，她们常常在他坐的板凳旁转成一个小圈，滔滔不绝地谈笑着。有些姑娘认为他是个古怪的家伙，既认真严肃，又开朗愉快，而且总是用他那温柔的方式对待她们。她们都喜欢他，而他也喜欢她们。他觉得他是属于波莉的。康妮一头红色的秀发，像一朵苹果花似的脸蛋，喁喁细语的声调，这一切激发了他那浪漫主义的情调。虽然她是这样一位气质不俗的女士却穿着破旧的黑色外套。
“你坐着绕线时，”他说“好象在纺车上纺纱——美极了。你让我想起，在《国王歌集》里的伊莱恩，如果我能，我真想把你画下来。”
她羞答答地瞥了 他一眼，脸涨得通红。后来，他画了一副自己极为满意的素描：康妮坐在纺车边的凳子上，浓密的红头发飘散在破旧的黑色外套上，紧闭着嘴，神情庄重，正把一缕缕红线往线轴上绕着。
至于路易，她虽然漂亮，但有点厚颜无耻，似乎总喜欢把屁股向他身上撞，他常常和她开玩笑。
艾玛则是一个长相普普通通，年纪较大，对别人总是一副屈尊俯就的神情，但她十分乐意去照顾保罗，他也对此毫不在乎。
“你是怎么样穿针的？”他问。
“走开，别烦人。”
“但我应该知道怎样穿针的啊。”
说话的时候，她一直稳稳地摇着机器。
“你应该知道的事多着呢。”她回答。
“告诉我，怎样把针播在机器上？”
“唉，你这家伙，多令人讨厌啊！看，就是这么插。”
他聚精会神地看着她。突然，一声口哨声，波莉出现了，她一板一眼地说：
“保罗，帕普沃斯先生想知道你还要在下面和姑娘们厮混多久？”
保罗喊了一声“再见”，飞奔着上了楼，艾玛也站起身。
“我可没让他摆弄机器。”她说。
像一条惯例，当所有的姑娘们在两点钟回来后，他总是跑上楼去找成品车间的那个驼背芬妮。帕普沃斯先生不到两点四十是不露面的。他常常 发现他的伙计坐在芬妮旁边，要么闲聊，要么画画，要么跟姑娘们一直唱歌。
通常，芬妮一般忸忸怩怩一会之后，才开始放声唱歌。她有一副音色动听的女低音嗓子。每个人都参加这个合唱，越唱越好听。保罗和六七位女工们坐在一间屋子里，没多久，不再感到窘迫了。
唱完了歌，芬妮会说：
“ 我知道你们一直在笑话我。”
“别那么多心，芬妮！”一个姑娘大叫道。
有一次，有人提到康妮的红头发。
“还是芬妮的头发好看些，是我最喜欢的。”艾玛说。
“你用不着哄我。”芬妮说，脸颊鲜红。
“才不是，她是有一头秀发，保罗，她的头发很美。”
“这是一种让人看着舒服的颜色。”他说，“这种冷色 有点像泥土，但却发光，像沼泽地的水一样。”
“天哪！”一个姑娘惊呼着哈哈大笑起来。
“不管我怎么样都会招致攻击的。”芬妮说。
“保罗，你应该看看把头发放下来是什么样的。”艾玛诚恳地说：“真是太美了，芬妮，如果他想画画，就把头发放下 来吧。”
芬妮不好意思当众这么做，不过她心里倒挺乐意的。
“那我就自己放了。”这孩子说。
“好吧，如果你愿意，你就放吧。”芬妮说。
于是，他就细心地从发髻上取下发卡，那一大片深褐色的头发一下子就散落在驼背上。
“多可爱啊！”他惊叹。
姑娘们都看着，屋里静悄悄的谁也不说话，小伙子又捋了捋头发，把卷发抖开。
“太棒了！”他说着闻闻发香：“我敢打赌这头发值不少钱。”
“等我死了，我会把头发留给你的，保罗。”芬妮开玩笑地说。
“你坐在那里晾头发时，看上去和别人一模一样。”一个姑娘对这个长腿驼背说。
可怜的芬妮生性敏感，总觉得别人在羞辱她。波莉说话办事像个生意人，干脆而有条理。这两个小姐总是充满火药味，保罗常常发现芬妮泪流满面。后来，他明白了她所有的委屈，还 为了她与波莉争辩过。
日子就这样很快活地过去了，工厂让人有一种家的感觉，没有人催你赶你。每逢邮差快到来时，保罗特别喜欢看大家越干越快的劲头。男人们齐心协力的工作。在这种时候男人和工作仿佛溶为一体了，但姑娘们就不一样了，真正的女人似乎从来不沉迷于工作中，而是心不在焉，等待着什么。
在晚上回家的路上，他总是从火车的车窗里注视着城市的灯光，它们密密麻麻地散落在山坡上，汇成一片光海，照亮了山谷，他觉得自己的生活充满了快乐。火车再往前开，可以看见布尔威尔的灯光像星垦在撒下数不清的花瓣，最远处是高炉的红红火光，袅袅上升，与云霞相映。
他还得步行两英里多的路程从凯斯顿往家走，还得翻越两座小山。他常常疲倦不堪，因此他爬山时就数着山上的盏盏灯光，计算着还得走过多少盏灯才能到家。在黑漆漆的夜里，爬上小山顶，他喜欢远眺周围五、六英里以外的村庄，灯光簇簇有如萤火虫一样闪光蠕动，仿佛天堂再现人间。马尔普尔和希诺两镇灯火通明，把黑暗抛向远方。偶尔，一长列火车开来，进入这黑暗的山谷中，火车朝南开往伦敦，朝北开往苏格兰，在黑暗中高速咆哮而过，冒着浓烟，炉火熊熊，震得整个山谷也似乎随着火车的经过而轰鸣。火车过去了，城镇山庄的点点灯火又在寂静中闪闪发光。
终于，他到了家，家门面对黑夜另一面。此刻，白蜡树也似乎成了他的朋友。当他进屋时，母亲高兴地站了起来，他则骄傲地把他挣的八先令放在桌上。
“总能接济一下吧，妈妈？”他热切地问。
“除去你的车票和午饭的花费，剩不了多少。”她回答道。
接着，他就把一天的历程告诉了她。他的生活故事，就像《天方夜谭》一样，天天晚上讲给母亲听，她几乎如同自己经历的生活一样。
His mother sat waiting for him rather anxiously. He had towalk from Keston, so was not home until about twenty past nine. And he left the house before seven in the morning. Mrs. Morelwas rather anxious about his health. But she herself had had to put upwith so much that she expected her children to take the same odds. They must go through with what came. And Paul stayed at Jordan's,although all the time he was there his health suffered from thedarkness and lack of air and the long hours.
He came in pale and tired. His mother looked at him. She saw he was rather pleased, and her anxiety all went.
"Well, and how was it?" she asked.
"Ever so funny, mother," he replied. "You don't have to worka bit hard, and they're nice with you."
"And did you get on all right?"
"Yes: they only say my writing's bad. But Mr. Pappleworth--he's my man--said to Mr. Jordan I should be all right. I'm Spiral, mother; you must come and see. It's ever so nice."
Soon he liked Jordan's. Mr. Pappleworth, who had a certain"saloon bar" flavour about him, was always natural, and treatedhim as if he had been a comrade. Sometimes the "Spiral boss"was irritable, and chewed more lozenges than ever. Even then,however, he was not offensive, but one of those people who hurtthemselves by their own irritability more than they hurt other people.
"Haven't you done that YET?" he would cry. "Go on, be a monthof Sundays."
Again, and Paul could understand him least then, he was jocularand in high spirits.
"I'm going to bring my little Yorkshire terrier bitch tomorrow,"he said jubilantly to Paul.
"What's a Yorkshire terrier?"
"DON'T know what a Yorkshire terrier is? DON'T KNOW A YORKSHIRE---"Mr. Pappleworth was aghast.
"Is it a little silky one--colours of iron and rusty silver?"
"THAT'S it, my lad. She's a gem. She's had five pounds'worth of pups already, and she's worth over seven pounds herself;and she doesn't weigh twenty ounces."
The next day the bitch came. She was a shivering, miserable morsel. Paul did not care for her; she seemed so like a wet rag that wouldnever dry. Then a man called for her, and began to make coarse jokes. But Mr. Pappleworth nodded his head in the direction of the boy,and the talk went on sotto voce.
Mr. Jordan only made one more excursion to watch Paul,and then the only fault he found was seeing the boy lay his penon the counter.
"Put your pen in your ear, if you're going to be a clerk. Pen in your ear!" And one day he said to the lad: "Why don't youhold your shoulders straighter? Come down here," when he took himinto the glass office and fitted him with special braces for keepingthe shoulders square.
But Paul liked the girls best. The men seemed common andrather dull. He liked them all, but they were uninteresting. Polly,the little brisk overseer downstairs, finding Paul eating in the cellar,asked him if she could cook him anything on her little stove. Next day his mother gave him a dish that could be heated up. He took it into the pleasant, clean room to Polly. And very soon itgrew to be an established custom that he should have dinner with her. When he came in at eight in the morning he took his basket to her,and when he came down at one o'clock she had his dinner ready.
He was not very tall, and pale, with thick chestnut hair,irregular features, and a wide, full mouth. She was like a small bird. He often called her a "robinet". Though naturally rather quiet,he would sit and chatter with her for hours telling her about his home. The girls all liked to hear him talk. They often gathered in a littlecircle while he sat on a bench, and held forth to them, laughing. Some of them regarded him as a curious little creature, so serious,yet so bright and jolly, and always so delicate in his way with them. They all liked him, and he adored them. Polly he felt he belonged to. Then Connie, with her mane of red hair, her face of apple-blossom,her murmuring voice, such a lady in her shabby black frock,appealed to his romantic side.
"When you sit winding," he said, "it looks as if you werespinning at a spinning-wheel--it looks ever so nice. You remindme of Elaine in the 'Idylls of the King'. I'd draw you if I could."
And she glanced at him blushing shyly. And later on he hada sketch he prized very much: Connie sitting on the stool beforethe wheel, her flowing mane of red hair on her rusty black frock,her red mouth shut and serious, running the scarlet thread offthe hank on to the reel.
With Louie, handsome and brazen, who always seemed to thrusther hip at him, he usually joked.
Emma was rather plain, rather old, and condescending. But to condescend to him made her happy, and he did not mind.
"How do you put needles in?" he asked.
"Go away and don't bother."
"But I ought to know how to put needles in."
She ground at her machine all the while steadily.
"There are many things you ought to know," she replied.
"Tell me, then, how to stick needles in the machine."
"Oh, the boy, what a nuisance he is! Why, THIS is how youdo it."
He watched her attentively. Suddenly a whistle piped. Then Polly appeared, and said in a clear voice:
"Mr. Pappleworth wants to know how much longer you're goingto be down here playing with the girls, Paul."
Paul flew upstairs, calling "Good-bye!" and Emma drew herself up.
"It wasn't ME who wanted him to play with the machine,"she said.
As a rule, when all the girls came back at two o'clock, heran upstairs to Fanny, the hunchback, in the finishing-off room. Mr. Pappleworth did not appear till twenty to three, and he oftenfound his boy sitting beside Fanny, talking, or drawing, or singingwith the girls.
Often, after a minute's hesitation, Fanny would begin to sing. She had a fine contralto voice. Everybody joined in the chorus,and it went well. Paul was not at all embarrassed, after a while,sitting in the room with the half a dozen work-girls.
At the end of the song Fanny would say:
"I know you've been laughing at me."
"Don't be so soft, Fanny!" cried one of the girls.
Once there was mention of Connie's red hair.
"Fanny's is better, to my fancy," said Emma.
"You needn't try to make a fool of me," said Fanny, flushing deeply.
"No, but she has, Paul; she's got beautiful hair."
"It's a treat of a colour," said he. "That coldish colourlike earth, and yet shiny. It's like bog-water."
"Goodness me!" exclaimed one girl, laughing.
"How I do but get criticised," said Fanny.
"But you should see it down, Paul," cried Emma earnestly. "It's simply beautiful. Put it down for him, Fanny, if he wantssomething to paint."
Fanny would not, and yet she wanted to.
"Then I'll take it down myself," said the lad.
"Well, you can if you like," said Fanny.
And he carefully took the pins out of the knot, and the rushof hair, of uniform dark brown, slid over the humped back.
"What a lovely lot!" he exclaimed.
The girls watched. There was silence. The youth shookthe hair loose from the coil.
"It's splendid!" he said, smelling its perfume. "I'll betit's worth pounds."
"I'll leave it you when I die, Paul," said Fanny, half joking.
"You look just like anybody else, sitting drying their hair,"said one of the girls to the long-legged hunchback.
Poor Fanny was morbidly sensitive, always imagining insults. Polly was curt and businesslike. The two departments were for everat war, and Paul was always finding Fanny in tears. Then he wasmade the recipient of all her woes, and he had to plead her casewith Polly.
So the time went along happily enough. The factory had ahomely feel. No one was rushed or driven. Paul always enjoyedit when the work got faster, towards post-time, and all the menunited in labour. He liked to watch his fellow-clerks at work. The man was the work and the work was the man, one thing, for thetime being. It was different with the girls. The real womannever seemed to be there at the task, but as if left out, waiting.
From the train going home at night he used to watch the lightsof the town, sprinkled thick on the hills, fusing together in a blazein the valleys. He felt rich in life and happy. Drawing farther off,there was a patch of lights at Bulwell like myriad petals shakento the ground from the shed stars; and beyond was the red glareof the furnaces, playing like hot breath on the clouds.
He had to walk two and more miles from Keston home,up two long hills, down two short hills. He was often tired,and he counted the lamps climbing the hill above him, how many moreto pass. And from the hilltop, on pitch-dark nights, he lookedround on the villages five or six miles away, that shone like swarmsof glittering living things, almost a heaven against his feet. Marlpool and Heanor scattered the far-off darkness with brilliance. And occasionally the black valley space between was traced,violated by a great train rushing south to London or north to Scotland. The trains roared by like projectiles level on the darkness,fuming and burning, making the valley clang with their passage. They were gone, and the lights of the towns and villages glitteredin silence.
And then he came to the corner at home, which faced theother side of the night. The ash-tree seemed a friend now. His mother rose with gladness as he entered. He put his eightshillings proudly on the table.
"It'll help, mother?" he asked wistfully.
"There's precious little left," she answered, "after yourticket and dinners and such are taken off."
Then he told her the budget of the day. His life-story,like an Arabian Nights, was told night after night to his mother. It was almost as if it were her own life.
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