Day Two

Day two.

A most peculiar thing it is to see a day so very rainy, yet certain gentlemen in this town seem to find it practical or enjoyable to not use an umbrella! I set out this morning with a spring in my step, in spite the weather. I was in a good mood, my digestion working its natural routine with the pastries I collected from Ms. Granite yesterday.

I was walking down my usual route to the square, when I noticed a tall gentleman standing with his back to the wall of Mr. Stortchy's Funeral Parlour. Ordinarily, I would have paid him no mind. He was hardly close enough to get a good look at, and his face was obscured by the umbrella of a young lady he was speaking to. What caught my attention was the fact that he carried an umbrella, yet he was not using it. Baffling!

The rain this morning was quite heavy. I myself own a large orange umbrella, most likely made for the use of two individuals, and would never dream of leaving my home without it in weather such as this.

I passed without a word. The man seemed familiar to me somehow. It was only when I was several blocks passed when I realised the man I had seen was the man who had knocked me over as I left the pub the previous night. The glimpse I caught of him matched that of the man I had just seen. I neglected to give description of the man I saw, as I did not think it was important. But now my interest is piqued. 

He wore a long black coat, reaching to below his knees, grey trousers with black vertical pinstripes, and a top hat. Now, such a description is hardly uncommon, but his image, however rushed the glimpse or low the light, was burned into my mind. Both times, I hardly got a look at his face. He obviously has one though, as a lack would make it impossible to have the conversation, which he seemed to be having with that woman. 

I could hardly turn back and confront him about it now, of course. I continued on my way. The one thing that kept my mind occupied for the rest of the walk was: "Why wasn't he using his umbrella?" A silly question, maybe, but I swear to God, I will ponder it to my dying day.

I inspected Mr. Pultham's Home For Those In Need Of Work. Such a name sounds charitable enough, of course, but names are a marketing tool.

Mr. Pultham was a large, vulgar man. He smelled of a hundred foul things I daren't name. While it was obvious he attempted to be pleasant, the fact that he seemed incapable of going more two sentences without using a certain rude word which will be left unsaid, made it impossible for me to consider ever giving him a ring for a social gathering.

"And this is where all the youngins eat their meals, Mr. Marker Sir." He said, addressing me as if I were a man of power.

"Splendid," I said, not really paying attention. "Now, what are these floors made of?"

"Wood, stone, or somethin' of the sort," He said. "It changes from room to room. What does your company do, Mr. Marker Sir?"

"Automata," I said for the third time. "And it isn't my company. You are aware of Moulder & Primbol, are you not?"

I explained to him the importance of stone floors and good ventilation. I know some of it must have gotten through to him, as he stated that the windows in the work area are quite big. I saw for myself that they were quite large indeed, more than capable of suiting the needs of M&P. However, the floors in that particular work room were made of wood, filled with cracks and crevices, and eaten by termites. It was a crying shame, seeing as the rest of the workhouse was in relatively good condition.

Oh well. I submitted the report to M&P. The previous workhouse was approved, but I doubt the same will be said for this one. No matter, there are still many more. I am confident that the wins will out weigh the losses.

❦J.T. Marker