VACANCIES

By FRANK TILSLEY

CLERKS, this advertisement says. Not clerk ; clerks. Young, keen, energetic. Good appearance. Good prospects and pay. Clerks. Plural. Two at least ; probably three and perhaps more.

One vacancy only wouldn't get you right across London now, an hour's ride or more, and one and eightpence fare. You have learned, now, that there are always too many other men after these jobs, men who are younger, keener, more energetic, of better appearance ; too many of them for you to risk one and eightpence on the odd chance of their not being there. So if the advertisement was for just one clerk you wouldn't bother with it. But clerks is plural, for more than one, for you don't know how many—more, perhaps, than the men who are younger, keener, more energetic, and of better appearance, the men who are always waiting there for every job you go after. That is what you're relying on. Perhaps this time all these fellows who are so obviously better fitted for the job than you, and who always seem to be in front of you whenever jobs are going, perhaps these fellows will get jobs and there will still be one left for you. Perhaps it's a big new place that's opening, particularly as you have to call instead of writing, and perhaps there are dozens of vacancies.

That is what you think. That is why you go. That and the fact that it's still only seven o'clock, and that if you hurry —shave in cold water and don't bother about a fire—you'll be there by half-past eight. There'll be a lot of people after that advertisement, but there won't be so many there before half-past eight. That will give you a chance.

So you hurry. It is a cold morning, worse luck. You expect a December morning to be cold, but it surely needn't be as cold as this. It's bitter. It's far too cold to go in your macintosh instead of your overcoat. The macintosh is almost new, and looks all right ; but the overcoat is very old, and doesn't look all right. But you don't look all right, either, if you go out at half-past seven on a December morning with nothing warmer over your thin suit than a macintosh. You look starved to death by the time it's your turn for an interview ; so you've got to put the old overcoat on anyway, whatever you look like in it. But what you can do—and what you actually do—is to put the macintosh over that. It's not going to rain, it's too cold for rain, but you look better with the macintosh hiding the shabby old coat. Makes you look bigger, too, you notice, as you pass mirrors in the shop- windows, on your way to the station. More robust. You feel pleased with yourself.

But when you get to this place given in the advertisement, you don't feel so pleased with yourself. Already, at twenty- past eight, there is a queue waiting in a long corridor at the foot of some rickety uncarpeted stairs. Some of these fellows must hang about Fleet Street, you think, first thing in a morning. Perhaps they stay up all night. Some of them certainly look as though they've stayed up all night. Stayed up all of a good many nights. But some of them look as though they've never missed a good night's sleep in their lives. Alert, well dressed, prosperous. Not been out long, that's obvious. There must be a dozen of this sort, amongst the score or so in front of you ; younger, more confident, already, at half-past eight, keen and energetic ; particularly those nearest the stairs ; they get keener and more energetic every time the outside door opens ; they probably think it might be the proprietor, but its still only more applicants.

At half-past nine there are about fifty people in that passage, and then a tall, thin, young office boy, smirking as though this queue is a good joke he's seen on the pictures, tells the first man in the queue to follow him up the stairs, so the man who is engaging staff has evidently arrived.

The first man is gone fifteen minutes, and when he comes back and pushes through to get out he shakes his head. That's good. The second man is only gone two or three minutes, so that's all right, too ; but the third is upstairs for ages, so you reckon that's one of the jobs gone. Every- body keeps looking at watches and reckoning that's one of the jobs gone. But two more men are upstairs for a long time, too, so then you're not so sure. Nobody comes and tells you the vacancies are filled, so you're not so sure.

Still more men go up those stairs, and still nobody comes to tell you the vacancies are filled, and at twelve o'clock you are still there, and there are only seven men in front of you. There are a good many behind, but only seven in front of you. You get a good look at these seven.

Two of them are hopeless. Well over fifty. One is probably too young—a lad about eighteen with a great drooping mouth. One has scars all down his face : you can't imagine anybody engaging him. That leaves three. One of them is about your age and he's got a macintosh over his overcoat, like you. He's not had his hair cut for a long time, and he's got his macintosh collar up to try and hide the worst of it. He wears eyeglasses, too, very pre- cariously on the top of his thin pinched nose. You aren't frightened of him, you think. Then. there's the fellow at the front, who's turn it is next. He's very smart and well turned out, but he's got a dreadful cough. When he coughs he sounds as though he's got one foot in the grave. You time him, and he coughs about every five minutes ; and a promising interview lasts more than five minutes.

That leaves only the fellow next in front of you. A thin- featured young man in a smart grey overcoat, and an equally smart suit underneath. He's got a white silk scarf round his neck and wears a new bowler hat. He looks smart. He looks too smart.

It's the turn of the man with the cough, now. The previous applicant pushes his way out. He winks at us all, and shakes his head. " No good," he says, " only fifty shillings a week."

There's a murmur of disgust and several men at the back leave. " Fifty shillings ! Good prospects and pay ! " some- body quotes from the advertisement.

" The good only refers to the prospects," somebody else says, and we all laugh.

" They want somebody here who cad write out an advert ! " sneers the smart thin-faced fellow in front of you. " Fifty shillings ! An insult ! No good to me. Now I've waited four hours, though, I'll wait long enough to tell this fellow something."

You know the sort of thing this thin-faced chap is going to tell the fellow who is engaging staff. He'll yes sir and no sir harder than anybody. You've met his sort before. He's smart all right. But perhaps this employer is smart, too, and sees that this thin-faced fellow is too smart. You hope so. You'll stand a good chance, then.

There's a noise on the stairs and the tall thin office boy is standing over us, grinning down. " Can't see any more now," he says, sniggering. " You can write in if you like."

" Write in ! " somebody shouts, exasperated. " What's the good of that if there are no more vacancies ? Do they want any more clerks or don't they ? " Everybody feels like that about it. Why don't they tell you properly ? " Yes or no ? " demands somebody else, and several men start shouting at once. The office boy suddenly stops sniggering.

" Do they think we're fools ? " a voice shouts, and there is an ugly pause. " Why don't they tell us properly ? What do they think we've been waiting for ? " There's another pause, and you can feel the anger in that narrow passage; then somebody answers : " To see Father Christmas, maybe."

We all laugh at that, and make for the door. We jostle through, still laughing, and joking, and telling of times we've waited longer. We stream down the road. In a minute the smart thin-faced chap is by your side. " Been dying for a smoke," he says, pulling out his cigarette case, " Have one ? "