Donald Grierson came to Sharples. He had spent the previous day in London with Warren. He was a red-haired, burly man of good north-country stock, about forty years of age, energetic and outspoken. “Oh, aye,” he said, “they let me go all right. The Clydeside aren’t that full of work. Mind, they wanted to know what I was going to, but I didn’t let on.” Warren asked: “Have you been in Sharples recently?” Grierson shook his head. “I was there four years back. Not since. They tell me things is very bad in Sharples.” Warren nodded. “Now, let me show you what I’ve done so far.” Grierson laid his hand upon a heavy roll. “These are the plans?” They worked on steadily all through the day. At the end of it Grierson faced him across the table. “Well, Mr. Warren,” he said thoughtfully, “I’d like you to know how it all strikes me before I go up North on to the job, the way we’ll understand each other from the start.” He drew through a dead pipe between his teeth.
