By Tuesday morning, he was at work again, fitting out cableships at
Birkenhead. Of the walk from his lodgings to the works, I find a
graphic sketch in one of his letters: 'Out over the railway
bridge, along a wide road raised to the level of a ground floor
above the land, which, not being built upon, harbours puddles,
ponds, pigs, and Irish hovels; - so to the dock warehouses, four
huge piles of building with no windows, surrounded by a wall about
twelve feet high - in through the large gates, round which hang
twenty or thirty rusty Irish, playing pitch and toss and waiting
for employment; - on along the railway, which came in at the same
gates and which branches down between each vast block - past a
pilot-engine butting refractory trucks into their places - on to
the last block, [and] down the branch, sniffing the guano-scented
air and detecting the old bones. The hartshorn flavour of the
guano becomes very strong, as I near the docks where, across the
ELBA'S decks, a huge vessel is discharging her cargo of the brown
dust, and where huge vessels have been discharging that same cargo
for the last five months.
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