The fire at Galhardy’s made a good deal of talk; even the London papers
mentioned it, and in the immediate neighbourhood of the foundries it
was naturally the sole subject of conversation. It was the largest
fire they had had there for a very long time, and, though nothing
approaching the whole of the works was destroyed, the damage was
estimated at something like ten thousand pounds. As Galhardy’s took
their own insurance, the directors felt it.
The immediate cause was the firing of the oil-tank, a great receptacle,
containing at the time at least eight thousand gallons of oil. Such
an accident may happen when an ingot of steel is being lowered to be
quenched, for the question of temperature then is a nice one: let it
be too low, the steel is spoiled; let it be too high, ignition is a
serious danger. But as to precisely how it occurred on this occasion,
there was a little uncertainty. Brett, now recognised as the perfecter
of the new process, and personally interested in the steel, was
standing on the crane at the time of the accident. He had been in the
works for some little while previous. An ingot of steel has no idea of
schedule time and anyone’s convenience; it is ready when it is ready,
and can neither be hastened nor hindered. This one was late, so Brett
had to wait some little while in the works, closed—so far as they ever
were closed—for the night.
The firing of an oil-tank is a startling sight to a man who has never
seen it before, even if it begins modestly with the springing up of
little, licking flames along the surface of the liquid as the ingot
first touches it. Whether they arise from the contact of overheated
metal or from another more obscure cause, the effect is the same to
the man who knows there are eight thousand gallons of oil below the
lighting surface, and that he is standing just above it. Once, when
such a thing happened at Galhardy’s, a man standing watching had the
ingot lowered steadily and swiftly to the tank, in spite of the wind
which drove the smoke and flames right into the crane, and the lid on,
and the fire choked for want of air before it was fairly under way. The
man’s name was reputed to have been Michael Annarly, but no one really
knew anything about it, for he was not on the spot in an official
capacity, merely looking on. There were only a couple of workmen there
at the time, and as there was no disaster there was no talk.
Certainly, the man’s name was not Cecil Brett. The proceeding would
not have struck Brett as very safe, had he thought of it. It is true
his proceeding might not have struck the other as very safe either;
but it was not unnatural. To seize the cranesman’s arm at the first
alarming manifestation may be called foolish; but it was natural. Who
was to foresee that so doing would make him lose his grip and release
the lever so that the thirty-five-ton ingot plunged all at once, and
uncontrolled, into the tank? And even then, who is to say that it was
that which made the firing of the oil so swift, so complete, and so
disastrous? No one did say it, for no one knew much about it. Brett
himself certainly did not dogmatise on the subject; he was sure the
completeness and swiftness of the firing would have been the same in
any circumstances. Of course, the rush of the plunge accounted for the
terrible up-spurt of burning oil that, leaping out of the tank as the
ingot splashed in, fell right and left on sheds and buildings, setting
them in a blaze. But they would probably have kindled anyhow. There was
a strong wind blowing at the time, and the flames from such a fire were
of so tremendous a size, and so beyond control, that they must have
carried destruction far; indeed, it was very generally believed to have
been carried that way.
The wind, which was not toward the crane this time, saved Brett and
the cranesman. They had time to escape, and did so. No lives were
lost in the fire, owing to the wind, and the hour, and situation of
the outbreak. Although it assumed considerable size before it was got
under control, no one was seriously hurt. And, what perhaps was a more
curious chance, few men were long thrown out of work as a consequence.
In many respects it might have been called a directors’ fire, so
singularly was the resulting loss restricted in its effects. It might
almost have been the work of an enemy.
There were some who perceived this, Brett among them. He perceived
it all the more plainly when he heard from someone, who happened to
recognise Michael Annarly at the station on the morning following, that
he had been in the neighbourhood at the time of the fire.
“Odd thing Annarly happened to be in the district then,” he observed
to several. Among others, he observed it to Carson, who was one of the
very few who were aware of it before.
“Think so?” Carson said carelessly. “It didn’t strike me. He was dining
with me that evening.”
“Dining with you?”
Sir James Shannon, who was present at the time, repeated the words with
an intonation which roused in Carson those sentiments Englishmen feel
when they consider their divine right to do what they please, and know
whom they please, is being questioned.
“Yes,” he answered, “he was here all the afternoon, too” (he did not
say for what purpose). “Queer chap, extraordinarily clever, always
worth talking to.”
Sir James acquiesced coldly. “I believe his ability was never called
into question,” he said.
It must be remembered that there was the incident of the revolver which
was not loaded, behind Sir James, and that Brett, who was now present,
had been a listener as well as a participator in it. It would not, of
course, have made a man so honourable condemn one whom he believed not
guilty; but it would not help him to give the benefit of the doubt, or
to find extenuating circumstances for weaknesses which he naturally
abhorred in one whom he had never approved.
He dropped the subject of Michael Annarly now with the conclusiveness
of extreme dislike. The others did not pursue it in his presence. But
later they did, for Brett wanted to know several things. What time
Michael left Carson, how it tallied with the hour of the outbreak of
fire, and one or two other particulars. He did not exactly suspect
him of complicity, he had neither seen nor heard anything on which to
found such a suspicion during his wait in the works. He also knew the
great difficulties in the way; it would have been wellnigh impossible
for anyone, no matter how well acquainted with the foundry and with
the work itself, to have got in, or to have brought about just such
a fire when in. On the face of it the thing was scarcely possible.
Nevertheless, there were one or two who paid Michael the compliment
of, for a time at least, harbouring a suspicion of him—which suggests
an instructively high estimate both of his ability and his malignity
towards themselves. But Carson was able to set at rest any question of
that sort.
“That’s all rot, you know,” he said, when he perceived the trend of
Brett’s inquiries. “Annarly was here till a quarter to eleven, and from
here he went to the pub down the road, where he stayed till he left for
town the next morning. He had a woman of some sort there; I saw her
standing with him at a window when I went by in the car to the fire,
and she went up to town with him next morning, so I suppose she could
prove his alibi. I don’t know who she was; he didn’t mention her to me,
but I dare say you could find out and collect her evidence. Though,
how on earth he, or anyone else, is to have got from here to the works
between a quarter to eleven and the time of the firing of the tank,
not to mention got that complicated job under way in that time, or any
other, I don’t see. The thing’s not possible for sheer hourage, if for
nothing else.”
“No,” Brett said. “No, of course not; I never really thought it.
There’s no need to be annoyed about it; I am not for a moment
suspecting you were entertaining an incendiary awares or unawares, or
anything of that sort. But you must confess Annarly’s being here at the
time is a curious coincidence. I should hardly be doing my duty to the
directors, if I did not inquire into it.”
“Rats!” Carson retorted flippantly, and added something ribald about
Brett’s duty. When men have known each other more or less all their
lives, and their fathers before them, the mildly official tone is apt
to produce that effect. Brett dropped it.
“Anyhow, seeing what we have against him——” he excused himself.
“Haven’t seen,” Carson said; “you great men of the board kept it to
yourselves.”
“I had to,” Brett answered with a slight return to the official.
“Annarly, of course, is in a different position. I suppose he justified
himself when he dined with you?”
“Justified his grandmother!” Carson retorted. “Why should you expect
him to squeal any more than anyone else?”
Brett did not say. “I didn’t know,” he said, perhaps just a trifle
relieved. “I suppose he would not say anything, now one comes to think
of it.”
“Of course not,” Carson said contemptuously, and not perceiving the
relief.
“I tell you what it is,” he observed. “I don’t know what the fellow did
or didn’t do, but I wouldn’t mind betting it wasn’t half so dirty as is
done at Galhardy’s every day in the week. And, dirty or clean, I’ve a
notion old Joe and the rest of them made a bit of a mistake when they
chucked him out; he’s the only man of first-class brains they’ve ever
lit on between them.”
“I don’t agree with you,” Brett said stiffly.
Carson laughed. “That’s quite likely,” he said. “And the fact itself
don’t agree with old Joe either; just try the words ‘aerial torpedo’
on Sir Joseph Harte, J.P., M.S.A., etc., with a few kind inquiries as
to when that problem of modern warfare is to be solved, if you want to
see an old gentleman upset in his inside. Bretty, my son, it suggests
itself to the common or garden man, not a director or secretary, just
the ordinary blockhead—that Galhardy’s were a little too previous that
time—they aren’t often, but it looks as if they were then. They kicked
their genius out a little too soon. They’ve got his torpedo no doubt,
but it rather looks as if without him they can’t get the beastly thing
to torp. Awful bore for them, Bretty.”
Brett declined to discuss the subject, which was no more than his
duty. Instead he set himself to find out what Michael was doing at
the present time. Had he asked plainly he would, no doubt, have heard
at once whatever Carson knew. But he was not aware of that and so
cleverly tried more indirectly for information, with the result that he
carried away nothing but a vague and rather exalted idea of Michael’s
work and position, far from correct. Almost the only definite piece of
information he gained was that his informant was inclined to put some
work in Michael’s way himself.
“I wonder if he’d be able to do anything with Jeffersons’?” Carson
speculated. “They haven’t paid a dividend worth the name for no end
of a time; in justice to the shareholders something ought to be done.
I think I’ll write him about it. Spinning machinery isn’t much in his
line, I suppose—or wasn’t—but he’s the kind of clever devil that can do
most things he tries. I think I’ll write him and ask if he’d be willing
to look into the matter, if I arranged it.”
Jeffersons’ was a firm of cotton-spinners in which Carson had
considerable interest—in name and monetarily, that is; in fact, he knew
nothing about the business. From time to time he had reports, which he
did not read or did not trouble to understand, if he did. From time
to time he met some better-informed among the directors, and, between
discussion of the shooting prospects and the weight of salmon taken,
heard something of mechanical difficulties, financial difficulties,
and disputes with operatives. On the most recent of these occasions
he had heard so much of the oft-repeated tale of increasing expenses
and falling profits that the vague impression he had had of late that
something ought to be done was a good deal strengthened.
It occurred to him now, when he thought of Michael Annarly, that a man
with an original way of overhauling machinery or utilising power or
doing something, might help them. This man might not have done any
work on spinning machinery, probably had not; but that did not matter;
if an ordinary expert on the subject could have helped Jeffersons’ he
would have been engaged there doing it before this. It was evidently
not a case for such a one, rather for the sort of man who can do
things, just things. Carson had rather the idea of Michael and his
ability that the mayor and corporation of Hamelin had of the Pied
Piper—one put him in and the rats, or other troubles, came out.
“I dare say he’d take the job on,” he said. He had no very clear idea
of Michael’s present position and occupation, beyond that he had said
he was with his uncle, the furniture man, but he did not fancy it was
very prosperous. “I’ll go along with him myself,” he decided, with a
burst of business energy; “there’s pretty good trout fishing; I always
promised Winder I’d have a day or so with him.”
He wrote to Winder, another and more energetic director of Jeffersons’,
who dwelt more upon the spot. He also wrote to Michael, making the
proposal to him: a business proposal, but with the suggestion of a day
or two at Redstoke on the way there or back, and a few days—as long as
he wanted to look at things—with Winder; time to be divided between the
fish and the mill.
Lady Sibyl wrote at the same time. She was home again now and had
heard all that had happened, Michael’s coming and going, the fire
at Galhardy’s and other matters. She was deeply interested in all,
but more especially the rediscovery of Michael in the unlikely
circumstances. She had been very sorry to lose sight of him as she had
done, it had troubled her a good deal; one does lose sight of people,
of course, it is bound to happen by a natural process of dropping out
or by their going to the further ends of the earth; but she had never
before lost sight of anyone abruptly and completely like this, while
interest was still keen and feeling warm. The interest may have been a
little overlaid by fresh ones arising in the months which had elapsed
since he went without a word of good-bye or explanation, but it revived
again now. She had never believed the charges she had heard made or
hinted against him; she had contradicted them, when she had nothing
whatever to go on but her own conviction. She looked forward now to
seeing him again and hearing him explain the whole to her, as in the
past he used to explain his work and difficulties and ambitions. She
would then be able to contradict emphatically; perhaps to help him a
little towards vindication. She wrote warmly, saying how glad she was
to have heard of him again, and seconding the invitation to come to
Redstoke.
“If he does not come on the way, bring him with you when you come
back,” she said to her husband, and he said he would.
Michael did not come on the way there, he could not get away in time;
Carson met him somewhere on the journey, and they went straight to
Winder’s together.
The fishing was very good that year, Carson had some excellent luck.
He felt it a pity not to be able to give more time to it; still, as he
had come on business, he did it. He did quite a lot, standing in the
whir of machinery, and sitting in offices listening to accounts and
statements, when outside there were soft skies and brown streams with
the spotted fish lying in hollows under tree-roots. Michael did not
fish; Winder thought it rather odd, so did Carson, though he remembered
that Michael did not do anything.
“You haven’t reformed, then?” he said, “Pity; better for you if you
did.”
Winder suggested that he must find it a little slow, and time a little
heavy on his hands.
Carson laughed. “’Ware that subject!” he said. “Annarly always wanted
to get a syndicate, Father Time as partner, to buy up the hours that
fellows like you and I waste—then, with that addition to his own life,
he’d be able to ‘get a little decent work done.’ That’s the expression,
isn’t it?”
“I dare say it used to be,” Michael admitted. “I don’t remember, it’s a
long time ago.” (It was nine months, but time is not hours only.)
“But you know,” he said, “there really is no time to spare now if I’m
to go into the matter of your spinning-mill, and report on it in the
few days I can be here.”
“All right,” Carson said, “all right; you shall go into it up to the
neck, and stop there all day, if you like. Winder and I’ll take a
plunge with you now and then, and retire to get our breath and watch
your exploits from a distance between whiles.”
On some such principle the inspection was made, Michael devoting
himself to it with the intense application and energy that were well
remembered at Galhardy’s: mastering every detail, inquiring into
every corner, and observing all things accurately and minutely. The
other two accompanied him at times, and when they did not, managers
and other gentlemanly and not very well-informed persons attended on
him alone—completely perplexed by his methods and a little bewildered
by the pace, reduced though it was by the dead weight of their own
leisurely amiability.
Mrs. Winder liked the visitor. He took more trouble to be agreeable to
her than did most of the men of her acquaintance, interesting himself
in her subjects, instead of expecting her to take interest in his;
paying her the compliment of assuming her knowledge on any technical
or intellectual matter touched on to equal, if not excel his own. It
did not occur to her that there may have been in this something of
that which makes a foreigner, who is a good linguist, sometimes speak
a language more accurately and perfectly than a native—it is foreign,
and he has learnt it, not been born to it, and is taking pains with
it. That certainly did not occur to any of them any more than it
occurred to them that this might be the first time Michael had worn
dress-clothes since he left Galhardy’s; the first time since then he
had spent leisurely evenings with cards, and music, and idle talk that
tended nowhere.
“Clever chap,” Carson summed him up; “always was a bit odd, and a
regular devil for work. He’ll make some of them skip if he takes over
the job of working up this show.”
“I hope he may do it,” Winder said, though it is probable he did not at
all realise what it was he expressed a hope for.
On the sixth day Michael was ready with his report. Winder was out at
the time he produced it, but he seemed to prefer giving it to Carson
alone.
“Why?” Carson asked. “Winder’ll be back this evening, it can wait till
then, can’t it?”
“It can wait,” Michael said, “but there’s no object in its doing so;
there’s nothing to discuss, there’s nothing to be done.”
“Nothing?”
Carson was rather taken aback; but next minute he had recovered his
hopefulness. “Oh,” he said, “that’s just your way of putting it; they
always said at Galhardy’s you thought the world was coming to an end
when you first found one of your screws working loose—and saw a way of
turning it into a propeller or something worth a hundred thousand to
the firm before anyone else had discovered what it was you were knocked
over about.”
Michael laughed. “I dare say I was ass enough,” he said. “But I am
afraid this is not such a case: it is the plain truth; there is nothing
here that I can do. Your machinery is up to date—of course, there is a
thing or two which might be altered or improved; a little adjustment
here and there which, with a small outlay, might save a certain amount.
I’ll give you a detailed account of that by and by—but it is nothing.”
“Not your work? I thought that was the sort of thing you did—saw after
those affairs for people?”
“I could, of course,” Michael said, “but it would be sheer waste to
pay me to do it; your own people can do it for you, if they’re told.
Besides, as I say, it amounts to really nothing; there’s no real
leakage there.”
“Where then?”
Michael hesitated. “I came to look at the machinery,” he said. “I
really don’t understand anything else; I’m merely an engineer.”
“Get out!” Carson said derisively. “If you were that you’d be at
Galhardy’s now—if you’d ever got there on such slight qualifications.
You came here to find out what was the matter, and, if we could come to
terms, take over the job of setting it right. What is the matter? You
know fast enough.”
“Yes, I do,” Michael admitted.
“Good! What’ll you take to set it right?”
“I can’t do it.”
“Bosh again. Why not?”
“None of the directors would allow it.”
Carson laughed. “Why, man,” he said, “we’re prepared to pay rather
handsomely for it! Is it beneath your dignity?”
Michael thought of General Wallaby’s motor, and the machine-drawings
done in the room over Robert Barmister’s office, and the small wage
paid to him at Nan’s request for inefficiently done clerk’s work.
“No,” he said quietly.
“All right then. What is the objection? Do you reckon it impossible?”
Michael considered a moment. “No,” he said slowly. “I should say it
could be done. I believe in two years Jeffersons’ might be made to pay,
at all events, nearly as well as it used, if a man were given a free
hand—and did not come to a sudden end first.”
Carson looked up quickly. “What do you mean?” he asked.
Michael did not answer. “Have you ever been over a Government concern,”
he inquired, “a big old one—factory, or works, or something of that
sort? Of course, they mayn’t all be alike; but the ones I have
come across are. Has it ever struck you how they are overstaffed,
especially in the managerial department? They swarm with well-bred,
pleasant, gentlemanly persons who, knowing nothing really of the
job, depend on the foremen for everything, make the neatest and most
voluminous reports to head-quarters—and the most astounding mistakes.
Does it occur to you what such an overstaffing means in waste? Not
in salaries only—that’s the smallest item—but in men’s time, in
reporting and waiting about, getting orders, giving orders, regiving
them, misunderstanding them, restating mistaken ones—in all-round
inefficiency, in fact.”
“H’m,” Carson said. “That’s how Jeffersons’ strikes you, is it?”
“Well——” Michael halted rather awkwardly, “I don’t mean it is as bad
as all that. Of course, it isn’t like some government concerns—no
private one could be and live, unless it were enormously wealthy. But
old firms, where the control has been pretty much among families of
position, the same families for a long time, and where the profits
have been considerable, have rather a tendency to that sort of thing.”
“I see,” Carson said, and sat thoughtful. “What is it you advise?” he
asked at length.
“Nothing,” Michael answered. “I told you it was not within my scope.”
“You said that, given that a man had a free hand, you believed
Jeffersons’ could be made to pay. What’s the man with a free hand to
do?”
“Insure that everyone earns his wages,” Michael said; “see they all
did, from highest to lowest—or went. As, at least, half of those there
with salaries above two hundred and fifty a year neither would nor
could really earn it, the wage-bill would be somewhat reduced; also
the amount of time at present spent in telling them what they don’t
understand, and hearing from them what must be restated before it can
be carried out, at what time they shall chance to look in at the mill.”
“H’m,” Carson said again, and sucked at his pipe in silence.
“Of course, one might pension some of them off,” Michael suggested,
warming to the work of construction as he always did, whether laying
out plans for the heating apparatus of a linen cupboard or the
complicated mechanism for some dream invention. “It would be cheaper
for the firm to pay some of them a hundred a year not to come than two
hundred and fifty to come. But the real way to do it would be to make
the position impossible—it soon would be when the thing was running as
it ought. A certain number of foremen and operatives would go too. Men
who’ve worked under a slack system don’t all of them take kindly to
working under an efficient; but most would stop, and the others could
be replaced. There wouldn’t be much trouble with the men.”
“H’m,” said Carson for the third time, and he looked long and rather
curiously at Michael. “Let’s have more details.”
He had them: they spent some time going into the matter fairly
thoroughly; at the end of the time he had a much clearer idea of the
ways and workings of a spinning-mill than he had had before, and a very
fair idea of the conditions that obtained at Jeffersons’. He sat awhile
in thought, turning things in his mind; at length he said:
“Supposing the directors were convinced that what you say is correct,
and were to consent to give you the free hand, would you undertake this
reorganisation? I don’t say they would do it, but if they would, would
you undertake it?”
“No.”
“Why not? Afraid of the vengeance of offended parties?”
Michael was not; he had made enemies before.
“Then why? I take it you do not doubt your own ability, it’s pretty
obvious that you both could do it and know you could. Do you doubt the
free hand? For the sake of argument let’s call that granted. What’s the
objection? I think you owe it to me to say.”
“I suppose so,” Michael said. “Yes, I know I do; you’ve been very good
to me. Well, then, it’s my position. After that affair at Galhardy’s,
which is not cleared up and never will be cleared up, I believe, I’m
a speckled bird, marked if not absolutely branded. A man to do such
a thing as we have been discussing has got to be above suspicion. He
can’t do it properly otherwise; there must be plenty of people, who,
in the nature of things, must distrust him, suspect him of playing
his own game and the rest. It would be extremely difficult for anyone
to come in and do this work, even with a spotless reputation and
friends at court; without them about impossible. For a rank outsider,
with a scarred reputation, it is not to be thought of. The directors
themselves could not help going back on such a one after a time,
no matter how they started; it isn’t in reason that they should be
unimpressed by all that would be brought up against him by men they
knew and liked when he had really set to work and was making enemies
with both hands. There obviously would be chances for a man to feather
his own nest and play his own game in the unique position they had put
him in. They could not help realising it, and after a bit, they would
not like it in the light of Galhardy’s; and, what’s more, they would
not go on with it, no matter how they started, their faith would not be
robust enough. Your own would not be.”
“Oh?” Carson said. “You think that? Though I did not think you a
blackguard at the time of the Galhardy business, I should when the
racket began? I didn’t myself know I was in the habit of changing my
mind so easily.”
“No,” Michael protested, “it isn’t that! I don’t think you would change
your mind, or ever go back on me about that. I know that and——. Well, I
don’t suppose you know quite what it’s worth to me. It’s not that which
would make the difference to you, though it would to others; but it
would, through others and the general talk and publicity and row there
would be, make the need for more faith in me than—than it is reasonable
to expect you to have.”
“Look here”—he leaned forward and spoke earnestly—“I’m not one of you,
not really, and I never have been and never will be, whatever I may
have pretended or persuaded myself or played at. I don’t belong, and,
inside, vaguely you know it; I have different standards, I do some
things you wouldn’t, probably won’t do some things you do—have not
just your code; and when I was in that position you could not help
remembering it. You would be justified, for it would come into play and
worry you. You see, in that position I should be your man; in a very
little while they would be all against me and the whole thing; you, who
first introduced me, would be the only one for me, and you would have
to be for me in no common manner to make the position workable. And you
couldn’t be; however honest you might think me in the main, you could
not forget about the other things, the different standpoint and code,
and so on. It is not possible.”
“Only possible to let Jeffersons’ peter out to respectable bankruptcy,
paying twenty shillings in the pound?”
“It won’t do that. You can do something yourself: see no more of these
wasters get in, pension a few of them off on some excuse, and make the
improvements in machinery, I spoke of. That’s quite possible; but the
other——”
“You won’t undertake it?”
“No.”
Carson’s eyes had narrowed a little, they were rather small eyes,
but set far apart and very honest. “You aren’t right,” he began
obstinately, then he got up. “Oh, damn it all!” he said; he knew that
he was right.
* * * * *
“There’s one thing I can’t stand about Annarly,” he said afterwards to
Lady Sibyl, “that is his infernal logic and clearsightedness! It isn’t
decent to see so far into a thing. He’s not content with knowing why he
does what he does himself, which is bad enough; but he knows why other
fellows do a sight more clearly than they do themselves—till he tells
them, which is beastly.”
“Why didn’t he come back with you?” Lady Sibyl asked.
“Got to be in town.”
“On Saturday?”
“Well, he said so; I suppose he works on Sunday, I don’t know; anyhow,
he wouldn’t come, though, when we first got to Winder’s, he said he
would. I don’t know why he changed his mind, but he did.”
“We must ask him again later on,” Lady Sibyl said.
“He won’t come,” her husband told her. “Bet you what you like, he
won’t.”
Lady Sibyl looked surprised. “Why not?” she asked.
“Don’t know.” Carson did not know why he did things, or why other
people did, and could not have expressed it if he had. “Something to do
with his view of himself and us, perhaps. Awfully queer. But I believe
he was right in a way. I believe I would have come to think like that
of him. Fact I do now, I believe. Give you my word, Sib, I never felt
such a sweep in my life, but he was right, and he was right not to take
that job.”