Early on the Monday morning the Reverend Hugh and his son Jack
entrained for Southville. Jack was pre-occupied with some deep
thought, and his father noticed it.
"Sorry to leave the old place, Jack?"
"Er--yes. Nothing touches this place for me."
"You must get to know some nice people at Southville."
Jack pulled himself together; he had been gazing earnestly at Lady
Cleeve's house nestling in among the pine trees; the slope of a hill
suddenly shut out the view, and Jack turned to his father with
attention undivided. "You know I'm not so keen on the people as the
work, but Darwen seems to think that in municipal work you can't get
on at all without friends."
The parson's eyes lighted up with approval as he listened to his son.
"Work is the thing that makes life enjoyable, but you must have
friends, you know."
Jack was silent for some time. "It seems a rotten state of things,"
he observed at length, and his father laughed aloud.
Darwen was on shift when they arrived, but Jack took his father to
their diggings, and very soon after Darwen came in; his handsome face
lighted up with a beaming smile as he shook hands with the Reverend
Hugh. "I say," he said, "I should have known you for Jack's father
if I had met you in the street alone."
The old parson smiled with approval as his shrewd grey eyes took in a
complete impression of face and form and expression. He succumbed at
once to the charming manner and charming personality of the tall,
clean-looking young engineer. "Wholesome, athletic, happy-go-lucky,
but intelligent," was his mental summing up. Such were the sort of
friends he expected his son to make; he looked from one to the other
with keen approval. They pushed forward the easiest chair and plied
him with cushions and tobacco. They took him back to his own college
days.
"You fellows seem very comfortable here," he said.
"Not bad," they agreed.
He smiled. "It was always 'not bad,'" he said. "Hullo!" he glanced
along the backs of the books on the shelf at his side. "Tennyson,
Keats, Dante, Shelley, 'Hamlet,' 'Julius Cæsar,' 'Barrack Room
Ballads,' 'The Prince'! I didn't know you had a fancy for poetry,
Jack."
"Not guilty! Those are Darwen's." Jack was stretched out, six feet
of muscularity, full length on a slender-looking couch. He puffed
slowly at his pipe. "Those are mine"--he pointed to a shelf on the
other side.
His father glanced along the backs of them, reading the names aloud.
"'Dynamo, Electric Machinery,' h-m, bulky volume that! 'Manual of
the Steam Engine'; 'The Steam Engine,' h-m, three volumes.
'Polyphase Currents,' ah! 'Text Book of Heat,' 'Theoretical
Chemistry,' 'Trigonometry,' 'Integral Calculus,' 'Differential
Calculus' (Todhunter). That's mine, I think. I thought Edwards was
the man on the Calculus nowadays."
"Ye-es, Darwen's got him somewhere. I prefer Todhunter, leaves more
to the imagination, you know."
"Ah, the imagination. Quite so."
"Seems to me the limit of a man's possibility in anything is the
limit of his imagination."
"And his control of it, Jack."
"Exactly."
Darwen had his chair tilted back wards, blowing clouds of smoke
vertically upwards to the ceiling. He spoke slowly between the
puffs. "Carstairs--Jack, has got no soul above machines, inanimate
lumps of iron; the hum of a smoothly running engine is the only
poetry that appeals to him, so it does to me, but I like a change;
little bits of Shelley, little drops of Kipling----"
"I admit that 'M'Andrews' Hymn' is a real poem."
"Shut up! You reek of the engine room. I like a change. Variety is
the soul of amusement." He dropped his chair on to its front legs
again and looked at Jack's father. "Hasn't some one said that?" he
asked.
"I really couldn't say, perhaps so." He smiled with amusement.
Darwen looked at him steadily, thoughtfully, for a moment. "Do you
know I think there's a touch of the Dago in me--or perhaps it's Celt.
Do you think I'm Irish?"
"My dear boy, you should know that best."
"That's so! English, the mater says, pure English, but I don't know.
I'm a bit of a rogue, you know; the instinct of dishonesty is very
strong at times."
The Reverend Hugh laughed, and Darwen jumped up. "I'll play you a
tune, if you'll stand it," he said. He sat down and played,
wandering on from one thing to another, ever and anon glancing at the
old vicar, then he got up. "Does that bore you?" he asked.
"Bore me? My dear fellow, you are an accomplished musician."
He flushed slightly with pleasure. "I like music. Let's have a trot
round the town and show your guv'nor the sights, Carstairs."
"The guv'nor knows the vicar of St James."
"Does he? By Jove! that's good."
So they went avisiting.
The Reverend Moorhouse was short and very broad, he had more the
legal than the clerical type of face; an old international Rugby
footballer, the impress of the game was still strong on him,
vigorous, keen, bluff. It was evident he was pleased to see his old
friend, he said so, and invited all three of them to dinner the next
night.
The dinner was good; Mrs Moorhouse was plain, stout, chatty, and
exceedingly kind; the Misses Moorhouse, two of them, were tall,
athletic, and pretty. They talked about hockey and tennis and
swimming; the two young men were charmed. Carstairs was quite
vivacious, Darwen seemed to scintillate; Mrs Moorhouse watched him
with approving eyes, and later on, when he played and sang with the
elder Miss Moorhouse, she took possession of him; crossing the room
she sat down beside him. "You must come and help us at the church,"
she said.
"I shall be delighted," he answered, with real pleasure shining in
his eyes.
The vicar's wife was business-like and decisive, she fastened him
down by compact and contract at once.
Altogether it was a merry and delightful evening, and when they at
length departed it was in a particularly bright and happy mood. They
walked back; it was not very far and a beautiful starry night; there
was a tinge of frost in the air; Jack Carstairs threw his chest out
and took a deep gulp of the fresh, crisp air.
"I believe these little diversions do improve one's form, you know, I
feel like a sprint." He looked up and down the long silent street of
semi-detached, shrubbery-enclosed villas. As he looked back his face
suddenly hardened into a fierce look of anger, his mouth shut like a
steel trap, and his grey eyes took on a cold, steely glitter; for
just as he glanced round, a rough-looking man, carrying a big stick
had limped past a lamp light on the other side of the road.
Carstairs said no word, but there was an abruptness in his manner
that attracted his father's attention.
"What's the matter, Jack?" He glanced round and Darwen followed
suit, but the man was now in the shade and hardly noticeable.
"Nothing," he answered, staring straight ahead; but out of the corner
of his eye he caught a meaning look from Darwen, and in response
jerked his head ever so slightly backwards and to one side.
Promptly Darwen dropped back to do up his bootlace. A few seconds
later, the man with the limp, who had crossed the road and was now
directly behind them, quickened his pace and limped past. Carstairs
stopped and faced round as the limping step drew near, but the man's
face was averted and he went on without a word or sign; some way
ahead they saw that he was joined by another man, hitherto
unobserved, who, without any word of greeting, stepped out of the
shadow and walked along with him; he seemed exceptionally short, but
his hands hung down below his knees--probably a hunchback.
"Those men are after no good," the Reverend Hugh observed.
"No. I expect not. There have been several burglaries round here
lately."
Darwen held out his walking-stick. "Do you notice the sticks we
carry? Guaranteed to kill at one smite." He laughed lightly.
Something of the spirit of the party returned to them, and they went
home more or less lighthearted.
After the old vicar was safely in bed, Darwen went along to Jack's
bedroom. He was half expected; he sat down on a chair while
Carstairs stretched himself, half undressed, on the bed.
"That was Sam?" Darwen asked.
"Yes, I'm sure of it! Don't know who the other chap is, seems as if
he's rounding up a gang. What do you think of putting the police on
it?"
"Don't see how you can! Anyhow the scandal of it, if there was an
exposure, would wreck your rosy prospects in this town. A young man
with a fancy for spending his nights in the woods with charming gipsy
maidens is not the sort that the wife of the vicar of St James can
allow to associate with her daughters."
Carstairs swore volubly. "Do you know she's got a slavey's job at
Lady Cleeve's, the local big bug's at home."
"Did she know where you lived?"
"Yes, I told her."
"You were a fool."
"I don't know." Carstairs was very thoughtful. "Damn it, she knocks
spots off any girl I've seen yet. She's improving, too."
Darwen's eyes glistened. "I like playing with fire myself," he said.
"It's our job," Carstairs answered, cynically. "We're paid to do it."
"It is damn rotten for you, I admit. Have you got a revolver?"
"Yes."
"Oh! but that's no good either, you mustn't attract attention in that
way. I tell you what, we'll set a trap and collar the brute. You'll
have to be the bait. And--say Bounce and I, we ought to be able to
effect a capture."
"That's so, but what then?"
"Oh, anything. Bribery, threats, or we might shanghai the beast off
to Australia."
Carstairs was dubious. "They'll give it a rest for a bit now. He's
as cunning as a fox, that gipsy, he knows I recognized him. Damn
him! I'd have hit him over the head with my stick as he passed if
the guv'nor hadn't been there."
"Well, anyway, shall we call in Bounce? You've already told him the
story, haven't you?"
"Yes. Bounce's great idea is a heavy right on the jaw. 'Get in
close and hit hard,'" he said.
"That's very sound, too. After your guv'nor's gone, we'll hold a
council of war. Bounce may have some reliable pals. Good night, old
chap, keep your pecker up."
"Thanks. It's jolly good of you to lend me a hand over a rotten
business like this."
"That's alright. As I observed before, I like playing with fire."
"Well, I hope you won't get burnt over this. Good night."
"Good night."
Next day the old vicar went back to his flock again leaving a cordial
invitation for Darwen to come and see them. Jack saw him off.
"A very fine young fellow that. I'm glad you've made friends with
him."
"Yes! he's a jolly good sort," Jack answered, enthusiastically,
having fresh in his memory Darwen's offer of assistance.
The same night, Carstairs, Bounce, and Darwen held a council of war
in the shift engineer's office. "What we wants to do," Bounce said,
"is to find out what 'e wants. If it's murder 'e's after, we'll
shanghai 'im, if it's only a row, we'll give 'im that, but the first
thing to do is to capture 'im."
Carstairs sat on the side of the table puffing slowly at his pipe.
"Thanks very much for the suggestion and offer of assistance, Bounce,
but I don't want to shanghai him, I only want to get a fair show,
also I don't mind giving him a fair show if that will satisfy him."
The Quixotic strain of the Englishman was coming out in him. They
observed him in wonder. "Giving him a fair show?" they queried in a
breath.
He drawled very slowly. "I mean to say," he said, "I broke his leg.
I beat him once, but I had some assistance; if he fancies he can give
me a licking fair and square, I don't mind giving him a trial,
provided, of course, that that is really what is worrying him, you
understand."
Bounce nodded, a compound now of comprehension and disapproval, his
face expressed a keen appreciation of the principle involved, but a
strong objection to the practice suggested. "It's revenge 'e's
after, 'e don't want no fair play. Them sort o' blokes don't
appreciate fair play. You give 'im a licking once, 'e wants to give
you one in the back now. Most like you could buy 'im off."
"A mixture of threats and bribes," Darwen suggested. "We'll capture
him and frighten the wits out of him; say that we're going to give
him in charge for attempted murder. Then you can offer him a small
sum to go away and stay away. We'll explain that if he ever gets
within speaking distance of you again, you'll promptly have him
arrested."
"That's it," Bounce agreed.
"I suppose that is the best," Carstairs said, thoughtfully. "Do you
know I feel when I think of him that a damn good licking is the only
thing I can offer him. Yet when I consider that the poor devil is
permanently lame because--well, because I went off with his girl,
well, dash it, he has my entire sympathy. In my case I remember
distinctly that it gave me a sensation of extreme pleasure to think I
was whacking that brute for the sake of the girl. I'm not exactly
pugilistic, but I've never experienced anything so pleasureable as
the one or two smites I got home on him with the idea that they were
for the girl. I can understand the persistence with which he is
following me. She's the finest girl in all the world." His keen
grey eyes seemed to glow with a fierce ardour. At that moment he was
violently in love.
They looked at him in open wonder.
He stood up and stretched himself. "I should feel a better man if I
went out now and searched out that gipsy and bashed him, and then
went straight across to the girl and married her. What the devil are
these wishy-washy dances, these tuppenny ha'penny jobs, this sham
respectability? Simply a drag on a man's actions. I want to do
something."
Bounce nodded vigorously. "You're fit," he said, "trained fine. In
the pink of condition. That's how you feels when you comes ashore
after a three months' cruise. 'To hell with everything. Let's do
something.' That's it, ain't it?"
"That's it precisely."
"How you feel at the end of the 'footer' season," Darwen chimed in.
"Or when a match is postponed and you've got to dissipate your
energies on the desert air. Usually you make a thundering idiot of
yourself."
"I suppose that is so, but you enjoy it." Carstairs became
thoughtful again. "There are only certain times, practically
moments, when you can do these things; you do not appreciate them in
your normal condition, besides there's the guv'nor and the mater, and
really I know very little about the girl."
Darwen clapped him on the shoulder. "Wake up, old chap! You're
dreaming. You can't marry a gipsy girl; she'd want to feed you on
gipsy stew and half-hatched pheasant's eggs."
"When you goes off to-night at twelve o'clock, me and Mister Darwen
will shadow you like, and catch this yer Sam if he's knocking about.
I'll have a line in my pocket so's we can tie him up." Bounce was
very serious; he turned to Darwen. "When shall I meet you, sir?"
"Oh, at the corner, at five minutes to twelve."
"Five minutes to twelve at the corner? Very good, sir. Good night."
Bounce was just going when a boy came in to say that a policeman had
come to report some street light out. Darwen went out to see him.
"Half a minute," he said. He was back in a few moments with glowing
eyes. "By Jove! that's a whacking great chap, somewhere near seven
feet, I should think."
Bounce snorted. "Them big blokes ain't much use," he observed.
"Would you like to take him on for a few rounds, Bounce?"
"Well now, maybe 'e'd be mistook if 'e was to try to 'lift' me an' I
didn't want to go."
Darwen clapped his hands. "Well done. I'll tell you what. We'll
put down five bob for the winner and half a crown for the loser, and
you shall mutually arrest each other. Start at the boiler house and
you chuck him into the street, or he lugs you into the engine room.
How's that?"
"Very good, sir. If 'e'll take on, that five bob's mine." The
little sailor was very confident.
"Hurray!" Darwen rushed out to the door to interview the policeman
and explain the terms to him. The big man's eyes glistened. "There
ain't no man in this town as I can't arrest," he said. He glanced up
and down the street. "You'll make it all right if the sergeant
comes, sir? You wanted my assistance to eject a drunk bloke or
something, eh?" he winked, knowingly.
"That's alright. We'll put a boy to watch for the sergeant."
"Right you are, sir." The big man followed Darwen into the engine
room with long, stately strides and easy, confident air. He towered
a good six inches over Darwen's head.
Bounce stood up and eyed him up and down, then he put his hands to
his mouth and gave a mock hail. "Main top there!" he yelled.
The policeman smiled. "Don't you come talking to growed-up men," he
said. "Shall I take 'im now, sir?"
"Half a minute," Carstairs said. "Let's weigh the combatants."
So they proceeded in solemn procession to the coal scales.
Bounce was eleven stone eight and a half pounds. "'E oughtn't to be
out without his p'rambulator," the guardian of the law remarked, as
he stepped into the scales, and brought them up with a bang. They
shifted the weight along the rod till at nineteen stone eight and a
half pounds it balanced.
Bounce nodded approval. "'E'd go near ten stone with 'is boots off,"
he said, with conviction.
"How tall are you?" Darwen asked.
"Six feet and a half. I was the tallest man in the Grenadier Guards
when I was in it."
They went back to the boiler house and stood in a clear space under
an arc lamp. The policeman took off his long coat and helmet, "In
case 'e wipes 'is boots in it while I'm carrying of 'im."
"Open them big doors," Bounce requested, "so as I won't 'ave to push
'im through the window."
The two men stood facing each other with smiling, confident faces.
The big man stretched out a hand that would have supplied a whole
cannibal tribe with a substantial meal. "Are you coming quiet?" he
asked.
"No! I ain't," Bounce answered, circling slowly round him.
The whole works watched in eagerness.
Suddenly the big man made a short rush and a grab, but Bounce was not
there; instead he had dived at the policeman's legs and pulled him
down. He made another grab as he was falling, but the sailor was
like an eel. He dodged, and slipping round to the back of him, took
a grip with both hands on the policeman's collar. "Open them doors,"
he shouted, shuffling backwards and dragging the big man all along
the dirty floor.
The entire staff, on the broad grin, lined the doorway, as Bounce
dragged his burden through and deposited it on the pavement. Then he
stood up and tossed his shoulders with a jaunty, nautical air. "Now,
my lad, you run away, and play with the nurse-maids," he said.
In angry silence the policeman reached out for his helmet and coat;
Darwen slipped half a crown into his hand, and he went out into the
night, tramping sullenly along his beat.
Bounce beamed and pocketed his five shillings. "Them big blokes
ain't never no use," he said. "Five minutes to twelve? Good night,
sir!" He departed. But Darwen sat down on the edge of the table.
"Wonderful chap, Bounce." They chatted for some minutes, then
dropped into silence. Darwen broke it.
"For God's sake, Carstairs, don't go and do anything silly over that
gipsy girl. It would break your poor old guv'nor's heart; he was
holding forth to me, when you were out, about how very careful a
young man ought to be to avoid awkward entanglements: you were so
very steady, he said. I think he rather fancied I was not so steady.
'Young men fly into an engagement with a girl because she sings
nicely or something superficial like that.' Does the gipsy sing?"
Darwen laughed.
"Yes, said she sang very well."
"Did she? What becoming modesty."
"She was natural, that's all. Her father told her she was good, and
she repeated it."
"Her father? I didn't know that gipsies were always certain on these
points. Did you see him?"
"Oh, yes, spoke to him; at least, listened to his music."
"His music?" Darwen made a motion of turning a handle.
"Oh, no; the violin. I'm not much of an authority on these things,
but it seemed to me good, exceedingly good, the best I'd heard."
"This is interesting. Couldn't you introduce me to the family?"
"No. For the sake of my peace of mind I shall have to avoid that
girl like the very devil."
"My dear chap! probably St James, the footman, has already supplanted
you in the lady's affections. Wonderfully fascinating chaps, those
footmen. By the way, it's not usual for gipsies to go into domestic
service, is it?"
"No, I don't think it is." Carstairs pulled out his watch. "I must
go and have a look round; the load is heavy to-night." He opened the
door and Darwen followed him.
They went out through the engine room into the boiler house.
Carstairs brightened up at once, the hum of running machinery, and
the bustle of working men, was the breath of life to him; his face
hardened and his eye brightened with the "splendid purpose." Darwen
observed him closely.
"You're a born engineer, you know, Carstairs."
"Do you think so? Sometimes I think so myself." He looked around
him with keen appreciation at the long row of boilers under steam,
with the furnace-doors red hot, "a beautiful orange glow" he was wont
to describe it as; at the coal-grimed, brawny men, with the sweat
running off them as they sliced up the dazzling white fires. He
gazed critically into the blinding glare as they opened the red hot
doors, the radiant heat scorched his face and the intense light
dazzled his eyes, so that for some minutes afterwards everything was
green and blue to him. He looked at the men with their hard, strong
faces and their bare muscular arms and chests, the whole scene gave
him a sensation of extreme pleasure. To him it was more than
beautiful, it was sublime. A sensation of majestic force, of
overwhelming power, such as a towering mountain, the limitless ocean,
or a vast moorland conjure up. This sensation was his now, and it
was uplifting, artistic; he felt beyond the earth; yet in many ways
there was little of the artist in him, he was essentially of the
earth, earthly. Such is the best type of that modern product, the
Engineer.
And that you may know him when you meet him, I will tell you that he
is rather a rare bird. At the present time, probably, no profession
contains more "wasters" than electrical engineering; this is because
any man who can persuade a mayor and corporation or a chief engineer
to give him the job, can take charge of many thousands of horse-power
in boilers, and engines and dynamos, with infinite possibilities of
damage, and the lives of many men resting on his direction, nerve and
knowledge. Those dear men, who scorn to take an interest in their
work, are not the breed I mean; nor are those greasy individuals who
have arrived, oilcan in hand, from the engine bed: they are practical
they say, which means that their minds are a storehouse of
undoubtedly useful facts, they have a fairly clear recollection of a
great number of engineering possibilities which they have actually
witnessed; but, their reasoning powers are undeveloped, and their
methods of procedure on new lines are particularly hap-hazard trial
and error. The engineer to whom I refer is essentially a man of
science; he is mathematical, theoretical, and practical; he holds an
engineering degree and has been through the "shops"; he understands
both men and materials and the methods of handling them; frequently
he is a lonely sort of savage. He knows little of billiards, cards,
or dancing; his work precludes him from much intercourse with other
men except in business hours; often he is silent and somewhat shy
with women; usually he is of good physique and logically minded; his
life-work is the pursuit of truth; in the "shops" he learns to file
"truly," then he learns to set a thing in the lathe "truly." He
tests his finished work carefully to see that it runs "true," and on
the test plate he learns to measure accurately, in the drawing office
to calculate exactly; he works under, with, and over the working man,
and learns to know him better than anyone else; he does not shine at
football or cricket, but is often a particularly useful man in a
rough and tumble fight, an accomplishment he acquires in his progress
through the "shops"; he is an individual; he thinks and sees things
as they are, for that is what his work teaches him; he regards things
carefully, observing their quality, and speculating on the process of
their manufacture; he sums up men quickly. In my opinion, he is only
inferior to the sailor.
The æsthetic soul of Darwen was moved, too. "You're making 'em do
their damnedest," he observed.
Carstairs nodded. "That's what I like; you know the Yankee
definition, 'An engineer is a man who can do for one dollar what any
fool can do for two.' It's not bad, but like most Yankee things,
it's cheap and incomplete."
"The taint of the cheapness, old chap, is passing from the Americans
to us. You can get quality in the States, if you pay for it, now."
"That is so in some things, and to my mind that's the most marked
sign of progress; the nation without quality is as a house built upon
the sand. The moral effect on the workman who manufactures cheap
articles must be disastrous."
"The workmen, dear boy, are the people, and the people are mud. That
is the one point upon which I disagree with dear old Nick
Machiavelli."
"And probably, as far as I know, the one point on which I agree with
him, if he says the people are not mud."
"He does. He quotes a proverb, 'He who builds on the people, builds
on mud,' and disagrees with it. Personally, I think the people, the
mass, don't matter tuppence. Our officers have made the riff raff of
all nations fight like tigers."
"That's not correct. A relative of mine was in Ashantee, and the
coast niggers there ran like sheep. They had to give them up as
fighting material."
"Perhaps so, but it's only the exception that proves the rule, and
that was because we were hampered by sentiment. A coward rightly
handled, that is to say, brutally handled, will achieve more than
many really brave men."
"I very much doubt that too. I get good results by giving the
stokers a drink occasionally."
"Also you curse them occasionally."
"Well, not exactly curse them; you can't listen to all their
complaints; some of 'em would never do any work at all if you did."
"Quite so!" They passed on into the engine room. "I observe again,
Carstairs, that you make them do their damnedest."
"Again, I explain that I like doing so."
"Your coal costs are always points below mine."
"I am aware of it."
"Yet I bet the chief and old Robinson don't think any the more of you
for it."
"I have heard that the chief so far committed himself as to say that
you were the best engineer he'd ever had."
"I heard so too, which goes to prove my point. You are paid in this
world, not for pleasing yourself, but pleasing others. I believe I
could get my costs down to yours, but the chief and Robinson are
eminently 'safe' men. I shall never get a shut-down. Old Robinson
is on tenter hooks whenever you are on evening shift. 'That chap
cuts things too fine,' he told me the other day."
"Did he? Well! he always leaves me severely alone on the evening
shift."
"Of course, because if you get a shut-down it will be 'in the
unavoidable absence of Mr Robinson or Mr Chief.' See?"
"Yes; I see and comprehend, but don't care."
Darwen's eyes glistened with honest admiration. "There is much of
the aboriginal Saxon in you, Carstairs, with your grey eyes and light
hair and that big, bull-dog jaw. Rightly, you should worship Thor
and Odin, the gods of force. It's absurd for your guv'nor to be a
minister of the Christian religion."
"I agree with your last point; we're a family of seamen, really. We
worship Neptune."
"Ah! the sea, water, steam, electricity. Hence Jack Carstairs,
electrical engineer, seaman twice removed, eh?"
"About that."
"These things are always interesting. It is essential to understand
the machine you work with, and the people you live with. To properly
grip the bent of a man's mind, it is necessary to know his
antecedents. The seaman, we observe, has a natural aptitude for
engineering, coupled with great tenacity and self-reliance, a
particularly good friend, a just, but particularly unpleasant enemy;
a touch of sentiment and superstition, the results of much battering
and erratic favours from Father Neptune. The gipsy, on the other----"
"Oh, damn that gipsy," Carstairs flushed an angry red.
"Here we have a most interesting relic of the Berserk rage of the
Norseman. If within reach, that gipsy would have a particularly
rough time just at this moment."
"Oh, go to the devil, Darwen."
"Thanks very much for the advice, but I will return to the gipsy,
who, as I was about to observe, is, on the other hand, naturally a
poacher and very vindictive, and will therefore have to be poached,
that is to say, captured by stealth which----"
A sudden flash like miniature lightning illuminated the engine room,
followed immediately by a loud report.
Carstairs' big jaw tightened. Darwen's eyes glittered with an
æsthetic sort of joy. "Breakdown," he observed, "and I'm a
spectator."
A circuit fuse had blown, and was instantly followed by a continuous
flash and bang of some half dozen fuses, going one after the other,
like a straggling volley of small artillery. By an ingenious
inter-connection of the network of main supply cables it is arranged
that if one circuit fuse goes half a dozen immediately follow suit.
This is one of the many diabolical devices on which mains
superintendents particularly pride themselves. Carstairs strode up
on to the switchboard, very alert, but very cool. He switched out
all the switches, replaced the fuses by bigger ones, and switched in
again, the switchboard attendant assisting him in a high state of
nervous excitement. Now there is a piece of apparatus known as a
magnetic automatic circuit breaker. It is carefully designed to come
out at the wrong time and stay in at all other times; the good chief
of Southville, in the simplicity of his trust in catalogues, had,
"for safety," as he expressed it, two of these devices fixed on every
machine; when, therefore, Carstairs plugged in again on the heavier
fuses, these "safety" devices promptly opened, one after the other,
all except one small one, which hung in with a tenacity worthy of a
better cause. The station was plunged into instant inky darkness,
relieved only by fitful flashes from the commutators of the idle
machines, the governor of one of which having stuck, it raced away in
a frantic effort to burst its fly-wheel and wreck the engine room;
the one small machine, left all alone struggling valiantly with a
load four times too big for it, first of all stopped dead till its
field died away, then pounded into the work with little spurts and
pauses, being helped out with a little juice from the kindly, helpful
battery (which was ruining itself in the process). All the boiler
feed pumps, fans, and condenser pumps stopped. (The chief, being a
wireman, liked to have all the accessories electrically driven.)
Pandemonium at once reigned. There was much shouting in the
darkness, an engine-driver and a stoker, in their frantic efforts to
do something, collided violently, and collapsed on the floor,
groaning, to the accompaniment of soft nothings, whispered sweetly to
the empty air; the boilers blew off, the steam roared and shrieked
out of twelve safety valves like ten thousand fiends let loose; they
were blowing off for high steam first of all, and very shortly
afterwards for low water as well. In the middle of it all, the
alternators (which were unaffected) hummed merrily in the darkness,
while the telephone bell screamed an angry protest from an adjacent
wall. At such moments the meek and lowly Shift Engineer feels that
he is really alive; his only wish is that his chief may happen to
drop in and share his happiness with him, or one or two of the
councillors; he could accommodate them all with comfortable seats on
the safety valves, and the possibility of a quick passage to heaven
by the shortest route, straight upwards. Most chiefs are worse than
useless on a switchboard during a breakdown; the Shift Engineer,
handling the switches every day of his life, sometimes makes mistakes
when he is in a hurry; the chief, who handles them once a year,
always does; usually his nerves are not as steady as they should be;
he wants to know what the Shift Engineer is going to do, and why he
doesn't do it at once, then, just to add to the general concert, he
plugs in a wrong switch. Councillors generally stand like fools, and
wonder what it's all about, or else button-hole the Shift Engineer
and demand an immediate explanation. In this case, no one appeared
to hinder him, and Carstairs proceeded all alone. Striking a match,
he went along the switchboard and pulled out all the circuit
switches; the little machine and the battery, pulling together, then
raced away joyously and lit up the station with a superabundant
light; the switchboard attendant soon altered that, however, and
Carstairs went quickly round the boiler house, switching out all the
pumps, etc., as very few of them had "no load releases" on, and some
that had were tied in; he glanced up at the boiler water gauges as he
passed, for he did not want cold water to be suddenly pumped into
empty boilers. It took him precisely one minute before he returned
to the switchboard and put in the circuit breakers one by one, tieing
them in with a piece of insulated wire. "Now!" he said, "we'll start
again, more or less in comfort."
He plugged in a circuit and the fuse held though the lights grew dim,
and the machines flashed and groaned. The switchboard attendant
plugged in another, and the fuse blew in his face. He stood
shielding his eyes in a dazed sort of way, the flash had temporarily
blinded him. In those days things in central stations were carefully
designed to kill and maim as many as possible; men have become more
expensive since and a little more care is taken of them, almost as
much, in fact, as of the machines. The fuses on this low tension
switchboard were accurately adjusted to the level of an average man's
eyes and the instrument placed just beneath, as a sort of bait, so
that as he took a reading he got the full benefit of the flash and
the molten metal flying about if a fuse went, which they did
frequently. Carstairs stood up and pulled the switch out, he then
replaced the fuse and switched in again. The machine gave a groan,
and a fuse at the other end of the board blew simultaneously with the
one he had just replaced.
Ejaculating a little word that went in rhyme with 'jam,' he brought
the volts down again. "Here, shove in that other fuse, will you?
Put a bigger one this time."
The switchboard attendant was dancing round like one possessed,
fumbling and twitching. Carstairs replaced his fuse and went along
to look at his assistant. He watched him fumbling for a few minutes,
then took it out of his hands. "Go and sit down," he said. He
finished the job himself. "Stand clear there!" He motioned the
switchboard attendant back. "Stand by those engines. Watch the
brushes and bring them forward when they spark, far forward. Do you
hear?"
"Yes, sir," the engine drivers answered. They stood in expectant
attitudes by their respective engines just below the switchboard
gallery.
"Alright!" He plugged in, one after the other, ducking his head out
of the way of the possible flash. The fuses held. "Bring her up
there! Steady, not too quickly! Whoa!" He held up his hand with
the fingers outspread, then made a circular motion. "Get round
number five," he shouted.
Promptly the driver ran up another engine, and Carstairs put her on.
He leaned over the railing and shouted down to Darwen, "I say, would
you mind ringing up Farrell and telling him I'm pumping 500 amps
extra into something on the Moorfields Road?"
Darwen laughed. "Right you are, old chap."
Farrell was the mains superintendent; it was his pleasant duty to
turn out of his bed, round up a gang of navvies, and dig holes in the
street all night to ascertain what that "something" was, and remove
it. The only consolation a Shift Engineer feels for the arduousness
of his existence is that sometimes the mains man (whose life is
usually cast in pleasant places) has even a rougher time than he has.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how electricity is "made"--the
same as everything else that is any good--by the sweat of men. And
as men woo nature, and she reveals her secrets to them, she demands,
in return, ever better and better of their best. Man moves, not to
peace and plenty, to cowardice and luxury, but to sublime courage and
arduous, soulful work, and he may not look back.
Half an hour later, Farrell, a fat, prosperous looking individual,
rode up on a bicycle.
"Is it still on?" he asked.
"No, cleared itself some time ago."
"Damn! Just my luck! We shall have the devil's own job to find it
now."
The two Shift Engineers laughed. "Sorry it's not raining, Farrell,"
Darwen observed.
"It's all very well for you chaps to laugh." Farrell went away in
disgust.
Soon a little stream of men filtered in; jointers, half awake and
surly; navvies, limply, subdued, bearing pick and shovel; it meant
overtime for them.
Darwen and Carstairs stood on the doorway and watched them disappear
into the night with a hand-cart full of tools and instruments.
They had been gone some time, Carstairs was preparing to go home,
when the telephone bell rang violently. It was Farrell, very
excited. "What do you think?" he asked. "Got it first shot, just
outside that big house at the corner. When the lights went out, the
footman was rushing about to get candles and lamps and unearthed a
burglar, the burglar they think, skulking in the shrubbery. He
bolted at once and the footman chased him all down the road. He'd
have got away too, but a paving stone blew up right under his feet
and tripped him up. Of course, that's the fault we were looking for."
"Of course; but how do they know he's a burglar?"
"Oh, he had a bludgeon with him and a big knife. One of the windows
had been forced, and they found some jewellery in his pockets."
"Have you seen him? What's he like?"
"A rough looking handful, they say, sort of a gipsy, a bit lame in
one leg, but he ran like a hare. Strong as a tiger too, nearly
strangled the footman before help arrived. The police have noticed
him skulking round that neighbourhood for some time."
"Is that so? Well, he's done us a good turn, anyhow." Carstairs was
very casual, very slow, there was no emotion whatever in his voice;
he said, "good night," and rang off. "Ye gods," he ejaculated to
himself. "That's my way home, of course. Wonder what he'll get?
Jewellery in his pockets, too, those great big pockets, built for
hares and pheasants. 'To what ignoble uses,' etc., as Darwen would
say. Still 'living on the country,' I suppose, as they call it in
warfare."
About a quarter of an hour afterwards he saw Darwen and Bounce. It
was with a keen sense of amusement that he observed them "shadowing"
him. He slipped into a gateway and waited unobserved till they
approached, and then sprang out on them unawares.
"What the devil are you chaps following me for?" he demanded with
mock severity.
"Hang it all, Carstairs, you fool. Play the game! You've probably
spoilt the whole show now."
"I'm sorry, but it's not necessary now, the man's in 'quod' for
burgling."
"What!"
Carstairs told them the tale.
"Well, I'm blowed, these 'ere police are always shoving their noses
into somebody else's business," Bounce growled.
That night Carstairs slept with singular peacefulness.