BOB’S CHANCE
To Bob’s great disgust his first job was not out on the construction
work. Whiskers had turned him over to Mr. Taylor, who set him to work
in the draughting room. All day long he sat on a stool, and did simple
sums: endless multiplications and divisions of figures that came from
the blue prints made by the engineers. It was stupid work and had in it
little of the romance which he had always associated with the work he
was to do. However, he comforted himself with the thought that if it
were not necessary, the Chief would never set him at it.
Jerry, on account of his experience, had at once been assigned to
active outside work as the aid of one of the many junior assistant
engineers. At night he would tell Bob of the day’s work and commiserate
with him that his lot was not as exciting. But at lunch hour and
after work was over for the day, Bob found a chance to investigate the
outside work. It was fascinating. Along one side of the valley the
river had been forced by means of a temporary dam into an artificial
channel, called the spillway, so that the river bottom where the dam
was to be built should be clear of water. From the river bed rose the
rough foundations of the permanent dam.
It was like a giant staircase on the side which would not come against
the water. It was about half finished when Bob first got there, but
each day it rose steadily higher and higher. Bob examined it all. Each
operation he came to fascinated him, and by using his eyes he soon grew
to understand much of the method by which results were achieved.
It was weeks before there came a break in the monotony of his work.
He had forced himself to be cheerful about his stupid job and not to
show by the least sign that he was not entirely content with the work
he had been set to do. Mr. Taylor, who since the advent of the Chief,
had taken charge of the office work, spoke to Mr. Whitney. “That boy,
Hazard, is a good lad,” he said. “Although the plucky beggar won’t own
up, I think he is eating his heart out at the draughting board. I can
get along without him, so give him a chance outside if you can.”
“A little office work won’t do him any harm,” commented Mr. Whitney. “I
asked you to put him to work there on purpose. I don’t want him to get
too inflated an idea of the romance of engineering. But I’ll remember
what you said and if something turns up I’ll see what I can do.”
The time was to come sooner than either Taylor or Whitney expected.
The Chief Engineer had been so busy familiarizing himself with all the
details of the outside work that he had spent little time in the office
and so had not often seen Bob. Not an activity, from the operation of
the railway branch to the pouring of a new batch of concrete on the dam
itself, had escaped his inspection. He wanted to know all the foremen
of the different gangs, to size them up, and to gain their personal
loyalty. The long experience he had had in bossing men, taught him that
being human and approachable did not impair discipline. Besides, in
times of emergency, the men could be more counted on.
From the men with whom he came into contact, Bob Hazard realized that
his boss was rapidly becoming very popular. Every one was singing his
praises and the general feeling was that the work was going ahead at
a pace never equalled under the preceding engineers. All this was
pleasing to the boy who had idolized the man, and helped him to be
content with the work at which he had been placed.
It was not of course the sort of life he had pictured. That had
been rather a vague idea of khaki-clad figures, perched with their
instruments on perilous peaks and over yawning chasms; and a general
idea of romance had run through his dreams. To be put into an office to
do sums was little better than going to school. That his drawing board
faced a window below which the job spread out, was a help, for while
his mind mechanically did the figuring that was necessary, he could
imagine himself out on the work mingling with the crowd.
One part of the activity drew him especially. This was the cableway
system. Between the towers set up on the high ground on each side of
the river, the strands of wire rope were suspended. Along them ran
great pulleys from which the buckets hung. The buckets would flash
across Bob’s vision endlessly, carrying loads of mixed concrete, of
sand, of anything that was needed.
Their flight was swift, swooping something like a bird’s. From one
tower the bucket would speed, only to stop silently and, almost before
its crossways movement had ended, it would drop to the surface of the
work. An instant to unload the bucket and in a flash it was up and
gliding like the wind back to its starting point.
There was something so fascinating, so rhythmical in this operation,
that Bob had difficulty in tearing his eyes away and concentrating on
his work.
One morning, however, something new occurred to distract his attention.
Happening to glance out of the window, he saw Jerry coming up the path
to the office, running with all the speed of which he was capable.
The door of the draughting room was open into the hall where the
telephone central was seated. Her job was trying to keep in touch with
all the different division chiefs so that they might be found if any
emergency should occur. Therefore Bob knew that he would hear what was
the cause of this especial emergency that had galvanized Jerry into
such a tremendous haste.
“The Chief!” he heard Jerry pant as the footsteps ended in the hall.
“Where is he?”
“Mixer last!” snapped the girl, plugging in and ringing her call at the
same time. “I’ll see if he’s still there!”
“Meantime, where’s Mr. Taylor? He’d help--”
“Can’t get him--gone to Las Cruces. Yes, hello, Mixer? The Chief? Gone?
Yes, yes! Where? North end spillway! Right! ’Bye.” She pulled out the
plug and said to Jerry, “Started for spillway ten minutes ago. No phone
there yet. Take fifteen minutes get messenger there--can you wait?”
“No,” said Jerry. “Mr. Rutherford, my chief, wants him. Wall of
auxiliary spillway this side of the river giving way--will flood all
the buttress excavation. We’re shoring it, but Mr. Rutherford wants the
Chief and in a hurry. I’m off but I’m afraid I’ll get him too late! If
he calls up send him to Mr. Rutherford at once!” With this Jerry shot
out of the office and down the hill, evidently planning to make his
legs take him to the Chief.
Inside, Bob had been listening with wide open ears and his mind
pictured the scene Jerry had left to find Mr. Whitney and filled out
the holes the winded boy had left in his description. He knew the
auxiliary spillway and the harm it could do if it should fail to carry
its burden. It was a temporary affair of wood to be used only until a
system of drains could be built to take care of the excess water that
collected below the coffer dam. His mind’s eye saw Rutherford and Jerry
at the dangerous place: Rutherford, young and inexperienced, doing what
he could to avert disaster, but rattled, probably badly so. He wanted
Mr. Whitney or somebody with practical knowledge and he had sent Jerry
off to bring help. All Bob could do was to hope that the wall would
hold.
Reluctantly he started to take up his dreary work but on the way to the
board, his eyes glanced through the window and rested on a grab bucket
that was speeding through the air. For a second the sight meant nothing
special to him, then suddenly it brought him to his feet. Without a
word to the other draughtsmen he dashed out of the room, not waiting to
snatch his cap.
A plan had come to him in a flash. Whitney was needed and needed in a
hurry. He was on the other side of the river valley at the head of the
spillway. The opposite cableway tower over there was near this spot--if
the buckets could go over, couldn’t he? He’d try anyway!
With all the speed he could muster he ran towards the cable tower,
thanking his stars that the control station was on this side of the
river, and that he knew one of the lever men. It was this fellow’s job
to dispatch the buckets and hoist and lower them.
“Trouble below, Billy!” gasped Bob as he came to the shed that
protected the operator from the rays of the sun. “Need the Big Boss.
He’s over at the spillway. Shoot me over?”
“’Gainst rules, son,” was the man’s answer, pulling a lever which made
a great bucket shoot up from the depths.
“But this--this is serious,” cried the boy. “Rules don’t count! They’ve
got to have him!”
“Sorry,” was the short response, “but orders are orders. Nothing doing.”
Bob continued to waste a few precious seconds in a vain endeavor to
move his friend Billy, but kept his eye on the returning bucket. It
came almost to Billy’s shed and then, in response to a sharp jerk on a
lever, it dropped into the mixing shed of the concrete plant.
A way of overcoming this obstacle came to Bob. Without wasting any more
time talking he rushed down to the concrete shed to get there just as
the loading gang had finished changing the great hook of the cableway
from the empty bucket to a full one. The foreman had his hand raised
to signal Billy to hoist away when Bob darted in and jumped onto the
bucket.
The foreman was so surprised that involuntarily his hand made the
signal and a second later Bob was climbing through space, faster than a
rocket!
The wind whistled in his ears and he was choked by the rapid ascent,
yet the sensation was not entirely unpleasant. It was like riding in
the fastest elevator he’d ever been in--at triple the speed.
Not until the bucket had reached the height of the cableway was he able
to take any interest in looking about him. The second or so that had
elapsed since he had taken passage on the concrete conveyor had been
fully occupied in putting himself in a position where he could hold on
and not be in danger of being tipped over the side. Worming himself
around he found he could seat himself comfortably in the hook that held
the bucket and clasp his arms around the great iron ball that hung just
under the many sheaved pulley.
When this was done he ventured a look over the side. From the attitude
of Billy he knew that the operator had seen him. What would Billy do?
The success of his whole scheme depended on it. He had figured that the
man would be sport enough to shoot him across if he had once got on the
bucket and was on his way.
The speed of the bucket slackened as it neared the cable height and for
an agonizing second he thought that Billy was about to drop him back
to the spot he had started from. It would be a rotten ending to his
adventure, and the whole camp would have the laugh on him. On a sudden
impulse he disengaged one hand and motioned that he wanted to go on.
It was a dangerous expedient but it was worth it, for Billy, resigned
to the situation, waved back and a moment later the bucket started to
swoop towards the other shore.
Bob was facing the way in which they were going and he was conscious
that it was like sliding down a great hill, for the cable above him
dipped towards the center. There was little time for thought, however,
as the bucket lost no time in gathering headway. At one moment it was
almost still, the next it was whistling through the air.
The first down rush was glorious. Not until he started to climb up the
other incline of the cable did Bob give any thought to the speed he was
making. There was a slight slackening in the rush through the air, but
so quickly was the whole journey over that Bob’s first impression was
the one that he slipped off the bucket with when it touched ground at
the foot of the west tower.
Billy had been a sport! He had shot Bob just as far over as he could
and the boy was correspondingly grateful.
The inspection trips he had made outside of working hours now proved
a great help, for he knew the quickest way to the place the Chief was
supposed to be. Setting out on a run he was soon there. Mr. Whitney
was engaged in conversation with the foreman but broke off as the boy
rushed up.
“What’s the row, Bob?” he wanted to know.
“Need you--quick--over at the east spillway--wall giving way--” But
faster than the words could tremble out, the Chief was acting.
“Come along,” he directed. “Talk as we go!”
He made tracks for a dinky engine that was hitched to a load of empties.
“Uncouple!” he yelled to the engineer. As he and Bob swung into the
cab, the little locomotive was already moving slowly. “To the east
bank, quick!” he ordered and caught the whistle cord. The prolonged
screech told the switchmen and other trains that something serious was
afoot, and that the line must be cleared.
“Know anything else?” demanded the Chief as the engine rocked crazily
on the narrow gauge track, and when Bob shook his head, asked, “How did
you get over?”
“Bucket,” said the boy briefly.
“Good idea,” commented Mr. Whitney and was silent until the engine
pulled up snorting as near their destination as it could get. “Come
along,” invited Mr. Whitney as he swung off the engine. Pleased, Bob
did his best to keep up with his long-legged boss who had headed for
the point of trouble with great strides.
It has taken a long time to describe the things that had happened to
Bob since he heard Jerry’s predicament in the office, yet the actual
time it had taken him to get Mr. Whitney to the scene of action was
hardly a handful of minutes. This was proved by the fact that Bob had
a confused belief that halfway back on the little engine he had seen
Jerry on his way to find Mr. Whitney. These thoughts mingled in his
brain as he followed his Chief to the temporary spillway.
Nothing serious had happened so far, he was glad to see, as they came
upon Mr. Rutherford and the gang of men who were attempting to shore up
the wall of the stream. The waterway at this point was built entirely
of wood and the present trouble was due either to an unexpected
pressure of water or some defect in construction.
The gang had been working feverishly and without much order until Steve
Whitney came on the scene. Bob was amazed at the change that seemed to
take place as soon as his Chief had uttered a few incisive directions.
The rescue work went on smoothly and efficiently. There was no panic,
no blundering.
“Here, you men, down stream a bit with that timber. Rutherford, you’ve
the right idea--stick to it. Rush ’em up, boys,” to a gang bringing up
a supply of planks. “Have you diverted any of the water, Rutherford?”
“No, sir, I--I never thought of--”
“You should have!” This was all the rebuke the young engineer was to
get. Perhaps it was because Whitney did things that way, that all his
men adored him. He did not think that because a man made a mistake that
he should be shamed before his fellow workers. He turned to Bob.
“Chase up to the dam line. There’s an overflow gate in the spillway
there. Break it open!”
Bob hustled off on his errand and found the place the Chief had
designated. A few blows with a stone and he had loosened the gate
sufficiently to let a big stream of water flow out.
“What the dickens are you doing?” yelled the foreman of a surfacing
gang, starting for the boy on a run. “Want to flood the works?”
“Keep your shirt on! Chief’s orders!” but he had to explain the whole
matter before the man realized that he was not an anarchist. The
foreman’s strength added to his was sufficient to give the water a
clear outlet, and Bob saw with satisfaction that the body of water
passing down the canal to the weakened spot was considerably less.
When he reported to the Chief he found that all danger was past and
the gang at work making a permanent repair of the damage.
“Good work,” said Mr. Whitney as the boy came up. “Water slackened just
in time.” Then he turned to Rutherford.
“When you finish the shoring, close the gate immediately.”
Suddenly Bob remembered that he had left his job in the office without
anybody’s authority. The excitement had made him forget that he had
a job. Now, when everything was quiet, the realization that probably
he had been missed came to him and he started to make tracks in the
general direction of the office. He had not gone far, however, when he
heard a familiar voice hail him from behind. It was Mr. Whitney, so he
slowed up and turned.
“Hold on, Bob. I want to speak to you.”
A moment later Mr. Whitney was beside him, an expression on his face
which the boy could not fathom. It was a stern look yet there was a
twinkle in the kind eyes. His first words were ominous.
“What are you doing away from your drawing board? Did Mr. Taylor send
you for me?”
“No--no, sir,” stammered Bob, helplessly. “He wasn’t there--he’s in Las
Cruces--”
“And you came across the river on the cableway, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir. It was the only--”
“No excuses! It means that you have broken discipline twice, doesn’t
it? Left your work and then rode a bucket, which is against all orders.
I’ll have to fire that control operator who let you do it.”
“He couldn’t help it!” cried the boy, horrified that what he had done
might get someone else into trouble. “I jumped the bucket in the mixing
plant and I was halfway across before Billy ever saw me!”
“So that’s how you did it!” ejaculated the Chief. “In that case I may
not have to do more than reprimand Billy.”
“That’s fine!” said the much relieved boy.
“But as for you--I must punish you much more severely,” the twinkle in
the man’s eyes grew more pronounced, and in spite of himself he smiled.
“You are sentenced to be _my_ rodman, to stay with me all the time
we’re on the job.”
“Gee whiz!” whistled Bob, the suddenness of the turn the talk had taken
amazing him. “Then--then what I did was right?”
“You bet it was! Both right and plucky. I’m proud of you--”
“And I’m going to be on your own corps? This is too much,” and the boy
laughed happily.
“Yes, Bob,” said Steve Whitney seriously, “I want someone on whom I
can rely to think quickly and not lose his head in an emergency. Rules
and regulations must be broken when the jam is tight enough--and many
tight jams occur in the Service. You proved to-day that you used your
brains and were plucky enough to act on what your brain told you to do.
Probably the few minutes you saved in getting me, were worth thousands
of dollars to the Service and days of delay. If that spillway wall had
broken, the buttress excavations would have filled and all the digging
work would have had to be done over.”
Before Bob could stammer his thanks, the Chief continued, “Report to me
in the morning. Better go back now and finish up your work.”
The conversation had taken place as they climbed the hill to the Upper
Town. Now, Mr. Whitney went off in the direction of his cottage, and
Bob to the office.
That night Jerry came in late to the room that he still shared with Bob.
“Lucky stiff!” he said pleasantly. “Beat me to it, didn’t you?”
“Reckon so,” grinned Bob happily. “Sore?”
“Not a bit--only wish I’d thought of it. Was the old man pleased?”
“He made me his rodman, if that’s any sign.”
“You _are_ lucky but I’m mighty glad for you. It’ll be a heap more fun
than that office work.”
Bob thought he detected a little note of disappointment in his chum’s
tone, but the words of congratulation seemed sincere.
“It will be your turn next,” said Bob as they turned off the light.