It seemed as if London had solved one of her great problems at
last. The communication difficulty was at an end. The first-class
ticket-holders no longer struggled to and from business with fourteen
fellow-sufferers in a third-class carriage. There were no longer any
particularly favoured suburbs, nor were there isolated localities where
it took as long getting to the City as an express train takes between
London and Swindon. The pleasing paradox of a man living at Brighton
because it was nearer to his business than Surbiton had ceased to
exist. The tubes had done away with all that.
There were at least a dozen hollow cases running under London in all
directions. They were cool and well ventilated, the carriages were
brilliantly lighted, the various loops were properly equipped and
managed.
All day long the shining funnels and bright platforms were filled with
passengers. Towards midnight the traffic grew less, and by half-past
one o'clock the last train had departed. The all-night service was not
yet.
It was perfectly quiet now along the gleaming core that lay buried
under Bond Street and St. James's Street, forming the loop running
below the Thames close by Westminster Bridge Road and thence to the
crowded Newington and Walworth districts. Here a portion of the roof
was under repair.
The core was brilliantly lighted; there was no suggestion of fog or
gloom. The general use of electricity had disposed of a good deal
of London's murkiness; electric motors were applied now to most
manufactories and work-shops. There was just as much gas consumed as
ever, but it was principally used for heating and culinary purposes.
Electric radiators and cookers had not yet reached the multitude; that
was a matter of time.
In the flare of the blue arc lights a dozen men were working on the
dome of the core. Something had gone wrong with a water-main overhead,
the concrete beyond the steel belt had cracked, and the moisture had
corroded the steel plates, so that a long strip of the metal skin had
been peeled away, and the friable concrete had fallen on the rails.
It had brought part of the crown with it, so that a maze of large and
small pipes was exposed to view.
"They look like the reeds of an organ," a raw engineer's apprentice
remarked to the foreman. "What are they?"
"Gas mains, water, electric light, telephone, goodness knows what," the
foreman replied. "They branch off here, you see."
"Fun to cut them," the apprentice grinned.
The foreman nodded absently. He had once been a mischievous boy, too.
The job before him looked a bigger thing than he had expected. It would
have to be patched up till a strong gang could be turned on to the
work. The raw apprentice was still gazing at the knot of pipes. What
fun it would be to cut that water-main and flood the tunnels!
In an hour the scaffolding was done and the _débris_ cleared away.
To-morrow night a gang of men would come and make the concrete good and
restore the steel rim to the dome. The tube was deserted. It looked
like a polished, hollow needle, lighted here and there by points of
dazzling light.
It was so quiet and deserted that the falling of a big stone
reverberated along the tube with a hollow sound. There was a crack,
and a section of piping gave way slightly and pressed down upon one
of the electric mains. A tangled skein of telephone wires followed.
Under the strain the electric cable parted and snapped. There was a
long, sliding, blue flame, and instantly the tube was in darkness. A
short circuit had been established somewhere. Not that it mattered,
for traffic was absolutely suspended now, and would not be resumed
again before daylight. Of course, there were the work-men's very early
trains, and the Covent Garden market trains, but they did not run over
this section of the line. The whole darkness reeked with the whiff of
burning indiarubber. The moments passed on drowsily.
Along one side of Bond Street the big lamps were out. All the lights
on one main switch had gone. But it was past one o'clock now, and the
thing mattered little. These accidents occurred sometimes in the best
regulated districts, and the defect would be made good in the morning.
It was a little awkward, though, for a great State ball was in progress
at Buckingham Palace. Supper was over, the magnificent apartments were
brilliant with light dresses and gay uniforms. The shimmer and fret of
diamonds flashed back to lights dimmer than themselves. There was a
slide of feet over the polished floors. Then, as if some unseen force
had cut the bottom of creation, light and gaiety ceased to be, and
darkness fell like a curtain.
There were a few cries of alarm from the swift suddenness of it. To
eyes accustomed to that brilliant glow the gloom was Egyptian. It
seemed as if some great catastrophe had happened. But common-sense
reasserted itself, and the brilliant gathering knew that the electric
light had failed.
There were quick commands, and spots of yellow flame sprang out here
and there in the great desert of the night. How faint and feeble, and
yellow and flaring, the lights looked! The electrician down below was
puzzled, for, so far as he could see, the fuses in the meters were
intact. There was no short circuit so far as the Palace was concerned.
In all probability there had been an accident at the generating
stations; in a few minutes the mischief would be repaired.
But time passed, and there was no welcome return of the flood of
crystal light.
"It is a case for all the candles," the Lord Chamberlain remarked;
"fortunately the old chandeliers are all fitted. Light the candles."
It was a queer, grotesque scene, with all that wealth of diamonds and
glitter of uniforms and gloss of satins, under the dim suggestion of
the candles. And yet it was enjoyable from the very novelty of it.
Nothing could be more appropriate for the minuet that was in progress.
"I feel like one of my own ancestors," a noble lord remarked. "When
they hit upon that class of candle I expect they imagined that the last
possibility in the way of lighting had been accomplished. Is it the
same outside, Sir George?"
Sir George Egerton laughed. He was fresh from the gardens.
"It's patchwork," he said. "So far as I can judge, London appears to be
lighted in sections. I expect there is a pretty bad breakdown. My dear
chap, do you mean to say that clock is right?"
"Half-past four, sure enough, and mild for the time of year. Did you
notice a kind of rumbling under--Merciful Heavens, what is that?"