THE CRIPPLED GENERATORS
It was a veritable fortress that Jack entered when he left the caboose
of the supply train. Before him, on a slight eminence, was the massive
building of the power station with the searchlight mounted on the
roof. The grassy slope below was marred by a double line of trenches
unoccupied, of course, save for one or two white-clad sentinels who paced
back and forth restlessly. On the lawn between the first trench and
the station, the lad noted a bulky object covered with canvas. This he
immediately decided was the three-inch fieldpiece about which Mr. Ryder
had spoken. To the north of the station was the irregular outline of many
small cottages. As the searchlight threw its rays in that direction, the
boy observed that nearly all of them were constructed of wood and erected
after the fashion of the cottages furnished to the quarrymen in Vermont.
There were also several long low shed-like structures which he learned
later housed the soldiers. The entire community did not occupy more than
five or six acres and was entirely cut off from the surrounding country
by barbed wire barricades. Indeed, the place looked well-nigh impregnable
to the American. To approach from the north, south or west, invaders
would have to get through the mass of barbed wire first and carry two
lines of trenches before they reached the station, and as far as the east
side of the plant was concerned, approach in that direction was made
impossible by the roaring mountain stream that furnished water to the
station’s turbines.
The enclosure became a perfect bedlam a few moments after the supply
train rolled in. To the roar of the river and the grumble of the huge
generators inside were added the shouts of the soldiers detraining and
unloading the supplies. The entire barracks had turned out to welcome the
reinforcements, for it happened that they composed two companies of the
same regiment. Altogether Jack estimated that there were more than 200
men ready to defend the place against the rebels, not including the squad
of twenty-five rurales who were stationed there to patrol the surrounding
country. The rurales, the lad learned, were not soldiers in the stricter
sense of the word. They are maintained by the Mexican Government to
do practically the same work as that required of the famous Canadian
mounted police; which is to rid the country of bandits, smugglers and bad
men, and run down the outlaws that hide in the mountains. They are far
better drilled than any of the Mexican troops and are well equipped with
clothing and firearms. Their horses are the best that Mexican dollars can
buy. These men ride exceptionally well, shoot almost as accurately as the
Texas ranger and are brave and fearless. A Mexican president who believed
in the old saying that “it takes a thief to catch a thief,” organized
the rurales years ago when the country was infested with bandits and bad
men. Every time one of these men was apprehended he was forced to join
the rurales and hunt down bandits. In this way his vicious nature was
well satisfied and at the same time he was able to consider himself a
law-abiding citizen, which usually appeals to all individuals who have
been outlaws for any length of time. To Jack these soldier-policemen were
very picturesque as they swaggered about in their dark-green, tightly
fitting uniforms and broad-brimmed hats. He noticed, however, that they
did not associate with the white-clad regulars, but stood apart in a
little group by themselves and watched the other men unload the cars.
Mr. Ryder and Jack lingered long enough to see that the unloading was
well under way before they turned toward the station.
“I’ve a strange premonition that the troublemakers hereabout have taken
advantage of my absence,” said the engineer as they approached the
office. “I would not be surprised to find the plant dynamited some day.
These rebel sympathizers will go the limit to make it disagreeable for
old Huerta.”
The office of Ben Nedham, first assistant engineer, was vacant. When Mr.
Ryder saw this he looked worried. Immediately he bounded up the spiral
iron staircase to the balcony-like control room where the switchboards
were located. Allen Lyman, a tall light-haired American in charge of that
section of the plant, advanced to meet him, and his face also bore a
troubled look.
“They’ve been at it again, Mr. Ryder,” he exclaimed. “We haven’t been
able to carry the load all evening. Machines five and six are out of
commission. Couldn’t even start them. Nedham and a gang are down there on
the generator floor now trying to patch them up.”
“What is the trouble?” demanded the engineer, his brow wrinkled by a
perplexed frown.
“Well, some one got in after two o’clock this morning, evidently, and
threw a bucket full of fire sand into the gears of both machines. Nedham
has had only one watchman here and he must have gone to sleep.”
“Have you heard from Mexico City yet?” demanded Mr. Ryder anxiously.
“No, not yet, but we can gamble that the lights are mighty dim there.
Shouldn’t wonder but what we’ll get a call before the night is over.”
He had hardly completed the sentence when the telephone bell on the desk
in the center of the room jangled sharply.
“Dollars to doughnuts that’s Mexico City now,” exclaimed Lyman as he
removed the receiver. A moment he talked with the man on the other end of
the line; then he beckoned to Mr. Ryder.
“It’s President Huerta himself,” he said, holding his hand over the
transmitter. “He’s as mad as a Mexican bull too. Wants to speak with you.”
For fifteen minutes the chief engineer attempted to explain the situation
to the country’s executive, and in the meantime Jack busied himself
trying to puzzle out the reason for all the switches, knobs, handles
and indicators on the huge marble switchboard that extended all the way
around the circular room. He knew that all the machinery in the station
was controlled from that board, but just how it was done he had not the
slightest idea. He decided, however, to take advantage of the first
opportunity and learn the function of each of the mysterious looking
black rubber handles.
Mr. Ryder left the ’phone apparently thoroughly angry. He paced the
narrow room for some time before he uttered a word. Finally, pausing
before the desk again, he brought his fist down with a resounding blow.
“By Jupiter,” he thundered, “this _must_ stop or I’ll know the reason
why. The old man is as peeved as a wet hen and I don’t blame him. He
informed me that we had made a failure out of the most important state
function of the year simply because the palace was so poorly lighted.
They had to resort to smoky oil lamps to help out. He was furious. Told
me the city looked like an Indian village, it was so dark. Oh, if I could
only get my fingers on the villains who did this work!”
Thus did he storm to Jack and the operator until he became thoroughly
out of breath and was forced to pause. Then turning he called Jack and
started down the spiral stairs again. Three flights they descended until
they reached the floor of the generating room. Six huge generating units
occupied the space. They were great black monsters of steel that looked
like so many mastodons chained to the floor. Water was roaring down from
the forebay through four of the massive penstocks that supplied the
turbines, but the other two were silent. Around each of these silent
machines was gathered a group of workmen. They had unbolted the steel
protecting plates and were assiduously wiping the sand from the delicate
armature bearings. Some of these workmen were Americans but there were a
number of Mexicans among them, many of whom were distinctly of the peon
class, with bared feet and shabby garments.
As Jack and the engineer hurried across the floor a short, dark-haired
American advanced to meet them.
“We’ve trouble on our hands this time!” he exclaimed. “The two machines
are full of sand and we won’t be able to get them cleaned until long
after midnight.”
“Well, how did it happen, Nedham?” demanded Mr. Ryder. “You were in
charge while I was away and you are responsible. Are you going to let
this plant go to the devil? I got a good blowing up yesterday from the
board of directors and here to-night President Huerta himself had me on
the long distance telephone. Told me flatly that things would have to go
smoother; and I propose to see that they do go smoother hereafter.”
“How do I know how it happened? Maybe I was in charge, but they manage to
work the same tricks when you are here too, so you can’t altogether blame
me,” said Nedham indignantly.
“Well, I suppose not,” replied Mr. Ryder in calmer tones. “I didn’t mean
to accuse you of neglect of duty. I know they work the same tricks on me
too. I hope you’ll pardon my temper.”
The chief engineer extended his hand in cordial apology and Nedham
grasped it, his anger disappearing immediately.