Jack Carstairs of the power house

CHAPTER XIII

For a month things went on quite smoothly. The police, although spurred to strenuous efforts by the glib tongue of Pat Donovan, J.P., absolutely failed to discover any trace of Darwen's assailant. Something seemed to be on the mind of Mr Donovan too, but Darwen still smiled. "I'm taking that man into my service when he's able to get about again, he's going to take on the job of gardener, etc."

"What will Mr Donovan say?"

"He won't know. That's what's worrying him now, he can't make out what has become of his man. Mr Donovan will move again shortly. The Irishman can never wait."

They were carrying out extensions at the works, adding a wing to the engine room, and one day, a few weeks later, Carstairs and Darwen were standing in the new part, just underneath some scaffolding where some men were working under the roof; they were discussing an important point, but Carstairs noticed that Darwen seemed a trifle absent-minded. He kept looking away, up at the men working. Suddenly, without any warning, he pulled Carstairs aside, next moment a heavy iron bar crashed down on the concrete at their feet, just as a man's voice sang out, "Look out below."

"By George, that would have corpsed us," Carstairs said.

"Our friend above there was a little late in warning us," Darwen observed. There was a sort of pleased light in his eye, he seemed strangely buoyant. "He's drunk," he continued, "I've been watching him, he's a new man, on to-day. I'll go up and tell the foreman to send him home." He walked over to the ladder, then he stopped, and picking up the iron bar stood it carefully upright in a bolt hole. "You might go into my office and get those papers, will you? I'll be with you in a minute," he said over his shoulder as he mounted the ladder.

Carstairs went away, leaving the engine room empty.

There were three or four men on the scaffold, all working with their faces to the wall, only one man was out further than the rest. Darwen walked along the planking, balancing easily and gracefully; the men bustled ahead with their work as they saw him coming. He stopped at the man who was furthest out, the man who had dropped the bar.

"My friend," Darwen asked, quietly, "have you anything to say?"

The man looked up with a piteous appeal. He was a sickly white and as sober as a judge, he trembled in every limb.

Darwen watched him in silence for some minutes as his quivering lips moved inarticulately. He was a tough-looking citizen with a low, unintelligent forehead, and strong, brutal jaw; his imagination was so dull that cruelty had to be brought very near home before his sluggish mind began to move. A sort of instinct, apparently, seemed to warn him that he was in danger; he seemed fascinated by Darwen's eyes, he gazed hopelessly and fixedly into them. He made a movement to edge away.

Darwen was gripping a tie rod over his head and standing very close to the man, who was sitting on the plank. He glanced round, no one was looking. "Fortune favours the bold," he said. Next minute his foot shot out, and the man was off the plank.

"Oh, Christ!" he screamed, as he fell through the air.

Darwen shouted for help and clung to his tie rod with both hands. "That man's killed," he said. "He was drunk. He'd got no business to be on a scaffolding in that condition. Where's the foreman?"

They went below. A little crowd gathered and looked at the man; he was quite still, his head had struck the iron bar and his brains were scattered over the new concrete engine bed.

Carstairs stood by in solemn silence, looking at the thing which had been a man. "That's the chap that dropped the bar, isn't it?" he asked, at length.

"Yes!" Darwen answered. "He was helplessly drunk. Where's the foreman?" he looked round.

"Here, sir."

"Why did you allow that man to go up there when you saw he was drunk?" Darwen was very stern, his eyes seemed to look through the man.

"I didn't notice that he was drunk, sir."

"Didn't notice! What do you mean? That's your job, isn't it?"

"Well, sir——"

"That'll do! How long has he been with you?"

"Only this morning, sir. He came down with a note from Councillor Donovan asking to give him a start."

"Ah! well, I suppose you can't be responsible for every strapper that you have to put on."

"No, sir."

Two of his mates reverently covered the remains with an engine cloth, and Darwen and Carstairs went away together. Carstairs was very thoughtful.

"Did you hear what he said?" Darwen asked, when they reached his office.

"Yes, Councillor Donovan."

"Exactly. He seems unfortunate in the choice of his tools."

"You were up by him when he fell, weren't you?"

"Quite close, but, of course, I hadn't a chance to save him."

"No, of course. It's a very awkward job."

"Very. I say old chap, come on home and spend the evening with me, will you? The girl's away, and I know the mater will be pleased to see you."

"Thanks. I—er——"

"Come on, old chap, you've got nothing to do, I know."

"Well, I have really got a lot to do, but still—it will keep."

As they went out together, a girl passed them.

"That's rather a nice-looking girl," Darwen remarked.

"Ye-es; I didn't notice her very particularly."

"Dash it, Carstairs, it's time you did. Why don't you get engaged, give you something to do in your evenings."

"My dear chap——"

"Yes, I know, there's that girl over at your place. She struck me as being a particularly nice girl."

"You mean Bessie Bevengton. She is jolly decent—but——"

"There is some one else?"

"Exactly."

"But you can't marry her."

"I don't know."

"What! Don't be an ass!" Darwen turned and gazed at him in amazement.

"You see she appeals to me in so many ways."

"How? She's handsome, that's all!"

"That's only the beginning, she's so very fit, and so full of pluck. You see, if I have any kids I want 'em to be sportsmen, to play rugger and that sort of thing."

Darwen laughed aloud. "How old are you, Carstairs?"

"Twenty-three."

"I thought you were fifty."

"Alright, but you've got a lot to thank your mater for."

"By Jove, you're right!" Darwen was very thoughtful for some minutes. "Yes," he said at length. "I keep myself fit because the mater brought me up that way, and fitness means so much."

"To a station man it usually means all the difference between success and failure; you remember how that shock I got upset me, for some time Thompson thought I was no good." Carstairs was thinking that if it had not been for that shock their positions at that moment might have been reversed.

"That is so, particularly if he's got a crowd like Donovan and Co. to deal with. Do you know, honestly I never in all my life experienced such a thrill of exquisite pleasure as when I exchanged pistol shots with that poor devil on the stairs that night; that's fitness, you know, simply fitness. I'm in the pink of condition." His eyes sparkled like living jewels.

Carstairs looked at him with open admiration. "You are fit," he said.

They were passing St James' gymnasium, a sudden idea seemed to seize Darwen.

"Come on in," he said, "and let's have a turn with the gloves. I've never had a turn with you."

"Alright," Carstairs answered.

So they went inside. The place was empty, so they had it to themselves; they changed and donned boxing gloves. They looked a superb pair of men as they stood up facing each other, in long flannel trousers and singlets; Carstairs was a trifle shorter and a trifle heavier; neither of them was an inch under six feet. For half an hour they boxed, hitting fast and furious, and although Carstairs was as quick as a panther, Darwen was quicker, and had distinctly the best of the bout.

"By Jove, old chap! You do put 'em in," he observed, as Carstairs landed a heavy right hander.

"Yours are fairly hefty, too," Carstairs answered, as Darwen knocked him against the wall.

Then they had a cold shower, dressed, and went back to Darwen's home, feeling at peace with all the world, forgetting Councillor Donovan and the dead man in the engine-room and all other troubles.

Darwen let himself in and took Carstairs into the drawing-room. "Sit down in that big chair, old chap, and I'll play you a tune. The mater'll soon come in when she hears the music."

Carstairs threw himself back in the deep padded chair with a sigh of content. "I envy not in any mood," he started and stopped. "Where's that from, Darwen?"

"Tennyson's 'In Memoriam.'" Darwen was turning over some music folios.

"Yes, that's it. I remember. I picked it up one day in the digs and that caught my eye. It goes on to say something else about noble rage and linnets, or something, but what I 'envy not' is the man who's never been tired."

"I agree with you. Being tired, with the pleasant contemplation of work well done and sitting in a comfortable chair, is heaven."

"Precisely. And you never get tired, really, pleasantly tired, unless you're fit. The man who's not fit, doesn't appreciate comfort or discomfort, he's only half alive."

"That is so. I think this is your favourite." Darwen commenced to play, lightly and slowly.

"That's that nocturne business, isn't it?"

"One of them. There's a book full."

"Well, they're jolly good." He lay far back in the chair and spread his legs wide in front of him, his thoughts wandered pleasantly under the slow stimulation of the music. Darwen himself seemed to revel in it too, they were silent for some time; when the door opened and Mrs Darwen came in. Carstairs, sitting motionless in the chair, turned his head at the sound, and then suddenly sprang up.

"Ah! why did you do that? I wouldn't have disturbed you for worlds." She held out her hand. "How are you?"

"First class, thanks."

"I could see that from the way you were sitting, men only sit quite still like that when they've had a good day at something. When Charlie used to come home—why, what have you been doing?" she looked closely at one of his eyes.

Carstairs rubbed it thoughtfully. "I don't think it'll get black," he said.

"He's knocked my mouth all side ways, too, mater!" Darwen said over his shoulder.

Mrs Darwen laughed. "What would the councillors think if they saw you two knocking each other about like that?"

"The councillors, dear mater, are beneath contempt. Let's talk about something pleasant. I've been urging Carstairs to get married."

"Who to?"

"Oh, anybody."

"Is he in love?"

"That's just it, he thinks he is."

"Well, you marry the girl you're in love with, Mr Carstairs, and don't take any notice of anybody."

"But she's impossible, mater."

"What do you mean by impossible? I don't believe in impossibility. If you're in love with the girl and she's in love with you, marry her, Mr Carstairs, and snap your fingers at everybody. It's better for you and for the girl and for everybody concerned. I hate those busy bodies who talk about 'impossible marriages.'" She seemed strangely excited.

Carstairs looked steadily into her excited, inflamed eyes. "I agree with you entirely, Mrs Darwen. The girl I'm in love with is a gipsy. She's a servant in a big house near my home."

"A servant?" Mrs Darwen seemed in doubt for a moment. Then the look of resolution again hardened in her eyes. "It doesn't matter what she is. Are you really in love?"

"I was."

"Ah! I see you're not. Once in love, always in love. Very few people really fall in love. They haven't got it in them. It's a matter of pluck. You've got it in you. When you're in love, you'll know it, and so will the girl, or I'm very much mistaken." She looked at Carstairs' steady eyes and firm mouth with a sort of motherly admiration.

"I was nineteen then, and I met her quite by accident."

"One always does," she interposed.

"I have not seen her since, except once, through the window, and—well, it was very bad indeed for some time after that."

She laughed. "That's it. That's it." she said. "How long ago was that?"

"About two years."

"And you still think of her?"

"Well—occasionally."

"Ah, Mr Carstairs, you're badly hit." She leaned towards him in an affectionate, motherly manner. "You're badly hit," she grew pensive all of a sudden. "It may be good, or it may be bad. 'Tis a Providence, I suppose. You know you're very selfish, Mr Carstairs."

"Me? Mrs Darwen!" Carstairs was amazed.

"You needn't be so surprised, it's a universal masculine attribute. Charlie can explain it, he understands it."

"Result of heredity, relic of the chimpanzee," Darwen remarked casually.

"What is she like? Handsome?" Mrs Darwen asked.

"Very; and full of pluck."

"Full of pluck! Ah!" she gave a deep sigh. "They feel it most, always." She seemed very sad all of a sudden. "What's that bit of poetry, Charlie, about the strongest and the wisest, you know."

"Is it true, O Christ in Heaven, that the wisest suffer most,
That the strongest wander farthest, and most hopelessly are lost."

"That's it. You're very strong, Mr Carstairs. Brutal almost, and wise."

"I should like to be, but I'm afraid I'm rather weak and silly at times."

She gazed at him steadily with a puzzled air. "You're different," she said, "you're not like the men of my generation. Are you a horseman?"

"No, I'm an engineer."

"That's the difference, I expect. It's a new type to me."

Darwen swung round on his music stool. "It's a new type to the world, mater; a sort of thinking machine, getting the human emotions thoroughly under control; the horseman was a sort of embryo engineer, he utilised the forces of nature according to his lights, but he was essentially a passionate man, he opposed his will to the brute's will. The engineer has to do with inanimate lumps of metal, and it's no use hitting them. Have you ever observed, Carstairs, the old type of fitter let go with his hammer at a job that's baffling him, the younger generation is much less so, he thinks. Nowadays every one is becoming more or less of an engineer, and it's good, it makes necessary a higher standard of intelligence, of self-reliance, and self-control. The nation of the future is the nation with the best engineers."

"It seems to me," Mrs Darwen remarked, "that you are substituting a coldly brutal type for a passionately brutal type. Men are very much nearer animals than women."

"The engineer has also to deal with men as well as engines, which has a humanizing effect on him, Mrs Darwen," Carstairs said.

"Yes! Fortunately Providence has provided a safety valve for his pent up emotions; you can't possibly imagine the intense mental relief of growling at a stoker because the steam's low, when it's not really the man's fault at all."

Carstairs laughed. "I rather like stokers myself, they're a rough and ready crowd, they'd knock you down for the price of a drink. And the language—Shakespeare isn't in it."

"They do swear, but if you think a minute you'll admit that the average stoker isn't in it with the average engineer; it's the same as everything else, it takes brains and feelings to swear well."

"I wonder if women will ever be engineers."

"My dear mater! Women are the finest engineers in the world now, they engineer us poor men, first to the altar, then to the graveyard or to the work-house. Men run engines, business, etc., women run men. The world is run by women, not by men. I remember talking to a stoker once about matrimony. 'It's alright for a change,' he said, 'but it ain't no use permanent.' I suggested that a little kindness might improve matters. ''Taint no use,' he said. I then ventured the opinion that to go home drunk and break up the furniture, sometimes has a conciliatory effect. ''Taint no use,' he repeated again. 'Stop supplies for a bit,' I suggested. ''Taint no use,' he repeated. 'Well, clear out.' ''Taint no use,' he answered. 'I've stayed home and helped 'em in the house, I've give 'em all my pay. I've come home drunk and broke things, I've chucked boiling water over 'em, and beat 'em with the poker, but ''tain't no use,' he shook his head with infinite sadness, 'you always gets had,' he said. He was a thoughtful, intelligent sort of man, and he'd had three wives, so he ought to know."

Mrs Darwen laughed. "He was a thorough sort of man, anyway, and women like a thorough man."

"So do men, Mrs Darwen. Personally my daily prayer is to be preserved from the wishy-washy fool who does what he's told in unquestioning obedience."

"Listen to the Saxon expounding his creed, mater. 'Oh God, give me some one to have a row with.'"

Carstairs smiled. "If you'd lived in Scotland you'd know that the first thing the Scotch working man does is to flatly contradict you to your face; then he argues the point, if you let him. The Scotchman is naturally mathematical, he is not willing to accept your word that you're the boss, he wants proof. I like the Scotch."

"They offer unlimited possibilities of a row."

"I don't like rows; I like to appeal to a man's reason."

Darwen drove one fist with a bang into the palm of his other hand. "The logic of the Englishman," he said.

"It seems to me that's the bed rock of all logic. I think that it was you who told me that Herbert Spencer and Ruskin both arrived at the same conclusion."

"Perhaps I did; I forget. But anyway, all of you people make the mistake of dividing people into types, classes and creeds. 'Nature recognizes neither kingdoms nor classes, no orders, no genera, no sub-genera, nature recognizes nothing but individuals.' That's Lamarck."

"Is it? Well, I hope he won't do it again, because he upsets all your elaborate theories about Saxons, Celts, and so on."

"Not at all; he doesn't say that they don't run in types, that large classes and races of men are not as like as two peas in almost all respects, he simply says that nature makes no effort to preserve them as they are, or, because of their numbers, to save them from annihilation. A whole class, a whole creed, or a whole race may exist simply for the benefit, and to assist in the development of, one individual, and when he ceases to have need of them, puff! they are wiped out."

"A creed formerly known as Kingcraft, I think."

"Exactly. 'The King can do no wrong' simply means that if he does wrong, he ceases to be a king, and the only proof that he has done wrong is the fact that he has failed to keep his crown. That is the teaching of old Nick, and personally I expand the theorem to embrace all humanity, every man should be a little king unto himself. That is to say, he must use his brains and control his passions."

Mrs Darwen sighed. "The inward passions are sometimes the voice of God, and sometimes the voice of the Devil," she said.

"There you are! and how are you to distinguish? Tennyson tells us that 'doubt is devil-born,' and certainly constant doubt and hesitation play the devil with a man's mind and body. My theory is 'never analyse an impulse. Act on it with the best conjunction of your reason.' Here's old Carstairs, analysing, theorizing, vacillating, hesitating as to whether he's in love or not."

Mrs Darwen stood up. "It's hard to say which is best," she said. "You're like, and yet very unlike, your father, Charlie." She went over to a small table and picked up a large album. "Have you ever seen Charlie's father, Mr Carstairs?"

"No, I don't think I have." He took the volume on his knees, and she leaned over his shoulder as he turned the pages.

Darwen swung round again on his stool and played low, soft music on the piano.

"There! That's me when I was a girl," she said, arresting Carstairs' hand.

He looked closely and intently at a full length portrait of a remarkably handsome and well built girl, dressed in a riding habit, sitting on a saddle. The features were clear-cut and regular, nothing harsh and nothing coarse; the mouth was firm, and the eyes bold and defiant. It seemed the portrait of a happy, rollicking tom-boy. The resemblance to the woman at his side seemed rather faint.

"You were beautiful," he said, "that's the type I admire."

"Ah! well, perhaps not a beauty, but I was usually considered good looking."

On the opposite page was a tall man, handsome, big-nosed, but he seemed deficient in chin.

Carstairs looked at him closely for some time. "He's handsome too. Not very much like Charlie, and yet—the face seems familiar. I seem somehow to have met that man, sort of family resemblance to Charlie, I suppose. You cannot say that any individual feature is like, and yet—you know. Was he musical?"

"Oh very. He had a music degree, at Oxford, you know."

"Had he really? A sort of brilliant, all round man, like Charlie."

Suddenly the little gong sounded outside in the hall, and Mrs Darwen stood up. "There's dinner. Let's go in," she moved out, and they followed.

Darwen sat down opposite Carstairs, he caught hold of his chin with both hands. "Old Carstairs gave me such a whack on the jaw that I'm afraid he's jammed the hinges, mater. I hope you've got something nice and not tough. How's the new maid? Hullo!"

Carstairs had half risen from his chair and stood staring like a man transfixed. Following the direction of his gaze, Darwen's eyes rested for the first time on his mother's new maid who was bringing in the dinner. She was tall and beautifully proportioned, every movement showed a lissome supple grace, and the features were equal to anything he had ever seen carved in marble; the jet black hair and deep brown eyes gave him the clue. This was Carstairs' gipsy maid.

Her face was the colour of a boiled beet as she bent down and placed a dish in front of Mrs Darwen.

Carstairs watched her for a minute with a sort of amazed frown. Her colour faded to the normal again, and as she raised her head she looked into his eyes for a second without a vestige of recognition.

Darwen observed them both, his eyes were supernaturally bright.

Carstairs subsided into his chair and bent over his soup.

Mrs Darwen glanced from one to the other and glanced at the maid. Then she smiled.

The conversation went on in spasmodic jerks till the maid left the room.

"Don't you think I've got a nice-looking maid, Mr Carstairs?"

"I do. In fact she's the girl I was telling you about."

"I thought so, the fates arrange these things. She's lovely; I thought when I was engaging her that it was a good job Charlie was shortly going to get married."

"You're mistaken, mater. Charlie is not shortly going to get married."

"Not! What do you mean?"

"It's broken off."

"You haven't jilted her, Charlie?"

"No, dear mater, she's jilted me."

"Nonsense."

"Well, she broke it off. You see—you remember that girl at the diggings, Carstairs, I used to give her a few music lessons and that sort of thing. Well, she got hold of Isabel and told her all about it; of course I couldn't deny it. It seemed to me she took a very narrow-minded view of it. So we broke off the engagement. Anyway, I could never have run smoothly with her, besides, the old Doctor's too much of an autocrat."

"Oh! but you could have pacified her surely, she'll forget that."

"I'm afraid not, mater. The more we talked, the further apart we seemed to get. I said I was sorry and all that, but this has been coming on for some time. We haven't been hitting it at all well for months past."

Mrs Darwen and Carstairs were silent.

"As a matter of fact," Darwen proceeded, "I'm getting sick of this place and all the people in it, I want a change. Your people were good enough to ask me to come and see them whenever I liked. Do you think they could put me up next week-end, Carstairs? I like having a chat with your guv'nor. I must admit I'm rather sick over this business—disappointed, you know. I had built up an idol—you don't understand these things, Carstairs. If I stopped to think now I should feel suicidal."

"Don't talk nonsense, my boy. Can't you and Mr Carstairs go away for the week end?"

"Not together, mater, we mustn't both leave the works. If Carstairs' people could do with me for the week end——"

"I can understand these things better than you think, Darwen. The people will be very pleased to see you, I know." Carstairs was very sober. "The feminine mind is incomprehensible."

Mrs Darwen leaned over towards him. "I'll help you, Mr Carstairs. Come and spend Sunday with me when Charlie's away. Perhaps if I called on Isabel, Charlie—

"You can't restore a shattered idol, mater. It's my fault, I know, but a fellow expects——"

"Everything," Mrs Darwen said sadly, "and some women give it, ah! yes, some women give it."

CHAPTER XIV

A few days later, the inquest on the man who had been killed at the works was held. Darwen gave evidence that he was going up to tell the man to be more careful as he had just dropped an iron bar, when he tried to get up on his feet and slipped off the plank. Several men who had been working there at the time corroborated his evidence, and a verdict of 'accidental death' was brought in—with a censure on the foreman for allowing an intoxicated man to go up on high scaffolding.

Councillor Donovan met Darwen afterwards. "You seem to be having a run of bad luck, Mr Darwen."

"Yes, we have been rather unfortunate lately; still 'tis a Providence' you know, Mr Donovan. If men will get drunk——"

"Sure! Yes! Will you come and have a whisky yourself, Mr Darwen?"

"Thanks, I will."

They adjourned to a saloon bar near.

"You're puttin' down a lot of plant, Mr Darwen, making quite a new place of it."

"Yes, the old stuff is quite inadequate for our increasing load," Darwen leaned forward confidentially and spoke very low. "Do you know, Mr Donovan, I'm bringing to light some very funny things in these works."

"You don't say—" Mr Donovan's eyes were wide and his cheek was pale.

"Between ourselves, I've got almost clear proof that a considerable number of men who didn't exist were drawing regular weekly pay, and the plant—" he shrugged his shoulders.

"Never! Mr Darwen."

"Not a word! I don't want to make a scandal, but I can't have any unpleasantness on the council, so! of course, if it becomes necessary in self defence—"

"True for ye. True for ye."

"I want a friend on the council, Mr Donovan. I've broken off my engagement with Dr Jameson's daughter—and there's no knowing how he'll take it. I must have a friend, a really stalwart friend, or else I shall perhaps be compelled to take unpleasant action, which would be very regrettable, very regrettable indeed I'm going to apply for a rise, a £100 rise."

"Ye'll have a friend, Mr Darwen, a rale good friend. I can promise ye that."

They walked out together and down the street; they stopped at the corner where their ways divided.

"Good-bye, Mr Donovan. I'm going away on Saturday to spend a week-end with my friend, the Vicar of Chilcombe, on the Cotswold Hills, you know. My nerves are rather run down, unpleasant incidents seem to be dogging me; the air there is very fine, I shall take some good country walks."

"Ah! ye need a rest. Ye've been working very hard, Mr Darwen. And may the devil take ye," Mr Donovan added under his breath as he turned away.

Similar interviews Darwen had that day with several other councillors, and impressed on them all that he needed a friend on the council. Two days later he left for Chilcombe; Carstairs saw him off. "Remember me to all the people," he said.

"I will, old chap, and you'll hustle 'em on with the work, won't you?"

They shook hands cordially.

On Sunday Carstairs called on Mrs Darwen. She was watching for him at the window, and came out to open the door herself.

"Oh, Mr Carstairs, she's gone, she left last night."

"Gone!" Carstairs repeated with a disappointment he made no endeavour to conceal.

"A small boy came and called her away to her people. They're encamped about ten miles away from here, and her mother is very ill."

Carstairs sat down. "Her mother," he repeated absently. "That old gipsy woman, the Queen of the gipsies, she told my fortune, no, it was the kid. She said, 'You're a winner, you'll always win.' Lord, I haven't won much yet. I'm too slow. Mrs Darwen, I shall have to hustle."

She watched him with sympathy and admiration. He wasn't knocked down, he was spurred to further energy; she liked that sort, it was the breed she was used to—the thorough bred.

"Where is this place, Mrs Darwen? I'll walk over there to-day."

"It's over by the new water works. I forget the name of the place."

"Dash it! I can't go to-day, and leave the works while Charlie's away."

"Would it really matter?" she asked.

"Probably not, but you never can tell, and he asked me not to leave."

"You know, Mr Carstairs, Charlie has got a very true friend and assistant in you; he thinks a lot of you, he told me that you had done more towards making the works pay than any man."

"Charlie's a jolly good sort, Mrs Darwen! We were chums from the start. He's given me a tremendous leg up too."

She smiled with infinite pleasure; she could listen to such remarks all day long. "I don't like his being mixed up with that lodging-house girl, though. Do you know her?"

"Oh, I see her once or twice a day when she brings in the grub and that sort of thing. She seems alright. You know, Charlie's such a handsome chap that the girls won't leave him alone."

Mrs Darwen smiled again, then sighed. "His father was the same," she said.

Carstairs changed the subject. "What do you think of your maid, Mrs Darwen?"

"She's superbly handsome."

"Yes, she's improved. She knows it too, I think."

"She'd be a fool if she didn't; the postman, the butcher's boy, the milkman and all the lot are simply wild about her."

Carstairs frowned unconsciously.

"But she takes no notice of them. I sit and watch them at this window. It's very amusing. They try all their time-honoured wiles, whistling and winking, etc. She quells them easily. The butcher boy blushed as red as a piece of his own beef. She's got quite the drawing-room manner."

"Why did she leave Lady Cleeve's, do you know?"

"She gave no explanation, simply that she wanted to leave. She has exceptional characters."

Carstairs frowned again. "Dash it! It does jar on one."

"I suppose it does, but no man need ever be ashamed of that girl. She speaks perfectly correct English."

"She did before, I think."

"Do you know, I rather believe she has some idea of going on the stage."

"On the stage! Why?"

"Well, she reads Shakespeare and she sings very well indeed."

"Er—have you heard her?"

"Oh yes. I asked her to come into the drawing-room one evening, bearing in mind her possible relation to you, you know. Charlie says she's very highly gifted that way, and he's going to give her a little instruction on the piano."

Carstairs stood up suddenly. "Charlie and I are going to quarrel," he said with a little laugh, but his eyes flashed fire. He sat down as promptly as he had got up.

She came over and put a hand on his arm; she was very serious. "You don't like that business of the lodging-house gin, any more than I do. I shall make a point of always being in the room when Charlie's teaching her."

Carstairs looked gloomily at the carpet. "Charlie's such a handsome chap, he plays and sings and does everything so well; he's got all the luck."

She looked at him very sadly. "You're a better man than Charlie, Mr Carstairs. I'm his mother, and it goes to my heart to say it, but I can't help it. I suppose I spoilt him. He's had his own way so much. I shall tell that girl so, it if seems necessary."

"It's no use, Mrs Darwen."

"You won't quarrel with Charlie, Mr Carstairs?"

He sat silent. "I can't promise," he said after a pause.

"Ah! I was afraid so. The only friend he's got, the only chum he ever had; plenty of acquaintances, but no friends, no real friends. Don't you quarrel with him, Mr Carstairs, please don't. I feel you do him so much good, I know it, he says so himself and I'm afraid he'll get wild and go to the bad. Promise me you'll always be his friend."

Carstairs stood up and looked steadily into her eyes. "I can't promise, Mrs Darwen, because I may not be able to keep it, but I'll try."

"Ah!" she said, "if only Charlie were like you."

"When is she coming back?" he asked.

"To-morrow, she said, but I told her not to hurry if her mother were really ill."

"Can you send her out somewhere—say to the general post office, at eight o'clock in the evening. I'll meet her and tackle her alone."

"Yes, I will, at eight o'clock."

"Thanks very much," he said, and took up his hat to go.

"You'll not say anything to Charlie—yet?"

Carstairs stopped to consider. He liked to have everything above board; this secrecy rather savoured of double dealing to him.

"No-o," he said at length. "I shall tell him as soon as I get an opportunity that I'm going to make the running with that girl if I can."

"Oh, you can, I know you can."

"By the way, what's her name?"

"Darkey—Edith Darkey."

"Good Lord, what a name!"

"The relic of a nickname, I expect. She may not really be a gipsy at all."

"Perhaps not. It doesn't matter anyway." He shook hands and left. He went down to the works and sat in the little watch office chatting with the shift engineer for half an hour, then he strolled round and looked at engines and boilers and had a few words with stokers and engine-drivers. Sunday in an electricity generating station is a particularly doleful time; when half the place is dark and three quarters of the plant idle, and the staff, a mere ghost of its normal week-day number; when men with unusually clean hands and faces and a general semi-Sunday appearance flit silent and spectre-like across the dreary, empty engine-room, and silent, idle machines cast uncanny shadows in the unlighted parts of the building. It was rather pleasant to Carstairs, as he wandered round, to contemplate the bad old days when he himself used to be tied by the leg as it were, to this place for eight hours at a time. He was just going out when he almost ran into Mr Donovan and another councillor, resplendent in frock coats, white waistcoats and silk hats.

"Ah, Mr Carstairs, is Mr Darwen about?"

"No, he's gone away for a week-end."

"Is he now! That's disappointing, we'll just have a look round anyway. Ye might come with us and explain, Mr Carstairs."

"Er—yes. Certainly."

Mr Donovan became enthusiastic. "He's a clever chap is Mr Darwen, a wonderful clever chap. Look at this, Mr Jenkins" (as Carstairs switched on the arc light in the new part). "An' all out of his own head. Ah! he's a clever chap. We mustn't lose him, Mr Jenkins."

"No, indeed, Mr Donovan."

"Ah! an' is that the place where the poor fellow was killed?"

"Well! Well! Indeed now, Mr Donovan, the Lord takes us all in His own good time."

"True for ye. An' Mr Darwen tried to save him, so he did. Look at this, Mr Jenkins! engine beds, see! one, two, three. Three new engines, is it, Mr Carstairs?"

"Indeed now! Three! It's a lot of work for one man, too."

"So it is, Mr Jenkins, an' he deserves more pay for the doing of it."

"Indeed and he does, Mr Donovan."

So they went on these two Celts, the small built, swarthy, insidious, oily Welshman, and the brawny, hearty, crafty Irishman; till Carstairs felt an actual physical nausea creeping over him. He had drawn out most of these plans himself, working night and day, calculating, measuring, thinking. And Darwen was going to get a rise. Darwen who had done nothing but stick out for considerably larger engines than Carstairs thought necessary. Darwen who had everything and was even now ensnaring the only girl that Carstairs ever cared for. Jack Carstairs with the great, big, English heart, felt really sick.

At last they went and Carstairs wished them good-night at the door. Shortly after he walked home alone by himself, ruminating on many things.

Next day Darwen returned late in the afternoon. He could read Carstairs like a book, and as he shook hands he saw that something was on his friend's mind.

"What's up, Carstairs?" he asked.

"I called on your mater yesterday, and the girl was gone."

"Ah, the new servant!" Carstairs noted that Darwen was really interested.

"Yes, the new servant. I intend to marry that girl, if she'll have me."

"Do you really? It'll rather wreck your prospects in this town. I mean to say, I shan't be staying very much longer, I expect."

"Oh, rats to this town, I'm sick of it anyway. But why are you going to leave just when you're going to get a rise?"

"How do you know I am going to get a rise?"

"Donovan and Jenkins were in here last night, and I gathered so from their remarks."

"Aha! Mr Donovan, was he? Come on down to old Donovan's pub and have a drink and see me chaff him, he can't for the life of him make out what's become of the hired assassin he sent to shoot me. Do you know, I often wonder what would become of 'em if they brought off the event."

Carstairs was moody. "Why are you going to leave just when your mater's got settled?"

"Dear boy, I want more money. The maximum of this job is about £500 or £600 per annum. You don't imagine that's going to hold me! I want a rise simply as a testimonial, don't you see? London's my place! One of the big London jobs is what I'm after. Get your hat and come on down to old Donovan's pub, and I'll tell you all the news about your people as we go."

Silently Carstairs got his hat and they went down the street together.

"Well, I had a jolly good time," Darwen started. "One of your brothers was home—Stanley. He's going in for the law, isn't he?"

"Yes; been going in for it a long time now."

"Is that so? It's a long job, the law. Anyway, they were all very fit and well. Your mater was very sympathetic over my engagement being broken off. I saw the Bevengtons. Jolly decent girl that Bevengton girl. Can't understand why you don't fix it up there."

"I explained the reason just now."

"Quite so, so you did. By the way, the girl's not gone away altogether, has she?"

"No, her mother's ill, be back to-day possibly." Carstairs was watching him closely and he saw the old, old light that he knew flicker up into Darwen's eyes.

They reached Councillor Donovan's hotel: a not very high class place near the docks. Darwen called for drinks. "Is Mr Donovan about?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"You might tell him that some one would like to speak to him, will you?"

"What name, sir?"

Darwen paused. "Er—Carstairs," he said. Carstairs looked at his chief in questioning surprise.

"Wait a minute," Darwen said in answer to his look. "Keep your eyes wide open and your mouth shut."

Next minute Mr Donovan appeared, jovial and hearty, his waistcoat of many colours expanded to its utmost limit. He stopped dead and turned a sickly light purple hue when he caught sight of Darwen. He pulled himself together in an instant, however, and advanced with outstretched hand. "How do you do? I thought it was Mr Carstairs." Surprise and apprehension were still in his eyes.

Darwen took him by the hand and smiled into his face, his delightful, winning smile. "What are you going to have, Mr Donovan? Whisky? Have a brandy, you don't seem quite up to the mark. Sit down, my dear chap." He pushed him into a chair facing them. "That's better; you were surprised to see me, Mr Donovan?"

"Pleased, Mr Darwen; I'm always pleased to see a friend."

"That's like you, Mr Donovan. Here's your health, your very good health, and may you live a very long time and be very happy."

"Same to you, Mr Darwen, and you, Mr Carstairs."

Carstairs raised his glass without a word.

Darwen carefully wiped his small, neat moustache with a snowy white pocket handkerchief. "I had a most pleasant week-end, but—" he leaned confidentially forward across the little round table—"Now, don't be alarmed, Carstairs—it was marred by a somewhat unpleasant incident." He paused and looked at Mr Donovan in silence for about half a minute. Carstairs watched them both, calmly observant. Darwen took another drink. Mr Donovan seemed in painful suspense.

"Ye're not hurt, are ye?" he blurted out at length.

"Me! Mr Donovan? Oh no, not a scratch. But they found a poor devil under my window, your window, Carstairs."

"Get on wid yer story, man! What was the matter with him?"

Darwen turned to Carstairs. "He was a red-headed man, a sailor or marine fireman. Lord knows how he came to get up there among the sheep and the shepherds."

"But what was the matter with him?"

"He was dead!" Darwen looked Mr Donovan steadily in the eyes. "His ribs were crushed in like an egg shell, and his neck was broken."

"Good God! Did he fall from the roof, or what?"

"Well!" Darwen shrugged his shoulders. "It seemed almost as though he had been hugged by a polar bear. In fact, that's the local theory, that he had a performing bear or animal of some sort which turned on him. They are searching the woods now; there's quite a reign of terror in the neighbourhood."

Carstairs stood up. "I say, I think I had better run home and see the old people."

Darwen caught him by the coat and pulled him into his seat. "It's alright, old chap, your brother's there, and they've got a lot of extra police from Gloucester and other places." Carstairs sat down again with an undecided air. He hadn't much confidence in his brother.

"It's alright; he's got a gun and a heavy service revolver, and Lord knows what." Darwen was speaking to Carstairs about his brother. He always admired the superb confidence Carstairs had in himself; he placed no reliance on other people. He still seemed unsatisfied. "Look here, old chap, I'm convinced that your old people will be alright."

Carstairs considered. "The guv'nor can take care of himself as a rule," he said thoughtfully, "and Stanley's alright, but too theoretical—you can't theorise with bears. I say, we can spare Bounce for a few days; I'll stand the expense and send him over with a revolver to sleep in the house for a bit. He can drive in tin tacks at twenty yards—and I've seen Bounce on breakdowns." He seemed quite relieved and sat down again in peace.

"Who's Bounce?" Mr Donovan asked with interest.

"Oh, an engine driver at the works."

"Ah!" Mr Donovan made a mental note of the name and address of the man who could drive in tin tacks at twenty yards.

Darwen took a drink. "This is the third occasion on which I have had a narrow escape of my life!" he observed.

Mr Donovan started like a frightened horse. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"I'm a great believer in luck, that's all. A new servant of my mother's, a gipsy girl, told my fortune the other day. 'You'll have several exciting adventures, but you'll always be very lucky,' she said."

"She told me I should always be a winner," Carstairs remarked.

Mr Donovan looked from one to the other. He was very superstitious himself, but he didn't know whether they were in jest or earnest.

"Yes," Darwen continued, "this is the third and last attempt. There'll be no more." He rose and held out his hand with a smile.

Mr Donovan's face was like a lump of dough.

"By the way," Darwen said, "I was forgetting what I came for. Carstairs is putting in for a rise too, a £50 rise. I suppose I can rely on your assistance, Mr Donovan?"

"Ye can that, Mr Darwen." A little colour came back into his face. "The meeting's on Wednesday," he said.

Outside Darwen clapped Carstairs on the back. "There you are, old chap! Now we'll go and compose your letter to the committee asking for a £50 rise."

"Thanks very much, but what's the bottom of this devil's business, Darwen? How was that man killed, and why isn't that beast in there in prison?"

"My dear fellow, 'that beast' has got brains. I consider Donovan a distinctly clever man. It's only the fools who go to prison. I wish you could come into the committee to hear old Donovan speak, Irishmen are born orators." Darwen spoke quite affectionately. They passed a policeman; he saluted Darwen respectfully.

"Fine, big, brawny chap, isn't he? Gets about thirty shillings a week, and what he can pinch. Truly the English are a mighty people. 'Set a fool to catch a fool.' That man touches his hat to the rogues and yanks honest simpletons off to gaol. I can't understand how you can be so wrapped up in simple, silly engines, when these great, complicated human machines called towns and cities are so vastly more interesting. They follow the same rules, it is well to study engines before you study men: the interdependence of parts, the distribution of stresses, and the vast invisible force which you call steam or electricity, and I call morals and sentiments. I never cease to wonder at the vastness and complexity of nature.

"Our little systems have their day.
They have their day and cease to be.
They are but broken lights of Thee,
And Thou, O Lord, art more than they."

Tennyson was essentially the modern poet. Nature, to him, meant the universe and the controller of the universe. So it does to me. I'm what you would call a truly religious man, Carstairs. Life is full of pleasure to me. I very seldom feel what you call anger. My emotions are well under control. The misery of the world is due to uncontrolled emotion. I had a most pleasant conversation with your guv'nor and Dr Bevengton on Sunday about the same thing." He turned and faced Carstairs suddenly. "You know I was never really in love with Isabel Jameson: the only way I could convince Pa, who was chairman of the electricity committee, that I was a good engineer, was by getting engaged to his daughter. She was simply a cog in the gearing that linked his intellect with mine. These things are necessary for universal peace."

"Quite so. And you're going to marry Bessie Bevengton for a similar reason."

Darwen laughed. "The Saxons used to fight with sledge hammers," he said. "They're still adept with the weapon. A woman is simply a ragged bundle of emotions badly tied up, with the ends trailing out in all directions, and it's those trailing ends that upset half the world. A man never loves as the men in books do."

"I think your remark about the policeman touching his hat to the rogues was most appropriate."

Darwen laughed aloud. "The Saxon could never handle the rapier," he said. "You're built for a slogger, Carstairs, and I expect you'd break most men's hearts at that game, but not mine, I can avoid you, I'm too nimble. Will you come home and spend the evening with me?"

"No, thanks, not to-night."

"Oh yes, you will, you're not busy."

"No, I have an engagement."

Darwen raised his eyebrows and shot a quick glance at him. He wondered whether Carstairs was trying his prentice hand at lying.

"In that case of course—" he said, and they walked back to the works in silence.