Jack Carstairs of the power house

CHAPTER IV

Back in Scotland, Jack Carstairs took up the thread of his work where he had left off, stepped into the old routine again. He had "started applying," that is to say he carefully scanned the advertisement columns of the Electrical Review, and then in dignified and appropriate language submitted a list of his qualifications to those people (and at this time their name was legion) who required the services of junior station engineers. Nearly all of these were municipalities, and they set out gaudy, lengthily worded advertisements occupying about a quarter of a column, with elaborate specification of duties and qualifications. They finished up with the mild and modest statement that the salary (?) would be at the rate of one pound (or perhaps twenty-five shillings) per week.

Jack answered dozens of these; sometimes he received a little printed slip to inform him that his application had not been successful, which usually arrived by the time he had forgotten all about it, or else he heard nothing whatever. He usually wrote out these applications at the works and posted them on his way home. His route, via the post-box, lay along a road deeply shaded with big beech trees on one side and an open space on the other, the footpath ran along under the trees.

One night, coming off duty at midnight, as he pursued his usual way home, enjoying the deep peace of the night, carrying a bundle of letters in his hands, he felt a sudden, violent blow on the back of the head, and the next thing he knew was that he woke up with a violent headache, and found himself lying on his back, under the shade of one of the big trees. He put his hand to the back of his head and felt a big lump there. He staggered to his feet and searched his pockets; everything was intact, nothing gone or displaced; his letters were lying scattered on the ground; painfully and slowly he gathered them up, the stooping made his head seem about to burst. Then he staggered home to his diggings, posting his letters on the way, and wondering with the vague and painful persistence of the fevered brain who or what had struck him and why.

He let himself into his diggings, and going to his bedroom, carefully sponged his head with water. Then he wiped it dry, sat down and ate his supper, and went to bed.

His sleep was somewhat fevered and disturbed, but he woke up in the morning feeling only a bad headache.

"Damn funny thing," he said to himself, then he turned over and went to sleep again. His landlady knocked at his door and told him it was very late, so he got up and felt fairly fresh.

"You're looking pale, Mr Carstairs," his landlady remarked.

"Yes, I'm feeling a bit pale," he answered.

She looked at him searchingly. Scottish women have an equal curiosity with other women but less tongue; she said nothing, and he volunteered no further information, partly because he was naturally uncommunicative, and partly—well, he could not say why exactly, but he did not.

There are so many things which one does not quite know why one does, which afterwards prove of vast consequence, which is probably why most men who observe and think are superstitious, religious, or fatalistic. The man who can only read plain print does not believe in these things.

Jack Carstairs said nothing, but he went down to the works as usual, and they remarked there that he looked pale and had a lump on the back of his head.

"What's up?" the vociferous young English engineer asked (it is astonishing what a number of English electrical engineers there are in Scotland).

"The sky," Jack answered, laconically.

"Alright! Go to the devil!" the other man answered, and went away.

The bearded, blue-eyed Scotsman looked at him in solemn seeing silence; he said nothing, and his gaze was not obtrusive. The Scotch are a pleasant people to live with because they have grasped, above all others, the art of minding their own business, which possibly also explains why Scotsmen occupy high places all over the world.

Carstairs went back the same way that night again, but he took a handy piece of light, strong iron piping with him. He walked clear of the trees and looked carefully all around, but saw no one.

He walked on and had just reached his diggings when he heard a light step behind him; he turned and saw a tall girl quite close to him.

"Good evening, sir," she said. It was the gipsy girl.

Carstairs face brightened with pleasure and surprise. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

Her eyes seemed to glow as she looked into his. "Following you," she answered.

Suddenly he noticed she carried a substantial ash cudgel. A great wave of wonder passed over him. "Good God, was it you who flattened me out last night?

"No, that was Sam."

His face relaxed with a look of relief. "Were you there, then?"

There was an involuntary twitch of the cudgel in her hand. "He wouldn't have done it if I'd been there."

Carstairs' look showed admiration and appreciation. "That's jolly good of you," he said. "Where are you—er—where is the camp?"

She mentioned a place twenty miles away.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "How did you get here, then?"

"Walked," she answered, simply.

"How'll you get back?"

"Walk," she said, again.

"But you can't walk all night—all that distance." He glanced helplessly up at the window of his little sitting-room.

She followed his glance. "I'll have a sleep out in the fields before I start," she said. She stepped up closer and looked into his eyes.

"Sam's going to 'do' for you." She watched him intently. The grey eyes hardened down till they glinted like steel in the moonlight.

"That's very kind of him," he said.

"But he won't do it," she added. "You'll do for him."

"Perhaps," he admitted, slowly. "I rather hope not. Are you—er—married yet?"

"No! Not going to be."

"Oh!"

"Mother said I needn't, and I don't want to. I'm going to work in a house, a farm," she watched him closely, "not far from here."

With a spontaneous movement he held out his hand. "Good, then I may see you sometimes. Good-bye."

She held up her face expectantly and he kissed her on the lips.

"Good-bye again. You're quite alright now?"

"Yes, sir."

"Dash it! Drop the sir. Can I bring you out some food?"

"No, thank you."

"Well, good-bye. Come over and look me up at the works when you've time, will you?"

"Yes," she answered. She turned and went away. He stood looking after her as she went away down the long moonlit street. He stood at the mouth of the "close" (the common entrance to a number of flats), his latchkey at his lips, whistling softly, in doubt. Suddenly he started off at a run after her. She turned quickly, grasping her cudgel, at the sound of his footsteps.

"Look here, I'll let you into my digs, my rooms, you know, and you can stay there till the morning. I'll stroll around."

"No!" she answered, not aggressively, but quite decisively.

"Alright! I'll stay out with you then, till it's light."

She laughed in real amusement. "I'm going to sleep," she answered.

He looked at her and saw she meant it; doubt again assailed him. "I suppose you're used to it?" he asked.

She laughed aloud. "I've never slept in a bed," she answered.

He laughed too. "I've never slept out of one," he said, "good-bye." He went back again and let himself into his diggings, and went to bed.

Next morning there were two letters waiting for him, both with the city arms of a municipality embossed on the flap of the envelope. "The mayor and corporation, or the City Electrical Engineer regret," he said to himself with a smile as he opened them. In the first, the city electrical engineer of a municipality in the north of England had to inform him that his application for the post of switchboard attendant at a salary of one pound per week had been successful, and would be pleased to know the earliest date on which he could take up his duties.

Carstairs read over the short, concisely worded document a second time. With a little thrill of pleasure he repeated the name of the town to himself. "That's a big job," he said, "and likely to grow." He opened the other letter. Another Borough Electrical Engineer in the Midlands had pleasure in offering him an appointment as switchboard attendant at a salary of one pound per week, and desired that he start as soon as possible.

He smiled over his lonely breakfast table, at the soup plateful of porridge, at the fried bacon and eggs, at the brown bread and the coffee-pot. It was the sort of smile one must share with somebody or something, or burst; for Jack Carstairs was nineteen. He ate his breakfast with much zest, but before it was over he got up and fished out directories and lists of Central Stations from a pile of books and papers in a cupboard; with these spread out on the table before him, or propped up against the sugar basin, he took intermittent mouthfuls of food while he carefully scanned the lists. Then having found both the towns and noted the capacity and peculiarity of their plant, the population, etc., he gave his whole attention to his plate, thinking deeply as he ate. "Not much to choose between them," he said to himself.

Then he went out for a walk and walked along, deep in thought. "I think," he said to himself, at the end of his stroll, "I think Muddleton (the town in the Midlands) will be the better experience."

He went down to the works to see his chief and find out if he could get away earlier than his legal agreement allowed him to. Then he went back to his digs and wrote accepting one and refusing the other.

In after life he often wondered what would have happened had he chosen the other. This seeming free choice, is it really free, and if so, how far?

Next day he hired a bicycle (he did not own one, could not afford the time to use it and look after it, he said) and cycled over to the place where the gipsy girl had told him their camp was pitched. He tried every road that led out of the little Scotch village, but could find nothing of the camp. He made inquiries, and the dour highland policeman looked at him with open suspicion.

"Gipsy camp," he repeated, "na, there's nae gipsy camp around here."

So Carstairs went back the way he had come, and in a week was in the train for England. He was hurried out of Scotland, over the moorlands and southwards through the wilderness of little towns that cluster, thick as blackberries (and about the same hue), all about the heart of England. At four o'clock in the morning, he was turned out, bag and baggage, in a great industrial centre, on the middle platform of a vast and gloomy station. By eight o'clock a.m. he had reached his destination.

He got out at the dirty little station with somewhat of the edge taken off his enthusiasm. Leaving his luggage in the cloak-room, he went out and wandered round the town, looking at the smoke stacks and the factories, the squalor and the dirt.

He located the works in the lowest and dirtiest part of the town, and next to the gas-works, as usual. The extent of the buildings and the two towering chimney stacks acted like a tonic on his somewhat jaded spirits. At ten o'clock he went round again and interviewed his new chief, a tall clean-shaven young man of twenty-six, who drew a modest salary of £400 per annum; he was very affable and pleasant, but not in the least impressed by the gravity of the situation.

"Oh, yes! you're the new switchboard attendant. Have you had a look round? No? Oh, go out and stroll round the works, then. Mr Thomson will be in shortly."

Carstairs went out into the engine room and wandered in and out amongst the big engines, till another very young man, in his shirt sleeves, came up and asked him what he wanted.

Carstairs explained.

The young man smiled a pleasant smile, and held out his hand. "I'm the Shift Engineer. My name is Smith. Come on upstairs." He took Carstairs up the switchboard steps, along the gallery, and into a big room at the end. It was very light, with large windows and glass doors, and numerous lights, all burning. Five other young men, very young (the eldest of them not over twenty-two), were lounging around on tables and chairs. All had their coats off, and some their collars as well. One had a piece of flexible wood with a large piece of cardboard fastened across the end; with this instrument he gravely hunted flies, squashing them flat on walls or window panes, remarking "exit," in a mechanical sort of voice at every stroke. A long sloping-topped drawing table occupied the whole length of the room under the windows, another large drawing board was supported on light trestles in another part, an ordinary writing table occupied the centre. Instruments, paper, pencils, ink, technical journals, and pocket books, were scattered about broadcast.

Seated on the table in the middle, idly swinging his legs, a young man was telling a story; all the others, except the fly hunter, listened attentively. He was tall and dark, with a small neat moustache and marvellous large brown eyes.

The Shift Engineer introduced them. "Darwen, this is Carstairs, the new switchboard attendant."

The dark young man reached out a hand—a strong, sinewy hand, with long, taper, artistic fingers; he smiled, such a genial, winning smile, that Carstairs felt friendly towards him at once.

The Shift Engineer continued the introduction with a light wave of the arm. "Green, Brown, Jones, Robinson." Then he perched himself on the table. "Go on with the yarn, Darwen," he said.

The dark man smiled, and Carstairs noted the remarkable perfection of his face; the forehead was broad and not too high; the nose strong but delicately chiselled; the chin, well moulded and firm but not aggressively prominent; the mouth was almost perfect. The whole man presented a striking picture: the head was perfectly shaped, and the figure gave every indication of great strength and activity; the deltoid muscles at the angle of the shoulder showed very prominently, the neck was big and firm. The pectoral muscles were clearly defined under the tight-fitting waistcoat, the leg, bent over the table, showed a well-developed thigh and knee.

Carstairs eyed him with pleasure, he had a keen appreciation of a well-built man. Darwen's brown eyes seemed continually to meet Carstairs' steady grey ones, and always there was the light of pleasure in them. He went on with his tale, and the others listened and laughed at the right place, which was the end. Carstairs smiled a solemn sort of smile, The story did not appeal to him very much.

Darwen caught the smile, and his own eye seemed to kindle with an appreciation, though it was his story. "What shift are you on?" he asked.

"I don't know yet. I've got to see Mr Thompson."

"He'll be in now, I expect." With a sudden spring he threw himself off the table and went to the glass door. "There he is, down in the engine room now," he said.

Carstairs went out and perceived another very young man talking to an engine fitter down below. At that time Central Stations were very young and most of the staffs were very young also. When municipalities were putting up electric lighting stations faster than men were being trained to fill them, young men passed quickly from charge engineer to chief engineer, and from that to bigger chiefs. All sorts and conditions of men drifted into station work. Now they are drifting out again; sick of councillors and contractors; sick of mayors and corporations; sick of red tape and Bumbledom; sick of life.

Mr Thompson was smartly, rather horsily dressed. He eyed Carstairs over somewhat in the manner of a horse fancier. He let it be evident also that he was satisfied.

"Have you been round yet?" he asked.

"No, not all round," Carstairs answered.

"Alright, come round with me."

"Thanks," Carstairs said. Thompson, he thought, was probably only about three or four years older than himself, and he looked less. They walked round together, Thompson explaining and pointing out peculiarities, Carstairs listening and asking questions. In ten minutes they were as chummy as school boys.

"Have you got digs?" Thompson asked, suddenly, pulling out his watch.

"No, not yet."

"Well, look here, you'll be on the day shift this week; you can go out now and get fixed. Some of the other fellows will perhaps be able to give you some addresses."

"Thanks, I'll try." Carstairs went up to the drawing office again. "I say, can any one put me up to some digs?"

Darwen was leaning over a drawing board doing some fine work, whistling softly to himself. "I can," he said. "Half a minute." He put in one or two more strokes, then he looked up. "I've got pretty decent digs; there's another bedroom empty in the house I know. You can share the sitting room with me, if you like."

"Right you are! What's your address, and how do I get there? I'll go round and fix it up at once. Thompson said I could."

CHAPTER V

Carstairs and Darwen were on the same shift together, that is to say, they put in the same eight hours of the day at the works, day, evening, or night; and they shared diggings. They were about the same height and the same weight, they were both extremely interested in their work, both came from the south of England, and consequently both felt like strangers in a strange land. The first evening they were off, Darwen showed Carstairs round the town.

"That's the theatre," he said, with a smile, pointing to a dingy-looking building in a dingy-looking street. He watched Carstairs' face curiously as he spoke.

"I thought it was the prison," Carstairs answered, with his sober smile.

Darwen laughed outright. "This is the last place God made," he said.

They walked round the dingy main streets with their surging crowd of factory girls and factory men, flashily dressed in their evening attire, of poor physique and unhealthy looking.

"Is it possible," Carstairs asked, "to get out into the country?"

"Oh, yes!" Darwen answered. "Can you walk?"

"Pretty fair."

"Come on then. I'll show you a field."

Carstairs looked pained. "The landlady," he remarked, "described that acre or so of bare earth opposite our window, as a field."

"I know, but this is a real field with grass and all that."

"Come on then," Carstairs said, briskly.

Darwen stopped and looked at him impressively. "Mind, I promise nothing! But last time I was there, there were three cows in it." He suddenly relaxed into a sunny smile. "Come on," he said, and started off briskly.

They walked about five miles, past endless rows of symmetrical, dingy, box-like, red brick houses. It was getting dark when they reached the field, but the cows were there—three sorry specimens, grazing on the smoke-grimed, subdued-looking grass. The young engineers sat on the gate and looked at them in amused pity.

"We've come through one town, and we're on the borders of another," Darwen remarked. "It's hard to say just what town you're in at any given moment, about here."

"It seems very bracing although it's so smoky," Carstairs said. "I wonder why any one lives here who could live anywhere else."

"Lord! Don't tell 'em that. I nearly got mobbed for making a similar remark last week. They think these places are very fine towns. When they've made their pile they still stay here."

"How long have you been here?"

"A month."

"How long are you going to stay?"

"Oh, I shall start applying when I've put in four months. Might get away at the end of six, then."

"That's my idea, too. They've got some good plant here, though."

So they lapsed into technicalities; and as they strolled back, the dingy houses and the smoke and grime were all forgotten. Community of interest was drawing these two young men very close together. They sat up late into the night smoking and comparing notes of what they had seen and wished to see in the engineering world. As they went to bed, Carstairs passed Darwen's door.

"Oh! if you come in half a minute, I'll show you those drawings," he said.

He went in, and while Darwen rummaged about in a big trunk, Carstairs glanced round his bedroom. The walls were hung with framed photographs of football teams and cricket teams, school teams and town teams; Darwen's handsome features and sturdy limbs were prominent in all. Carstairs examined them with keen interest. "You're a rugger man, I see," he said, with great appreciation.

"Yes, are you?"

"Oh, yes. I play, but I haven't got an international cap, or—" Carstairs mentioned the name of one of the teams on the wall. Darwen stood up with a roll of engineering drawings in his hand. He flushed slightly with pleasure. "I only played for them one season," he explained, "left the town at the end of it."

Carstairs looked at the drawings and Darwen explained. They sat down together side by side on the bed; for half an hour longer they discussed technicalities, then Carstairs went out. He noticed two photographs on the mantelpiece as he passed, both of girls, both pretty. He noticed also that both of them were autographed across the corner. One of them he thought had "with love" written on it too. "Shouldn't have thought Darwen was the sort of ass to get engaged," he said to himself as he went into his own room and glanced round at the landlady's wishy-washy prints and cheap ornaments.

At the works Carstairs and Darwen were always on together, with Smith as charge engineer. On the night shift (that is, from midnight to eight in the morning), Smith spent most of his time in the drawing office reading novels or newspapers, and sleeping; he took periodical walks round to see that the others were awake, then he went back into the drawing office and reclined peacefully in a chair, his head thrown back against the wall (cushioned by a folded coat), and his feet supported by a small box. During the first two or three hours the two juniors spent their time tracing out connections behind the switchboard, making diagrams, and clambering about on the tops of engines or boilers; later on, they too, usually dozed off, sprawling over the switchboard desk, or stretched out on the floor somewhere out of sight. After about two o'clock a.m. the whole works, in fact, became a sort of temporary palace of sleep; the stoker dozed on his box in the boiler house, the engine driver made himself snug on the bed plate of an engine, the fires in the boilers died gradually down from a fierce white to a dull red glow, the steam pressure gauge dropped back twenty or thirty pounds, the engines hummed away merrily, with a rather soothing sort of buzz from the alternator, and a mild sort of grinding noise from the direct current dynamos, with a little intermittent sparking at the brushes. On the switchboard, the needles of all the instruments remained steady, the pressure showing perhaps a little drop. At irregular intervals the driver would get up and slowly oil round his engines, feeling the bearings at the same time; the stoker would arise and throw a few shovelfuls of coal on his fires, glance up at his water gauges and regulate the feed water, perhaps putting the pump on a little faster, or stopping it off a bit; a switchboard attendant would open one eye and glance sleepily at the big voltmeter swung on an arm at the end of the switchboard, note that the pressure was only a little way back, and close his eyes again in quiet unconcern.

One night Smith had been drinking a lot of strong tea and couldn't sleep; he strolled round at an unaccustomed hour and surveyed the sleeping beauties with a little smile of glee, for Smith was twenty-three years old, and to the healthy young man at that age many things appear humorous which a few years later take on a hue of tragedy.

Going through the boiler house, he carefully examined the steam and water gauges. Then he stood for some moments gazing interestedly at the recumbent stoker; he was rather a ferocious-looking man in ordinary wakeful moments, but thus, with his big jaw dropped to its full extent, his eyes closed, and every feature relaxed, he seemed singularly feeble. Smith took a shovel and threw it with a clatter down on the iron checker plates.

It was quite an appreciable number of seconds before the man moved, then he sprang bolt upright, with his eyes wide open, both arms extended above his head, and every expression of alarm on his countenance; he saw Smith standing there smiling, but it was some moments before his face resumed its normal expression; he looked at the shovel on the iron plates. "Did you drop that, sir?" he asked.

"Yes," Smith answered.

"I must a' dropped off," the man said, half apologetically, half humorously.

"I think you must have," Smith agreed, smiling broadly.

A joke loses more than half its zest if there's no one to share it with. "I'll have those chaps in the engine room now. Come in and see," Smith said, as he led the way to the engine room door. The heavy stoker followed; he was a man over forty, but he grinned like a boy of twelve.

"Half a minute," the engineer said, in a whisper. Leaving the expectant stoker at the door, he carefully surveyed the engine room and switchboard, then he returned with an oil bucket in his hand. "Shut the door, and when I switch the lights out, rattle that like blazes." He handed over the bucket and crossed the engine room again to the station-lighting switchboard, picking up two more buckets as he went. Then he switched off the main switch, putting the place in inky darkness; instantly the stoker rattled his bucket with great vigour. Smith bowled one of his along the iron checker plates on top of the pipe trench, and rattled the other vigorously in his hands.

From the security of their corners they heard voices shouting in the darkness, and the sounds of men in anger swearing.

"What the hell's up?"

"Stand by your engine, Jones!"

"Got a match? Let's have a look at the blooming volts."

Smith heard a bump above his head on the switchboard gallery as though some one had fallen, a match was struck down in the engine room and another on the switchboard, then he heard Darwen's voice say, "Good God! Smith! Hullo! Smith!"

He switched on the lights and ran up the switchboard steps.

Carstairs was lying limp and helpless on his back with Darwen bending over him. Smith turned as white as a ghost.

"What's up?" he asked, in an agitated voice.

"I don't know. Got a shock, I think. Look at his hands, got across the contacts in the dark somehow."

They stretched him out on his back with a folded coat underneath him, and put him through the motions for artificial respiration. The driver and stoker waived ceremony and mounted the switchboard steps to see what was wrong; they stood leaning over the prostrate form watching the anxious efforts of Smith and Darwen in silent, interested sympathy. "Shall I have a spell, sir?" the brawny stoker asked, as the agitated Smith paused for a moment in his efforts.

No one present was ever able to say precisely how long they worked at Carstairs, probably not many minutes before his chest began to heave in a natural breathing motion. They carried him out into the yard, and the fresh air so revived him that in half an hour he walked through the engine room unaided, and lay down on the floor of the drawing office, made comfortable with coats and newspapers, and dozed off into a sleep. When he woke up, and had had a wash, he seemed quite normal again.

Smith was profuse in his apologies. "I'm beastly sorry. I never dreamt of anything of that sort, etc."

"Oh, it's alright," Carstairs answered, with a sincere desire to let the matter drop. "I ought to have stood still, went shoving my hands out, knew I was somewhere near the machine switch, too. Got right past the guards and touched the bare metal first go off, wouldn't happen once in a thousand times. Not your fault at all."

So the incident passed, and remained a secret in the bosoms of those five men till years later, when, Carstairs and Darwen were dim and distant memories at those works, a driver or a stoker would sometimes tell wondering pupils a tale of how a man was nearly killed on the night run through the Shift Engineer "skylarking."

Things went very smoothly for a bit. Darwen and Carstairs got more chummy than ever. They were leaning over the switchboard rail together, it was not quite a week since Carstairs had got the shock. "I rather wanted to see a chap get a shock, not killed, you know," Darwen was saying.

"I was rather curious on the point myself, too."

"What was it like? Just a two hundred shock magnified?"

"Very much magnified. It was devilish."

They drifted off. "I've never seen an alternator burn out yet, have you?"

"No! Wish number three would go now."

They separated to take reading; it was half-past nine in the evening; Carstairs stood looking at an ammeter which was set some way above his head. The divisions on the scale were small and indistinctly figured; Carstairs stood very close in, on tip-toe, straining his neck upwards; the high tension fuses were at the bottom of the board, about level with his knees (carefully calculated as the most awkward possible position), they were seven inches long and enclosed in porcelain pots, which invariably shattered when a fuse blew. As Carstairs stood there taking feeder reading, with what he afterwards learnt was unnecessary accuracy, the needle of the instrument he was looking at gave a sudden violent plunge, the fuse pot, almost touching his trousers, was shattered into a hundred pieces with a report like a miniature cannon, and a vivid arc blazed away under his eyes with a rattling, screaming roar. Carstairs jumped back in an instant, to the furthest limit that the width of the gallery would allow.

Darwen came along from the low tension switchboard; he was all eagerness, his eyes were bright. He stopped and looked at his new friend in amazement. Carstairs cowered against the handrail, gripping his scribbling block and pencil, palpitating, useless.

For two or three seconds Darwen gazed at him in astonishment. Then he fetched the long, insulated crook kept for that purpose, and himself pulled out the feeder switch.

"Bring down your volts, Carstairs," he said, in a kindly, soothing voice, avoiding his eyes.

With a deep, gasping sigh Carstairs pulled himself together, and with an unsteady hand adjusted the rheostat.

They looked down into the engine room and saw Thompson, the chief assistant, looking up, watching them. He came up the steps and looked at the shattered fuse pot and burnt slate; he expressed no surprise, nor even anger; in those early days sparks and blinding flashes were the daily fare of the electrical engineer, very much more than they are now. Thompson picked up one or two of the pieces of partially fused porcelain and examined them with interest, then he glanced at Carstairs with a great wonder in his eyes, but he spoke to Darwen.

That night, as they walked home together, Carstairs was more than usually silent, and the remarks of Darwen were choppy and abrupt. They ate their supper almost in silence, then they lit their pipes and smoked, in easy chairs, one on each side of the fireplace. They puffed in silence for some time, then Carstairs spoke.

"I'm going to start applying," he said.

"Why? You haven't been here three months yet!"

"No! Quite so! But I'm going to look out for a nice, quiet little job in the country with two low tension machines, where the wheels are very small, and fuses never blow."

"My dear chap, you'll get over that; the first one I saw go knocked me all in a heap."

Carstairs appreciated Darwen's sympathetic lying, but it cut him more than all. "Don't give me silly lies, for God's sake," he said, letting his temper get the better of him. "I have found out that I am a skunk with no nerve, not a ha'porth, so I drop behind, into my place, the place of the cur. And the bottom is knocked out of my universe." He puffed vigorously at his pipe, blowing great clouds of smoke.

Darwen was silent, too, for some time, then he spoke slowly, thoughtfully, punctuating his remarks by blowing softly at the wreaths of smoke about him. "I must say (puff), honestly (puff), I was never more surprised in my life (puff). You're such a deliberate, cool sort of chap (puff). Thought earthquakes wouldn't upset you."

"Damn it! I thought so too."

Darwen proceeded: "Surely must be something abnormal (puff). I mean to say, a fuse going is startling, and all that—but (puff), damn it! (puff) you haven't got over that shock, you know, that's what it is." He sat upright with a sudden vigour and a light in his expressive eyes. "That's it, man. You want to go slow for a bit. Dash it! two thousand volts, that usually 'corpses' a chap, you know."

Carstairs brightened somewhat. "Yes," he said, "I'm convinced that's it, too, but how long will it take to get over it? If ever?" He stood up excitedly; it was obvious he was not himself even then. His hand was unsteady as he held his pipe outwards, pointing with the stem at Darwen. "That shock was devilish, Darwen. A nightmare. Devilish. I could feel you chaps working at me, for hours it seemed to me, working so damn slowly. And I wanted to tell you to get on, to keep it up, to go faster, and I couldn't, couldn't budge, couldn't get out a word. Did I sweat? You didn't notice if I sweated. Think I must have. There was a sensation of something fluttering round me, something like a damn great moth in the dark. I could hear it, and I was frightened of the thing, frightened as hell. I wanted to put my arm up to shield my eyes, to beat the thing off, to lash out in sheer terror, and I couldn't budge. God! It was awful! I had no idea terror was so really terrible. Wonder what the moth thing was?"

Darwen looked at him steadily with bright eyes, a world of sympathy in them, sympathy and interest. "Your face was very drawn, I noticed that. You looked terror-stricken."

"I was. And when that fuse went to-night, the bang and the flash and roar brought it all back. I lost control of myself. I wanted to be steady, but I couldn't, I shook like a leaf; you saw it, and Thompson saw it. You'd hardly believe how angry I was, how I was cursing myself." He broke off suddenly and shook his clenched fist in the air. "Curse that blasted silly Smith and his blasted monkey tricks." It was almost a scream.

"Sit down, old chap. You want a rest, that's what it is—shock to the system and that sort of thing, you know. I'll go round with you in the morning and see a doctor."

Carstairs sat down, he seemed almost himself again; calm, discerning, calculating. "Can't do that! What am I to say? Sure to get old Smith into a row. These bally doctors and councillors they're all mixed up, you know, sure to get round."

"My dear chap, damn Smith! You have yourself to consider."

"He'd get the sack; it would wreck him. His people are not very well off; he told me once that before he came here he was getting a quid a week in London—and living on it."

Darwen spread out his hands with an almost continental gesture. "My dear chap, you're following quite an erroneous line of reasoning, it's rather a pet theory of mine, as an engineer. However, tell the doctor you had an accident in the execution of your duty, etc., etc. No need for it to get round at all. He'll forget all about you as soon as you've paid him his fee."

Carstairs was thoughtful, he puffed his pipe in silence for some minutes, then he stood up. "Alright, let's go to two while we're about it, then we can check 'em one on the other. I'm going to bed."

CHAPTER VI

In the morning Carstairs and Darwen went together to first one doctor and then another. Their verdicts were remarkably alike. "Shock! you'll feel the effects for some time. You really want a month's rest."

"Shall I get alright again in a month?" Carstairs asked.

"Probably, most probably."

"What are you going to do?" Darwen asked when they got outside. "Ask for a month?"

"No!" Carstairs answered, definitely. "Smith's the sort of chap who'd own up at once if the subject were brought up; I'll sit it out, now I know it's only temporary, I don't mind. The thought of it otherwise fairly took the stuffing out of me."

Darwen reasoned with him. "My dear chap, you fly in the face of providence all the way round. As an engineer you should have learnt to pursue truth relentlessly."

"That is my desire," Carstairs grunted.

"Well, the elementary truth underlying all things is that a man's first duty is to himself. When you introduce sentimental side issues, you overload yourself and consequently shorten the run of your existence. You also render it less pleasant."

"What are my sentimental side issues? I'm not engaged on anything of that sort." Carstairs shot a quick glance at Darwen.

He was quite unmoved. "Your idea about screening Smith, etc. The fool must pay the penalty of his folly. Smith is a fool. In the great scheme of the Universe all things are interdependent. Naturalists say that if there had been no worms there would be no men, and an engineer is a man who uses this interdependence to his own advantage."

Carstairs gave a grudging assent. "Where is the limit?" he asked.

"I see no limit," Darwen answered.

"Then you're a common or garden rogue."

"Perhaps! Rogue is so often simply a term applied by fools to men smarter than themselves. However, I said, 'I see no limit'; I should add 'as yet.' My theory is incomplete, I am expanding it as I grow older."

"You'll expand yourself into prison if you don't look out."

Darwen laughed. "Have you read 'The Prince'?" he asked.

"No."

"You're an ignorant chap, Carstairs. I'll lend it to you."

"Thanks. What's it about, engines?"

"No—men."

"Then I won't borrow it, thanks all the same."

"It's part of my theory that every man should be a sort of little Prince, as far as his intellect, etc., will allow him."

"Hear, hear! Go on."

"Well, the essential part of a prince's job is handling men."

"So is an engineer's."

"Hear! hear! to that. Now our views begin to converge. The engineer is essentially analytical and mathematical. Why not apply his abilities to men as well as engines, eh?"

"No reason at all."

"Good! then as in engineering it is necessary not only to have theory, but practice as well, practise, practise, practise, eh? We will experiment so that we may know the limit of the truth of our theories, so that we may know and recognize the little difficulties that crop up in the application of all theories. On the night shift next week we'll experiment on Smith and Jones and Foulkes."

The following week as they were preparing to go on night shift together, Carstairs noticed that the landlady put up a bag of large onions for Darwen. "What in thunder are those things for?" he asked.

"The experiment. We'll see if we can persuade those other chaps to eat raw onions. I believe you can make most men do anything if you have observed them closely and drawn accurate deduction from your observations. Now Foulkes, the stoker, is a strong, hard-headed sort of chap, but he's immensely impressed with his own hardihood. We'll attack him on that side. Twig?"

"I think a sledge-hammer would be a more appropriate weapon to tackle old Foulkes with."

"That's the good old masculine idea. In these things you want to take a line from the feminine."

"Alright. I'll be a spectator."

So shortly after midnight Carstairs and Darwen repaired to the boiler house.

"Hullo, Foulkes," Darwen said, cheerily. "How did you sleep to-day?"

Foulkes was gruff and hearty. "I can sleep any time," he said.

"Lucky dog! wish I could. My landlady recommended me to eat onions. Jolly good things, but they burn my mouth out."

Foulkes laughed, a great guffaw.

Darwen laughed too. "I suppose," he said, "that they don't have any effect on you. I daresay you could eat 'em like apples." He pulled an onion from his pocket and threw it up and caught it. "I've heard of chaps with very strong heads being able to do it," he remarked, gazing at the onion in his hand tentatively. "I couldn't tackle 'em like that. No more could you, Foulkes."

Foulkes stretched out a big, black paw. "Give me ta onion," he said.

Darwen handed it over. "I bet you'll soon chuck it."

They stood and watched. Carstairs very solemn, Darwen with just a flicker of a smile of satisfaction, as the big stoker ate the best part of a raw onion till the tears ran down his cheeks and he almost gasped for breath. Darwen kept him at it. "That's beaten you, Foulkes, you can't go on with it." But he did, and finished it.

As they turned to the engine room Darwen said: "How's that for an experiment."

"I call it underhand, unsporting."

"My dear chap, you don't give sporting chances to an engine." He looked at Carstairs curiously. "We have different methods of looking at things; I wonder who will prove most successful in the end."

"Your experiment would have failed any way if Foulkes hadn't been a plucky, obstinate sort of chap."

"Exactly. That goes to prove the correctness of my observations. I had placed Foulkes rightly as the man to eat onions. That is to say, to eat an entire onion. The successful man is the man who can make others eat onions, and also pair up the right man with the right onion. I have an ambition to be a successful man."

"So have I, but I also wish to play the game."

"Again we disagree, I wish to collar the stakes."

Carstairs was silent for some time. "Let us agree to differ. You don't mean all you say, or all that your words convey to me. You're a sportsman."

"That's true. I'm somewhat hampered by a sporting instinct, and if I followed my theory to its logical conclusion, I should not now be reasoning with you."

They sat down on the switchboard and glanced over the technical papers that were just out that day.

Two months passed away and Carstairs found to his very great pleasure that his nerves had regained their normal steadiness. He and Darwen were both scanning the advertisement columns of the technical press with great anxiety and interest; they were both answering advertisements, and they had come to an agreement not to both apply for the same job. They were watching with eager interest a town in the south of England. They had both seen tenders out for plant about a year ago; then they saw an advertisement for a chief engineer.

"In about a month he'll want shifts," Carstairs said.

Now the advertisement was before them, set out with much pomp and ceremony among a long list of other stuff. Three shift engineers at a salary of £104 per annum.

Carstairs felt a singular sense of satisfaction as he surveyed the advertisement. "We'll toss for first choice as usual, I suppose," he said.

"Of course," Darwen answered. "They'll never select two chaps from one station, and I'm certain it reduces the chances of both." He threw a coin in the air.

"Tails," Carstairs said.

Darwen turned it up. "Tails" it was. "There you are," he said, with a genial smile, pocketing the coin.

Carstairs wrote out his application, and copied his testimonials with great care on unruled foolscap. About a fortnight later, Thompson, the chief assistant, called him into his office.

He picked up a letter from his desk. "I've got a letter from Southville in reference to your application for Shift Engineer. The chief there asks my recommendation between you and Darwen."

"Darwen?" Carstairs repeated in astonishment.

Thompson glanced at the letter. "Yes, Darwen," he said. He hummed and hesitated a minute, while Carstairs was turning over various thoughts and reasons in his mind. "You see it's a new job, Carstairs. I have a very high opinion of your abilities. The testing and that, that we have done together, but—er—things are always going wrong in a new job, you know. I think it will be better for you if you stay here till you get more accustomed to fuses, etc., going."

Carstairs flushed; from his neck to the roots of his hair he was a vivid red. Thompson looked down at the letter he held in his hands.

"Then you're recommending Darwen?" Carstairs asked.

"Ye-es, I think, for a new job, you understand. Darwen would be rather more suitable. I tell you this because I thought probably Darwen would tell you, and you might misinterpret my action."

Thompson was a sportsman, he liked to have things square and aboveboard.

"Thanks! I understand," Carstairs said, and went out. He crossed the engine room and looked for Darwen.

"So you're putting your theory into practice," he said, looking Darwen sternly in the eyes.

"What do you mean?" he asked, flushing angrily, and Carstairs couldn't help thinking what a remarkably handsome fellow he was.

"Why, you've got Southville."

"Yes, I know. Thompson told me just now. What about it?"

"You're a damn skunk, that's all. I won the toss."

"You're a liar or a fool, and I'll punch your head if you call me a skunk."

Carstairs looked at him in astonishment, his anger seemed so genuine and righteous. "You're welcome to try any time you like," he answered.

Darwen gazed at him a moment, then he suddenly smiled. "Look here, old chap, I can see you believe you're in the right, but I assure you you're not. I'm positive I won the toss."

"And I'm equally positive I won it."

"My dear chap, I held the coin right under your eyes, and I remember distinctly it was a tail."

"Precisely; that's what I guessed."

Darwen's face seemed to lighten with a sudden comprehension. "I'm devilish sorry," he said. "I remember now. I didn't notice particularly at the time what you said. I was watching the coin. "Head" is so often the choice that I assumed it was head. Look here, I'll withdraw my application. I'll tell Thompson." He started off.

Carstairs followed, and stopped him at the office. "Let it go now, Darwen," he said.

Thompson looked from one to the other inquiringly. Darwen explained.

"It's too late now, any way," Thompson said. "The letter's gone. I think it's best as it is, too."

They went out into the engine room again together. Darwen was profuse, more than profuse, in his apologies. "I'd sooner almost anything had happened than this," he said.

Carstairs watched him closely. "Oh, it doesn't matter. Let's drop it," he said.

In a week Darwen left for Southville. They parted excellent friends, almost the same as before the unpleasant incident, but not quite. There was a "something."

The new man who came to fill Darwen's place was very bumptious and very conceited, the son of a large shopkeeper. He would have been a decent fellow if he had not been so conceited. For his first time on night shift he was as lively as a cricket for the first two hours, singing and whistling and trying to startle the stoker and driver by dropping heavy spanners on the checker plates unawares, etc.; then he announced loudly that he'd "keep the beggars awake."

At three o'clock Smith found him tilted back in his chair, mouth wide open, fast asleep. Smith's eyes sparkled, he gently called Carstairs; they both repaired to the drawing office and came back with bottles of ink of various colours—red, green, black, and purple—and two fine camel-hair brushes: delicately and with great care they painted his face with streaks and circles and elaborate scrolls of many colours; every now and again during the process the sleeper raised a hand to brush away the flies. He turned his head uneasily occasionally too, but they finished it in style, and stood back to regard their masterpiece with keen satisfaction; he looked a most fearsome warrior. Then they stood back and dropped a heavy book with a bang on the floor. He jumped up startled, but saw them laughing.

"I wasn't asleep," he said, with a self-satisfied pomposity.

"Pretty nearly, though," Smith suggested.

"Oh no, I wasn't. I bet you don't catch me asleep."

Smith smiled. "Alright, don't get your hair off," he said; he strolled towards the steps, Carstairs followed, and the new man dropped in behind. They strolled across the engine room in solemn procession, and the engine driver, catching sight of the new man's face, went off into shrieks of hysterical laughter. Smith and Carstairs took no notice, but the new man hurried up alongside, frowning severely, which added exceedingly to the comic effect of his countenance.

"That chap's mad, I think," he said.

The other two turned and looked at the driver with a sort of tolerant good humour. "He is a bit touched, I think," Smith observed. "He's been in India for a long time—in the army, you know."

"Cheeky brute, he broke out like that when he saw me. I'll ask him what the hell he's laughing at if he doesn't shut up."

"Never mind him," they said, "he can't help it, he'll be alright in a minute." They went out into the boiler house and the new man followed; the stoker was asleep on his box against the wall; they paused, all three, and stood looking at him.

"They are a drowsy lot, these chaps," the new man remarked. "See me wake him up." He picked up a heavy firing iron, and, standing in front of the stoker, dropped it on the iron plates with a huge clatter.

The stoker—he had been in a very light doze—jumped up instantly and stood fronting the new man, face to face, directly under a lamp; for fully half a minute he stared, in speechless, motionless, wonder, then he burst forth into mighty guffaws that shook the very building. He caught sight of the others standing a few yards off.

"Strike me pink! Take 'im away. Take 'im away," he moaned in piteous appeal, squirming painfully with his hand on his stomach.

The new man stared at him in petrified rage and astonishment. "What the hell is the matter with you?" he asked. "You were asleep," he said, severely, "and it's no use trying to pass it off by laughing."

"Oh, go away, go away." The stoker motioned with brawny hand and averted face. He took a sideways glance out of one eye, and burst forth into fresh paroxysms.

Smith and Carstairs retired somewhat precipitately into the yard, and under the friendly shade of night, behind a big cable drum, they screamed in unison.

The new man after vainly endeavouring to quell the stoker with a frown, went back to the engine room again; as he opened the door the driver, who was just mopping his eyes with a red cotton handkerchief, caught sight of him and burst forth anew.

Smitten with a sudden suspicion, the new man glanced hastily over his clothing and passed his handkerchief over his face, but the ink was quite dry and gave no evidence.

"Everybody in this place seems to be mad to-night," he said, and the driver screamed louder.

With increased suspicion, the new man went off to the lavatory and looked in the glass. What he said is not known, but later, when Smith and Carstairs returned to the drawing office, they found him with a clean face. He didn't look up when they entered, but continued to read in moody silence. They sat down and read too, while the stoker and driver at the door of the engine room conferred notes with much laughter.

Not very long after the stoker appeared at the glass door of the drawing office. He knocked and came inside; his face was pale beneath its grime, and his eyes were full of apprehension, which he endeavoured not to show.

"Low water in number five boiler, sir," he said.

All three were on their feet in an instant.

Probably eighty per cent. of boiler explosions are due to low water. Smith's merry, boyish face grew pale and stern, as he moved quickly to the door. "How the devil is that?" he asked.

"Dunno, sir. Check valve hung up, I think."

"Have you lost sight of it altogether?"

"Yes, sir." The gruff, hearty man was very meek.

They arrived at the boiler house, all four. Smith looked at the water gauge glasses and blew them through.

"How long have you lost it?"

"Only just noticed it, sir."

Smith stood for a moment, his hand on the check valve, his eyes far away. The weight of responsibility comes early on these young men, especially if they have a tendency to skylarking and letting things drift occasionally; as a rule they look old beyond their years.

Only for a moment Smith hesitated.

"Damp your fires! Get some of those wet ashes and cover them over! Let the stream drop and shut this one in as soon as it's back twenty pounds!" He stood in front of the boiler and watched the stoker throw ashes on the fires; he looked a different man; he was very steady and calm. This young man with the vulgar name of Smith had some excellent British blood in his veins, as who shall say in England here, that any navvy in the street has not?

Carstairs stood behind him, his heart beating considerably faster; only the day before he had been reading a detailed account of a disastrous boiler explosion. He felt a tingling, pricking sensation in his blood; afterwards he learnt to look for this tingling of the blood, it was one of his chief sources of enjoyment.

The big stoker watched Smith very intently with a sort of child-like dependent observation. He obeyed his instructions quietly but quickly, very quickly. He was very silent, and very meek, but there was a tinge almost of fever in his movements.

The new man watched them for a moment, then with every assumption of languor he strolled off—and he did not come back till the boiler was shut in and the pressure very low.

When, after about half an hour, everything seemed safe again, Smith gave a sigh of relief as he and Carstairs returned to the engine room. "I don't mind sparks, but I'm darned if I like steam," he said. He looked at Carstairs with approval. "You didn't seem to be very much impressed."

Carstairs smiled, his slow, steady smile. "As a matter of fact, I felt like a chap who's found a bomb and doesn't quite know whether it's exploded or about to explode, or whether it really is a bomb."

That night as Carstairs went home his ambitions began to soar very high again.

CHAPTER VII

At the end of a month Darwen wrote a rather long letter, giving a detailed description of the station and staff. "The plant is good," he wrote, "all brand new and full of possibilities. The chief assistant is a delightful thickhead, and the chief—words fail me to describe him. The possibilities and probabilities of this job are immense."

Carstairs read it through twice carefully and thoughtfully; he penned a brief reply. "No news here. New man an utter ass, blown out with conceit, impossible to share digs with him." That was about all, it was almost telegraphic.

At the works things went on much as usual. Thompson made more than usual overtures of friendliness; he wished to impress on Carstairs that it was through no feeling of personal bias that he had not recommended him for the Southville job. Frequently when they were testing with high tension currents he caught Thompson looking at him with a sort of wonder and distinct approval.

One day when there was a fault on the mains, and Thompson had been out all night in the rain testing and digging out cables and opening junction boxes till he was tired and weary of all the world, he came into the works in a fine spirit of irritation. "We'll have to burn the damn thing out," he said. "Run up a machine on it."

By a specially complicated arrangement of the already complicated switchboard, it was possible to run any machine on any feeder. The Shift Engineer signalled for another machine, and Carstairs plugged her in on the faulty circuit. The fuse held for about one minute, then it blew with a flash and a bang right in Carstairs' face. Promptly and coolly he switched out and went through the complicated operation necessary to isolate that section.

Thompson watched him in some surprise. "You've got used to fuses, then," he said.

Carstairs flushed. "Er—" he hesitated a moment. Thompson waited in expectant silence, which is the severest cross-examination to a very young man. "I got a shock some time ago and it upset my nerves a bit. I'm alright now."

"It does upset you if you get it badly. What did you get, four hundred?"

"Two thousand."

"Good Lord. That's usually fatal. How did you manage it?"

Carstairs was silent for a moment; he looked at Smith who was down below in the engine room, then he turned and faced Thompson.

"It was my own fault. I was fooling about, trying some experiments, you know—and tired. It knocked me over. Smith and Darwen brought me round; Smith was jolly decent. You needn't say anything to him about it if you don't mind, it was his request." He looked Thompson steadily in the eyes like a practised liar.

Thompson smiled with a sort of admiration and pleasure. "You'll be more careful next time," he said.

"I shall, very careful," Carstairs answered, and Thompson smiled; he started to go away, but turned at the head of the steps.

"I shouldn't be in a hurry to leave this job if I were you. If a vacancy occurs, I think I can promise you a Shift Engineer job here." He went down the steps.

Carstairs felt a glow of exultation. "Thanks very much," he said.

It has been observed that misfortunes never come singly, it is equally true that good fortune comes in lumps also. The observant man like the successful gambler may gain much profit by regulating his actions to the ebb and flow of fortune. What appears to the casual or timid observer to be a particularly "long shot" is often the outcome of close observation, and not the mere freak of a desperate plunger. The tide of affairs never sets either way without warning. The watchful man, like the careful mariner, knows fairly well what to expect. Carstairs was a particularly close observer, and after Thompson's remarks and other things, he had an idea that the luck was flowing his way again; he was not much surprised therefore to find a letter waiting for him next morning from Darwen telling him of a vacancy at Southville, and urging him to run down and see the chief. "I have so strongly recommended you that I think the job is yours," he said.

Carstairs felt a singular satisfaction that he had gauged the trend of his luck so accurately. He went down to the works to see Thompson and get a day off. Thompson looked rather disappointed. "You'll get that alright," he said, "but I'm rather sorry. I've had an inquiry about Smith here (he held up a letter), there'll probably be a vacancy soon. I suppose you don't think it worth while waiting?"

Carstairs stood for a few minutes in deep thought. "I think it would be rather stemming the tide of my luck, wouldn't it?" he remarked, quite seriously.