The lights of Mexico City were a welcome sight to the young American. Never had a train ride seemed so long. The Secret Service guard refused to allow him conversation with his fellow-passengers and as the circumstances were too strained to permit his reading with any degree of interest, Jack had little to do but gaze out of the window and think over his misfortune. The moment the train rolled into the station, the detective hustled Jack to the military barracks in the heart of the city. It was almost midnight when they were challenged by the white-clad sentry before the heavy double gates of the enclosure. Jack’s captor answered with a few brief sentences in Spanish and the gates were unbarred to let them pass. Inside another sentry located the officer on duty and he and the Secret Service man held a short conference. A few moments later two privates were summoned. They took charge of the young Vermonter, escorting him toward the far end of the long barracks buildings, where he was locked into a stuffy unlighted cell in the guardhouse.
“To Jack it all seemed like a horrible nightmare”
To Jack it all seemed like a horrible nightmare. Here he was a prisoner in the capital of a strange country. He had no knowledge of the language spoken by those with whom he had to deal, nor did he have friends or relatives within several thousand miles. His only hope in being delivered from his rather serious position lay in the possibility of calling Harry Ryder to Mexico City so that he could identify his drawings and explain how they came to be in the possession of some other person. But Jack was not altogether certain that this could be done, or if it could be done, whether his captors would be willing to take that much trouble to prove him innocent. At first he had taken the arrest more or less as a joke, but as he reviewed the various stories he had heard of the Mexican idea of justice, he became very much worried. He knew the punishment meted out to a spy and he wondered whether that would be his end. With such thought parading through his brain, he had little chance for sleep that night. Indeed he heard a big clock beyond the barracks walls toll every hour from midnight until dawn.
At seven o’clock breakfast was brought to him by an uncouth looking private in a dirty white uniform. The meal consisted of tortillas, made of corn flour, and frijoles, which are black Mexican beans. There was not even a cup of water with which to wash it down. Though Jack had had very little to eat the day before, the sight of the mess brought by the soldier sickened him, and he put the tin plate aside untouched.
An hour later an officer with four privates came into the guardhouse and unlocked the door of Jack’s cell. The lad observed that each of the soldiers carried a shining rifle at port arms and the officer entered with sword drawn. At this he became speechless with horror. Was this a firing squad! Was he going to be executed without the formality of trial? He was almost too weak to walk when the officer spoke to him in Spanish and motioned for him to come forth. Silently the soldiers formed behind him and urged him forward out of the guardhouse and on to the parade grounds.
His heart-breaking suspense ended there, however, when he noted the direction in which the soldiers turned him. Instead of marching out into the center of the enclosure they headed directly for a building that looked very much like a large dwelling. To the young American it appeared as if it might be the home of the commander of the barracks. He hoped it was, for in that case he could be certain of some form of trial at least, during which he could doubtlessly explain about the drawings.
The boy was ushered before the austere old General by the officer alone, the guard remaining on duty before the door. The commander was seated at a desk in the center of a well-lighted, cheerful-looking room, a uniformed orderly at his elbow. The other occupant of the room was the Secret Service man who had arrested him the day before. Both were poring over the drawings of the lightning arrester which the detective had confiscated, while on the corner of the officer’s desk was Jack’s traveling bag which had been forced open, possibly for the purpose of finding other evidence against him.
The detective and the officer looked up as the youth entered. Jack’s officer escort saluted and retired to the rear of the room, leaving the lad standing in the middle of the floor alone. The detective cleared his throat and spoke.
“I shall be what you call the interpreter. I spik Mexican, I spik also Inglis. Shall you be content?” he queried.
“I will be contented if you will believe what I tell you,” said Jack rather curtly. “It is ridiculous to arrest me as a spy. I am an American citizen and those drawings are not war plans or details of a ‘war machine,’ as you suggested yesterday. They are plans for an electrical appliance that is to be built by Mr. Harry Ryder, in order to give better light to Mexico City.”
The detective looked at him with doubt plainly written on his countenance. Then he turned and in rapid fire sentences imparted Jack’s story to the general. The officer also appeared to doubt the youth’s statement. He was silent for a few moments, however, while he pondered the situation; then through the interpreter he asked:
“Why does Mr. Ryder trust his valuable papers to you?”
“Because he didn’t care to trust your unreliable mail service,” said Jack vindictively.
The wrath of the detective was stirred immediately.
“Mexico is a great country. She has a dependability of mail service. You are a gringo who spies for the revolution. Do not tell me not. I saw you with my own eyes pass some secret something to a sympathizer in the plaza at Vera Cruz. Ah, but he are arrest already and your secret is now known.”
Jack was startled at first. Then as he recalled the whining beggar in the plaza he laughed heartily.
“Why, he was only a beggar. I gave him a few coins. You are making a mountain out of a mole hill, Mr. Detective. Why not have done with all the foolishness by summoning Mr. Ryder from Necaxa? He will prove that the drawings are his and that I am no spy.”
The General and the Secret Service man debated this suggestion for some time. Evidently they thought it a good idea, for the officer presently began to use the telephone at his elbow while the detective talked to Jack.
“We will call Señor Ryder. General Rodriguez say the great electrical engineer is in Mexico City now. He spoke with him in the café last evening. He will come maybe, and then if you can prove, you must prove. If you don’t, you will be shot to-morrow.”
The commander ceased his telephoning after a few moments and spoke to the interpreter, who, turning to Jack, announced:
“Señor Ryder is at the office of the Compania de Luz y Fuerza Montriz in Calle de Tetuan. He will be here quite soon.”
The General and the Secret Service agent spent the next fifteen minutes smoking numerous black paper cigarettes and talking quite excitedly to each other while Jack was left standing in the center of the room. The waiting was ages long for the American. But finally there sounded the tooting of an automobile horn and roar of a motor from the parade ground outside and a moment later a tall fine-looking American, clad in linen trousers and soft shirt, entered the commander’s office.
Jack stepped forward instantly and held out his hand.
“Mr. Ryder,” he said, “I am John Strawbridge, Dr. Moorland’s messenger. I have been arrested and am being held as a spy because I happened to have your drawings in my wallet. You see it excited the curiosity of the customs inspector yesterday and the result is I am in the hands of the Mexican Secret Service to-day. I sincerely hope that you can get me out of this rather disagreeable position; otherwise I’ll furnish the target for a firing squad to-morrow morning.”
“Why, this is ridiculous,” said Mr. Ryder as he saw his drawings spread out before General Rodriguez. Then he began to talk in Spanish to the natives. A few moments conversation was all that was necessary to convince the Secret Service agent and the officer that a serious mistake had been made, and each was profuse in his apologies to Jack Straw.
“It is a great regret that I arrest so honorable friend of Señor Ryder,” said the detective with a sweeping bow. “I hope you will pardon, Señor.”
And Jack showed the sort of stuff Americans are made of by stepping forward and warmly shaking hands with the Secret Service agent and the commander.
Jack was not long in discovering that Harry Ryder was a prince of companions. After the little incident at the barracks they were fast friends. Of course the engineer was somewhat older than the boy from Drueryville, having just turned twenty-nine, but withal he was decidedly boyish in spirit. The big gray motor car that stood in front of the commander’s house was the engineer’s latest toy and nothing would do but that Jack should accompany him on a tour of the capital of “this benighted country,” as he termed Mexico. And he made an excellent guide.
Until long after midday they went flying up one street and down another, while Mr. Ryder pointed out all the places of interest. First they visited the Plaza Mayor, or Zocalo, as it is frequently called. And while Jack was noting each interesting detail about the imposing public buildings, the Cathedral and the National Palace, the engineer explained the history of that remarkable section of the City of Mexico.
“This,” he said, “was the heart of the Aztec capital four hundred or more years ago. Indeed, that building over there, the National Palace, was constructed on the very site of the splendid palace of the old Indian ruler Montezuma. And as for the Cathedral, that is built on the very foundation stones that held the wonderful Tecalli, the Aztec temple, where from twenty to fifty thousand lives were sacrificed annually to the powerful Indian deity Huitzilopotchli. The present Cathedral with its towering spires was erected in 1573 and is the most imposing edifice of its kind in the whole of North and South America.”
From the Plaza Mayor they turned to other interesting portions of the community. The famous tree under which Cortez is said to have wept was pointed out by Mr. Ryder; also the various monuments and buildings associated with the old Spanish adventurer. They traversed the causeway over which Cortez retreated and ultimately visited Chapultepec where the Indian rulers once maintained magnificent dwellings.
It was nearly one o’clock when the car rolled into the heart of the city again and stopped before the door of the American Hotel. There Jack and the engineer climbed out, but before Mr. Ryder entered the hotel he inspected his new machine thoroughly.
“That’s a great plaything,” he said enthusiastically. “I bought it a month ago, and I usually arrange to get into the city every Sunday to take a drive. You see I have to leave it here because there is no roadway out to Necaxa, only a pack train trail and our narrow-gage railroad. I couldn’t very well use it out at the power plant anyway for it’s a trackless wilderness there.”
On entering the hostelry the two Americans lost no time in finding the dining-room, for the drive had given them both a ravenous appetite. They ate in silence for a time, for the business of satisfying their hunger was of great importance. But when coffee was finally served and each felt that they had done credit to the ample portions afforded to them, Mr. Ryder began to talk.
“You know, Jack, I think it was mighty lucky for you that I happened to be in Mexico City. Otherwise you would probably have been compelled to spend several days in jail. And it is even possible that they would not have taken the trouble to send to Necaxa for me. A Mexican’s idea of justice is rather crude. Frequently they shoot a suspect and then debate his guilt or innocence over his body. Old Rodriguez and his Secret Service friend were quite positive that you were a spy, and I am afraid that the cartridges with which you were to be executed had already been dealt out, figuratively speaking.”
Jack shuddered as he thought of his narrow escape.
“I guess that I was very fortunate having you so near at hand,” he said.
“Well, I’ll be quite honest with you, Jack, this visit to Mexico City was not a matter of choice with me. I was requested to appear before the officials of the company and old Huerta himself. You see things have been in a devil of a mess at the plant recently and we have had some trouble in keeping the old city supplied with enough light. I fancy it has been getting on Huerta’s nerves and he has been calling the company’s officials to account. They in turn pass the calls along to me.
“You see some of the hundred or more workmen at the plant have developed revolutionary ideas. They seem to be Zapata sympathizers and they are doing all they can to make things unpleasant for Huerta. They have been crippling machinery from time to time, tampering with the searchlights, putting dirt in the bearings of the generators and raising the dickens in general. Of course this reflects on my management and I feel rather ugly about it all. But the men who do it keep pretty well under cover. I wish that I could find out just which of the greasers are the trouble makers. I’d have them line up against the station wall and drilled through with some of their own soft-nosed bullets. That may sound a little inhuman, but honestly one cannot afford to treat them otherwise. As a matter of fact their fate is not in my hands. The moment we discover a sympathizer the rurales stationed at the plant as special guards take the matter in their own hands and all that we hear of the case after that is the report of the carbines. Oh, they make very little bones about human life down here. And that reminds me, have you provided yourself with a protector in the form of a revolver? If you haven’t we’ll see that you are supplied with one before we start back for the plant this afternoon.”
“I have my father’s big blue steel Colt,” said Jack with pride. “It’s right here in my traveling bag. But I haven’t much ammunition, only the cartridges in the belt.”
“Well, you’d better buckle it on your hip when we start. You will probably find a great deal of comfort in having it handy all the time you remain in Mexico. Why, you should see our plant. It’s a veritable fortress with its rows of trenches, its barbed-wire barriers, its squadron of rurales and detachment of infantry. And our working force is drilled to do some fine defense work too. We are all equipped with Mauser rifles and we have a battery of new French rapid-fire guns and a three-inch fieldpiece that can throw a shell clean over the top of the nearest mountain. We know it will do that for not long ago we had occasion to bombard a handful of Zapatistas from a position on the cliffs a mile away. The rats had an old fieldpiece and they managed to get a couple of solid shot down through the roof of a storehouse near the plant. Oh, we have had an interesting time out there for the last eight or ten months. The Zapatistas have been hovering around like a swarm of bees. They haven’t managed to do much damage, however, but we never know when they will be joined by other mobs of guerrilla soldiers who are operating in that section of the mountains. When that happens then I guess we can look for real trouble.
“I arranged with General Rodriguez last night to have another detachment of infantry accompany us to the plant this afternoon. I think it would be wise to strengthen the guard out there at any rate. We are going out on a train of flat cars that will be ready to move shortly so I guess we had better be getting ready. I’ll drive you over to a gunsmith’s and you can get all the ammunition you want, then we’ll start for the railroad.”
At the gunshop Jack laid in five hundred rounds of ammunition. This seemed a ridiculously large amount but Mr. Ryder assured him that it was wise to be on the safe side in such matters. Several other stores were visited where Jack purchased some clothing suggested by Mr. Ryder for service at the plant. The most important purchase was one of the huge sombreros such as the natives wear. This was secured at a little hat booth on one of the side streets. Jack was amazed at the size of some of these hats and while he was looking over the assortment offered, Mr. Ryder explained that the natives were very vain about their hats. He said that in former days the wealthy Mexicans vied with each other to see who could wear the hat with the largest brim and the most costly embellishments. This competition reached the point where it finally became a public nuisance, for the big hat brims were decidedly objectionable on crowded thoroughfares or street cars. The federal government finally took the matter in hand and imposed a tax of a certain amount for every four inches of brim over a stipulated size. This ordinance put the hat brims at a universal width.
After the shopping they hurried back to the hotel where Mr. Ryder always maintained a room. Their clothes were changed and garments of the rough-and-ready sort adopted. Jack felt very self-conscious as he buckled on the heavy revolver and donned the high-crowned sombrero, but he did his best to hide it from his companion. On his way out of the hotel, however, he surreptitiously glanced at his reflection in one of the large mirrors and found to his great satisfaction that such toggery was not at all unbecoming. He secretly resolved to have some photographs made which he intended to take back to Drueryville when he returned.
The train that was to carry them out to Necaxa was, as the engineer had said, nothing more than a string of flat cars with a yellow caboose at the end. It was a narrow gage railroad that was built especially to carry supplies to the power station, one hundred and twenty-five miles back in the mountains.
Two of the flat cars were heaped high with boxes of provisions and barrels of flour, all on the way to the little community at the power house. Three other cars were occupied by the detachment of infantry from the barracks. The soldiers were not a prepossessing lot, Jack thought, as he viewed them. They were uniformed alike, of course, and for the most the uniforms were in rather good order though somewhat dirty. Their hats were not unlike the forage caps of the United States troops during the Civil War, with the exception that they were higher in the crown. The men were all dark skinned and ugly looking, and the young American was quite certain that as enemies they would probably be decidedly vicious customers.
Three officers accompanied the detachment but they held themselves aloof from the rest of the soldiers, sharing the caboose with Jack and Mr. Ryder. They were tall, fine-looking specimens of Mexican manhood, very jaunty in their gold-braided uniforms, and Jack found them very companionable after they became acquainted, for they could speak English after a fashion and some of the war stories they told helped to make the slow journey into the mountains less tedious.
On leaving Mexico City the train started to climb immediately for the way was entirely up grade, the plant being situated at a higher altitude than the capital. As a result of this and the unusually heavy load, the little engine made slow progress. Indeed, at some points in spite of its snorting and puffing it could not go on and the men were forced to get down from the flat cars and walk, thereby lessening the load. Because of this slow progress it was long after nightfall when Jack discovered a long pencil of light reaching out across the sky. It looked weird and uncanny off there in the solitude of the mountains. But as he watched it began to move along the ridges, searching out each valley and depression. Then Jack understood. It was the huge searchlight at the plant, looking among the hills for lurking bands of Zapatistas.
The lad watched the light travel from point to point until finally it located the supply train, which it escorted all the way to the station, illuminating the tracks just ahead of the engine.
It was a veritable fortress that Jack entered when he left the caboose of the supply train. Before him, on a slight eminence, was the massive building of the power station with the searchlight mounted on the roof. The grassy slope below was marred by a double line of trenches unoccupied, of course, save for one or two white-clad sentinels who paced back and forth restlessly. On the lawn between the first trench and the station, the lad noted a bulky object covered with canvas. This he immediately decided was the three-inch fieldpiece about which Mr. Ryder had spoken. To the north of the station was the irregular outline of many small cottages. As the searchlight threw its rays in that direction, the boy observed that nearly all of them were constructed of wood and erected after the fashion of the cottages furnished to the quarrymen in Vermont. There were also several long low shed-like structures which he learned later housed the soldiers. The entire community did not occupy more than five or six acres and was entirely cut off from the surrounding country by barbed wire barricades. Indeed, the place looked well-nigh impregnable to the American. To approach from the north, south or west, invaders would have to get through the mass of barbed wire first and carry two lines of trenches before they reached the station, and as far as the east side of the plant was concerned, approach in that direction was made impossible by the roaring mountain stream that furnished water to the station’s turbines.
The enclosure became a perfect bedlam a few moments after the supply train rolled in. To the roar of the river and the grumble of the huge generators inside were added the shouts of the soldiers detraining and unloading the supplies. The entire barracks had turned out to welcome the reinforcements, for it happened that they composed two companies of the same regiment. Altogether Jack estimated that there were more than 200 men ready to defend the place against the rebels, not including the squad of twenty-five rurales who were stationed there to patrol the surrounding country. The rurales, the lad learned, were not soldiers in the stricter sense of the word. They are maintained by the Mexican Government to do practically the same work as that required of the famous Canadian mounted police; which is to rid the country of bandits, smugglers and bad men, and run down the outlaws that hide in the mountains. They are far better drilled than any of the Mexican troops and are well equipped with clothing and firearms. Their horses are the best that Mexican dollars can buy. These men ride exceptionally well, shoot almost as accurately as the Texas ranger and are brave and fearless. A Mexican president who believed in the old saying that “it takes a thief to catch a thief,” organized the rurales years ago when the country was infested with bandits and bad men. Every time one of these men was apprehended he was forced to join the rurales and hunt down bandits. In this way his vicious nature was well satisfied and at the same time he was able to consider himself a law-abiding citizen, which usually appeals to all individuals who have been outlaws for any length of time. To Jack these soldier-policemen were very picturesque as they swaggered about in their dark-green, tightly fitting uniforms and broad-brimmed hats. He noticed, however, that they did not associate with the white-clad regulars, but stood apart in a little group by themselves and watched the other men unload the cars.
Mr. Ryder and Jack lingered long enough to see that the unloading was well under way before they turned toward the station.
“I’ve a strange premonition that the troublemakers hereabout have taken advantage of my absence,” said the engineer as they approached the office. “I would not be surprised to find the plant dynamited some day. These rebel sympathizers will go the limit to make it disagreeable for old Huerta.”
The office of Ben Nedham, first assistant engineer, was vacant. When Mr. Ryder saw this he looked worried. Immediately he bounded up the spiral iron staircase to the balcony-like control room where the switchboards were located. Allen Lyman, a tall light-haired American in charge of that section of the plant, advanced to meet him, and his face also bore a troubled look.
“They’ve been at it again, Mr. Ryder,” he exclaimed. “We haven’t been able to carry the load all evening. Machines five and six are out of commission. Couldn’t even start them. Nedham and a gang are down there on the generator floor now trying to patch them up.”
“What is the trouble?” demanded the engineer, his brow wrinkled by a perplexed frown.
“Well, some one got in after two o’clock this morning, evidently, and threw a bucket full of fire sand into the gears of both machines. Nedham has had only one watchman here and he must have gone to sleep.”
“Have you heard from Mexico City yet?” demanded Mr. Ryder anxiously.
“No, not yet, but we can gamble that the lights are mighty dim there. Shouldn’t wonder but what we’ll get a call before the night is over.”
He had hardly completed the sentence when the telephone bell on the desk in the center of the room jangled sharply.
“Dollars to doughnuts that’s Mexico City now,” exclaimed Lyman as he removed the receiver. A moment he talked with the man on the other end of the line; then he beckoned to Mr. Ryder.
“It’s President Huerta himself,” he said, holding his hand over the transmitter. “He’s as mad as a Mexican bull too. Wants to speak with you.”
For fifteen minutes the chief engineer attempted to explain the situation to the country’s executive, and in the meantime Jack busied himself trying to puzzle out the reason for all the switches, knobs, handles and indicators on the huge marble switchboard that extended all the way around the circular room. He knew that all the machinery in the station was controlled from that board, but just how it was done he had not the slightest idea. He decided, however, to take advantage of the first opportunity and learn the function of each of the mysterious looking black rubber handles.
Mr. Ryder left the ’phone apparently thoroughly angry. He paced the narrow room for some time before he uttered a word. Finally, pausing before the desk again, he brought his fist down with a resounding blow.
“By Jupiter,” he thundered, “this must stop or I’ll know the reason why. The old man is as peeved as a wet hen and I don’t blame him. He informed me that we had made a failure out of the most important state function of the year simply because the palace was so poorly lighted. They had to resort to smoky oil lamps to help out. He was furious. Told me the city looked like an Indian village, it was so dark. Oh, if I could only get my fingers on the villains who did this work!”
Thus did he storm to Jack and the operator until he became thoroughly out of breath and was forced to pause. Then turning he called Jack and started down the spiral stairs again. Three flights they descended until they reached the floor of the generating room. Six huge generating units occupied the space. They were great black monsters of steel that looked like so many mastodons chained to the floor. Water was roaring down from the forebay through four of the massive penstocks that supplied the turbines, but the other two were silent. Around each of these silent machines was gathered a group of workmen. They had unbolted the steel protecting plates and were assiduously wiping the sand from the delicate armature bearings. Some of these workmen were Americans but there were a number of Mexicans among them, many of whom were distinctly of the peon class, with bared feet and shabby garments.
As Jack and the engineer hurried across the floor a short, dark-haired American advanced to meet them.
“We’ve trouble on our hands this time!” he exclaimed. “The two machines are full of sand and we won’t be able to get them cleaned until long after midnight.”
“Well, how did it happen, Nedham?” demanded Mr. Ryder. “You were in charge while I was away and you are responsible. Are you going to let this plant go to the devil? I got a good blowing up yesterday from the board of directors and here to-night President Huerta himself had me on the long distance telephone. Told me flatly that things would have to go smoother; and I propose to see that they do go smoother hereafter.”
“How do I know how it happened? Maybe I was in charge, but they manage to work the same tricks when you are here too, so you can’t altogether blame me,” said Nedham indignantly.
“Well, I suppose not,” replied Mr. Ryder in calmer tones. “I didn’t mean to accuse you of neglect of duty. I know they work the same tricks on me too. I hope you’ll pardon my temper.”
The chief engineer extended his hand in cordial apology and Nedham grasped it, his anger disappearing immediately.
Nedham was right. It was some time after midnight before the big generators were in condition to operate again. For hours the men toiled to get every vestige of the gritty substance out of the machines. Mr. Ryder went at the task with the rest, and Jack, unwilling to remain idle, rolled up his sleeves and seized a piece of cotton waste also. With the steel jacket removed, an excellent opportunity was afforded the lad for a better acquaintance with the mechanism of a water turbine generator, and as he worked beside Mr. Ryder, the engineer briefly explained the details.
“This is not really a generator that we are working on, Jack,” said Mr. Ryder, “because a generator is supposed to create energy. This does not do that. The real energy is in the water that turns the turbine, and this machine merely converts that energy into electric current, so you see the word ‘generator’ is a misnomer in this case. It is the same in a steam plant. Steam furnishes energy which is converted into electricity by the so-called generators. In fact, man-made electricity is nothing more or less than some other kind of energy in a new and more useful form. I guess you follow me.”
“I understand all right,” said Jack, “for it is very simple, though I must confess I had never considered electricity in that way before.”
“The energy here comes from the water that plunges over the dam we built across the river about a mile back in the mountains. The dam is sixty-odd feet high and the water that is stored up behind it is carried down to the plant here through a very large flume. The flume is built at the same level as the dam and brings the water around the mountain to the north of the plant and into the big forebay or reservoir just back of the station.
“The water in the forebay is kept at about the same height as the dam also, so it can get a sixty-foot direct drop to the turbines here in the building. The stream rushes down through the large penstocks, or feeders, and strikes against the mass of concaved blades on the waterwheel or turbine. The blades are set across the drum of the wheel and at a slight angle, thus giving the turbine the full benefit of the force of the water striking against them as well as the suction of the water after it leaves the blades. This is known as the reaction type of turbine and is only used in plants where the fall of water is less than 100 feet. There is another type of waterwheel on which buckets take the place of blades. This is known as the impact type and is driven entirely by the pelting of the water against the bottom of each cup. This wheel is used chiefly where the fall of water is more than 100 feet.
“The armature of the generator is also mounted on the shaft or axle of the turbine. The armature, you know, is composed of coils of wire wound very close together on an iron frame, or spider. Since the turbine whirls around very fast the armature is bound to turn at the same rate of speed. Now, the armature is surrounded by electrically excited magnets, which are the positive and negative poles of the generator. And as the coils of wire on the armature rush past the magnets the attraction or lines of force between the poles are cut abruptly and immediately electricity is created. By means of those brass collecting rings which you see on the armature the coils are connected to the transmission lines and the electricity flows through them to the lights in Mexico City.”
Mr. Ryder’s description of the hydro-electric plant was so simple and so easily understood that Jack was able to follow the entire process of converting water power into electrical energy. The conversation had also helped to lighten the rather disagreeable task of cleaning the generator and it was midnight almost before they realized it.
At this hour Mr. Ryder gave up all hope of using the generator that night, for, as he explained to Jack, the lights were fast being put out in the houses and stores of Mexico City, thus cutting down the load on the power plant to a point where the supply could be easily furnished by the remaining four machines. That being the case, he suggested they quit work and leave the task entirely to the peons and other workmen under Nedham. Jack’s arms were black to the elbow with dirty oil when he finally tossed his piece of waste away, and Mr. Ryder’s condition was little better.
“Come on, we’ll wash up a bit and start for the cottage; I am rather tired and I fancy you are too.”
Together they proceeded to the washroom and a few moments later left the station building and started up the short dusty street that led between the two rows of cottages. The searchlight was still playing from the roof and here and there a lonesome sentinel could be seen silhouetted against the skyline. Otherwise the little community was quite lifeless.
Mr. Ryder’s cottage was at the very end of the short street. It was a one-story affair but somewhat more prepossessing in appearance than the rest of the dwellings. The engineer lived there entirely alone save for Tom Why, his aged Chinese cook. In fact, each American at the plant had a separate cottage, which was usually taken care of by some old Indian woman. There were only two white women in the village. One was the wife of Allen Lyman and the other was Mrs. Harriet Clifford, the wife of a young American foreman in the plant-maintenance department.
Mr. Ryder’s cottage was no better furnished than any of the rest. The main room, which was living room, dining room, library and study all in one, was equipped with several heavy wooden chairs, a square table and a flat desk littered with old magazines and papers. The remaining three rooms boasted small iron beds and washstands. Just in the rear of the cottage was a little house in which Tom Why and his American cookstove were quartered. Tom was acknowledged to be the best cook in the village, excepting, of course, the two American women.
Though it was very late, Tom was up and waiting for the engineer. He had prepared a rather substantial midnight luncheon and when Jack caught the odor of steaming coffee he suddenly realized that he was extremely hungry. Neither he nor Mr. Ryder had tasted food since their dinner at the American Hotel in Mexico City, and they were both ready to do justice to Tom’s tempting spread. Between mouthfuls, however, they did find time to talk over the recent trouble at the plant.
“I must get at the bottom of this and find out who the rebel sympathizers are. Of course they are among the peon laborers, at least I think so, for none of the white employees have the slightest interest in Zapata and his gang of cutthroats, as far as I know. Still, the way the trouble makers have tampered with the big switches and other dangerous machinery that most of the peons are afraid of, makes me believe sometimes that the culprits are white men or natives who know a little more about electricity than the peons.”
“I should think then, that you would try and find out whether you are dealing with peons or Mexicans of another variety,” said Jack.
“Find out!” demanded the engineer sharply. “Do you think I have been sitting with my hands folded all this time? I’ve had the place watched. I’ve done everything I could to discover who is up to this crooked work. You see, after two in the morning things slacken down at the plant. There isn’t much of a load to be carried, only the street lighting in Mexico City, and one or two generators are enough to take care of that. At that time most of the men leave the plant. There is only the night operator and two or three watchmen in different parts of the building, and they are not always as alert as they might be. Well, between two o’clock and the time the day force comes on at six o’clock in the morning, the meddlers get in their best work. The day men usually discover the trouble, though in a case like to-night, when one of the big machines have been tampered with, the disturbance isn’t noticed until the operator tries to start up at nightfall.
“We’ve watched everything and everybody, but when we are in one place trouble turns up in an entirely different part of the plant. The thing that worries me the most about the whole business is that some night after the meddlers have been at work the rebels out there in the mountains might take it in their heads to attack. Suppose the searchlight generator was crippled. In that case we’d have a serious time, wouldn’t we? Indeed, I would like to find out whom we are dealing with. But how can I?”
“Well,” said Jack after a moment’s reflection, “at least we can learn whether we are dealing with peons or white men. Here’s a suggestion. Why not sprinkle a little powder or dust around the machines, switchboard and other apparatus likely to be tampered with? Sprinkle it at two o’clock every morning and sweep it up again at six. In the meantime if any one has tampered with these contrivances they are bound to leave footprints. If the prints show naked feet we’ll know it is one of the peons, and if we find the trouble maker wears shoes then we’ll know it is a white man.”
“By Jove, that’s a corking idea,” said Mr. Ryder enthusiastically; “we’ll do it. We’ll sprinkle cement dust on the floor. Let’s try it out to-night and keep it up religiously until we get an imprint of the villain’s feet. We’ll saunter over to the plant after those workmen clear out, which I judge will be about three o’clock; meanwhile, if you care to, you can snatch an hour’s sleep.”
To Jack sleep sounded particularly good and as soon as Mr. Ryder pointed out his room he tumbled into it without even removing his shoes. But it seemed to him however that he had only closed his eyes when he felt the engineer’s hand upon his forehead.
“It’s after three o’clock,” said Mr. Ryder, “and the workmen have all left the plant. What do you say to setting our trap now?”
Jack was on his feet in an instant, for he was as eager as the engineer to see how his plan would work out. First they visited a tool shed where they secured a bucket, then Mr. Ryder ripped open a bag of cement with his jack knife and by the light of an electric pocket flash lamp supplied himself with a pail of the fine gray powder.
As they passed the front of the plant they could see Nedham in his office working over some papers. They continued on around the corner of the building where Mr. Ryder opened a large door that let them in on the generator floor. Two of the big machines were running, but there was not a soul in sight. Through the glass front of the control room, high up among the girders, they could see Lyman watching the switchboard.
“Is there any wonder that the rebel sympathizers can tamper with the machines?” said Mr. Ryder; “there isn’t a watchman in sight, and Lyman would not be likely to see us down here unless he made a point of looking out of the window, which is not necessary, for he can see how the machines are running by looking at the indicators on his board. Nedham is in his office and the only other man on duty is the engineer and he is probably in his office watching for signals from Lyman. There should be a watchman here on the floor, but I guess when no one is looking he steals off and takes a nap. I’ve fired at least five men for doing that, but you can’t teach these Mexicans anything. They’ll do exactly as they please in spite of you.”
In fifteen minutes Jack and the engineer had set their trap and returned to the cottage again. They were both thoroughly tired and Mr. Ryder began to take off his things the moment he entered the house. As he unloosened the front of his shirt, however, a rather bulky yellow wallet slipped out and fell to the floor.
“There are those drawings,” said the engineer. “I’d almost forgotten them with all our activities to-day. Here’s your wallet, I guess I won’t need it any longer.”
He removed the envelope of blue prints as he spoke and opening the top drawer of his desk dropped it inside, at the same time handing the wallet to Jack.
“I’ll be up at six to look for results,” said he as Jack started for his room, “but I really don’t expect to find any footprints right off. I rather think the trouble maker has done enough damage to satisfy him for several days at least.”
In spite of the fact that he had been able to get but a few hours’ sleep, Jack was awake before six o’clock. The noise Mr. Ryder made in the adjoining room aroused him, and when he realized that the engineer was getting ready to start for the power plant, he dressed with all speed. But though they were up early, old Tom Why had been awake fully half an hour before them as a steaming breakfast testified.
The two did not linger long over their coffee, however, for they were too eager to reach the station before the day men arrived and tracked through the cement powder. Indeed, they left the cottage still munching the last of their meal. The sun had been up two hours, but the mountains across the river were so tall that its rays were only just getting down into the broad valley that held Necaxa. Jack’s first view of the place by daylight pleased him greatly. As Mr. Ryder had said, the country was wilderness, the only evidence of civilization being the tracks of the narrow gage railroad and the steel poles that carried the four black serpent-like transmission lines across the clearing and into the forest toward Mexico City. Necaxa was completely shut off from the rest of the world by mountains, the nearest community being a little nameless Indian village down the river.
However, the lad had no time to gaze at the scenery just then, for in a few minutes the workmen would be on the way to the plant. Jack and Mr. Ryder hurried to the side door they had used but three hours before, and in a few moments they were looking at their recent handiwork. From one machine to another they hurried, closely inspecting the dust on the floor, before sweeping it into the pail again. Though they did not expect to find traces of a nocturnal visit by the mysterious trouble maker they were keenly alert for every little clue. They inspected each appliance in the main room but all seemed to be in good order, nor did the cement powder reveal a single telltale mark. There remained only the small generators of the exciter sets to be inspected. Jack hurried forward to brush up the dust about these machines, for the men were already entering the plant and he did not care to let them know of the trap.
And as he stooped over, his eyes caught the distinct outline of a foot close to the base of the generator! Another and still another were discovered close by. He could scarcely credit his eyes. But Mr. Ryder, who was directly behind him, saw the imprints also.
“By George, we’ve a clue at last!” he exclaimed, leaning forward and examining the tracks. “They have been made by naked feet too! What do you think of that!”
“And I’ll be hanged if that isn’t the mark of a scar on the left heel!” he ejaculated, as he dropped to his hands and knees and scrutinized the tracks. “Oh, our task is an easy one now! I’ll guarantee to have the meddler in the hands of the rurales by sundown with this evidence to work on. But look how they have riddled the exciter!”
As Jack bent closer he too could see the mark of a scar. The foot had removed the concrete dust completely except for a little ridge diagonally across the heel. This showed plainly that there had been a sharp indentation in the flesh at that point. And as the same mark showed in every other imprint of the left foot there was small room for doubt.
“Well, it looks as if our trap had worked far better than we expected,” he said jubilantly, as they prepared to obliterate the track by sweeping up the dust.
“Indeed it did,” replied Mr. Ryder. “Here’s positive proof that the culprit is a peon, and with this telltale scar to help out it is only necessary to inspect every peon in the plant and pick out the guilty individual. We’ll have them lined up immediately.”
Together they hurried out of the station and across to the quarters of the army officers. The captain in command of the post was on the front porch of his cottage washing his face in a tin basin when Mr. Ryder interrupted him. The engineer spoke a few words in Spanish and the officer hastily reached for a towel, at the same time calling loudly for an orderly. That individual arrived from behind the cottage as if produced by magic, and after listening to the captain’s brief orders saluted and hurried to the barracks building, from the door of which the soldiers were just emerging in various stages of attire.
He returned presently, to be followed five minutes later by a young officer in charge of a squad of ten soldiers. Curt instructions were issued by the commander and the soldiers broke ranks immediately and went hurrying here and there about the plant, rounding up every peon in sight.
Some of the native laborers protested violently against being hustled into line along the south wall of the station, for they were afraid that they were about to be shot, this being the spot where all the executions in Necaxa were staged. But their protests were of no avail, for the soldiers took keen delight in hurrying them along with the sharp point of their bayonets or the flat stock of their guns.
In less than no time two score natives were facing the gray stone wall. They were a heterogeneous assortment of half-breeds and full-blooded Indians with ragged garments and hair long and unkempt. None wore shoes or even sandals.
When every native had been located and the line was complete the soldiers withdrew a short distance and the captain then turning to Mr. Ryder, spoke nervously and with great concern:
“Here are they, Señor, maybe now you find them sick mans, yes.”
“Why did he say ‘those sick men?’” asked Jack, somewhat puzzled.
“I told him there was a rumor abroad that one of the peons had leprosy and that we wanted to find him and put him in a pest house. Though I know very little about the disease I understand it shows first on the face, palms of the hands or soles of the feet,” answered the engineer.
“But why did you tell him that?” demanded the lad.
“Well, for the simple reason that I do not care to let any one know what we have discovered. I think the less said about the scar the easier it will be for us to catch our man. If we keep it to ourselves he will never suspect that we set a trap for him. Now for the search.”
Mr. Ryder, Jack and the captain began a tour of inspection. Each Indian was commanded to lift first one foot and then the other, while Jack and the engineer scrutinized them closely. The engineer in addition examined their hands and face as well, though not with as keen an eye as he watched the feet. The peons all submitted to the inspection meekly, but it was quite evident from the expression on their faces that they could not understand the whole proceedings. One by one they were passed and as Mr. Ryder neared the end of the line his brow wrinkled in a perplexed frown. Finally when the last man was allowed to go he turned to the officer in charge of the squad and demanded:
“Are these all the peons there are about the plant? There must be more!”
“No more are here, Señor. But maybe those sick mans you look on is here in the night men. There are—ah—diez hombres,” said the officer excitedly.
“Jack,” said the engineer, “that fellow may be right. It is possible that my man is on the night force or he may be a strange peon who gets into the plant somehow. I think the next move for us to make is to go down to the Indian village and do some detective work there. Most of the peons we hire live down there and it is more than likely that we will find the man with the scarred heel among them.”
“That sounds reasonable,” said Jack, after considering the question. “Why not go down there while the trail is hot?”
“All right,” said Mr. Ryder, “but let me warn you that we will have to travel through about five miles of country infested with rebels and, as you know, they do not look upon any of the white men from the plant with very great favor.”
“I am willing to take the chance,” said Jack, laconically.
“Very good, only be sure your gun is in working order and your cartridge belt is full.”
A drove of thirty or more horses and half as many pack mules were quartered in the large corral behind the barracks for the use of the rurales stationed at Necaxa. From among them a rather docile mustang was selected for Jack. While a native was saddling the horse, a mozo, or Indian servant, arrived with the engineer’s steed, a beautiful creature that had cost Mr. Ryder nearly three hundred Mexican dollars, which is a very high price indeed to pay for horse flesh in that country. Three of the rurales were detailed to accompany them as a special guard and before leaving the enclosure the entire party made a careful inspection of their firearms.
For the first two miles the trail skirted the high bank of the river and was wide enough to permit the men to ride two abreast. The three soldier-policemen took the lead while Jack and the engineer brought up the rear, and as their horses jogged along Mr. Ryder explained briefly the life of the Mexican Indians since the conquest of the country by adventurers from across the sea.
“These natives,” he said, “have been veritable slaves since their ancestors yielded to Spain’s warriors. The peons, who are all Indians or half-breeds, are the lowest type of Mexicans. They are uneducated and uncivilized and for that reason they rarely advance above the class of servants and laborers. Since the day they were conquered they have been without opportunity, however, so we cannot blame them altogether for their condition. There is every reason to believe, from the relics that are left to-day, that the Mexican Indians were semi-civilized at least. They erected magnificent temples, they laid out large cities, and they even built aqueducts and sewer systems. Indeed, they were much farther advanced than the North American Indian of the plains, but with the advent of the Spaniards they began to deteriorate for the simple reason that they were not allowed to progress. As you already know, a man or a nation cannot stand still. It must either develop or retrogress. The Spaniards made slaves of the Indians and while they are not slaves in name to-day they might just as well be, for they have not as much freedom as the negro had in the United States before the Civil War.
“The peons live as tenants on haciendas, or large farms, where they till the soil and raise crops. For this work they are paid a few centavos a day which in American money does not amount to five cents; with this pittance they are supposed to buy food and clothes. But the hacienda owners sell them food and clothes at a figure far above their daily earnings and as a result the Indian is always in debt to his master. And since it is a capital offense in Mexico for an employee to leave an employer while still in debt to him, the peon is bound to the hacienda on which he is born for the rest of his life. He can never leave and he can never cease working for the same man. Whole communities of natives are often controlled in this way by Mexican farmers.”
“It seems ridiculous that such conditions can exist to-day,” said Jack, very much surprised at this revelation. He had always considered the Mexican Indian as a shiftless being who did not work and lived from hand to mouth simply because of his own laziness.
“Do not get the idea that these natives are blind to their present condition or that they do not care to elevate their general plane of existence,” continued Mr. Ryder. “They are just as eager for a chance to advance as is the Jew or other foreigner who immigrates to America. That is the reason why the present revolution is being waged in the north by Carranza and Villa, and that is why our bloodthirsty friend Zapata has so many peon followers.
“The only trouble is the moment one of these revolutions is successful and the new leader is in power all pledges to the peon are forgotten and the native goes back to exactly the same condition that he has been fighting to clear himself from. It is a very unhappy situation, but some day, perhaps, a leader will keep his promise to his people. Then the huge haciendas, which often embrace hundreds of thousands of acres, will be confiscated and this land with the millions of acres of government land will be cut up into small farms and sold to the natives at reasonable terms exactly as our country opened up the great West. When this happens Mexico will develop into a wonderful nation. Give these people public schools and the other advantages of civilization and you will soon see what kind of stuff they are made of. The old Indian blood is strong in them and Indians, properly trained, often make excellent men.”
Mr. Ryder’s talk had changed Jack’s opinion of the peons a great deal. Indeed, he soon found that instead of despising them he was sympathizing with them. He could not understand, however, how the engineer could feel kindly disposed to the natives when they were causing him so much trouble. He was on the point of mentioning this thought when Mr. Ryder spoke again.
“I feel very sorry for the peons even though I am an agent of Huerta. But as I have weighed it out, my duty to my employer comes first no matter whether the employer is a scoundrel or not. It is not for me to judge. I am asked to keep Mexico City illuminated and I will keep the lights burning no matter who is in the National Palace, and, moreover, I’ll do it in spite of this man with the scarred foot, whoever he is.”
Thus recalled to their mission, Jack instantly became attentive to their surroundings. He found that the trail had narrowed and that the rurales ahead had formed in single file. His little mustang was patiently picking its way through rough places and underbrush to keep beside the animal ridden by the engineer.
“I guess we have been talking too much and paying too little attention to our horses, Jack,” said Mr. Ryder. “Push ahead and get in single file. This is a section of the trail that carries us over the shoulder of a mountain and it is rather narrow.”
Soon the shoulder was topped, however, and the horses began to descend in single file toward the Indian village. The community was somewhat larger than the villages Jack had seen from the train window on his way to Mexico City, otherwise it was the same collection of dilapidated huts that looked as if they had been literally thrown together by their builders.
As they drove down through the single street a regiment of barking dogs and screaming naked Indian children greeted them. Robust, dark-skinned men lounged about before the huts (most of them clad in pajama like cotton garments), while their women folk worked hard at grinding corn between stones or carried water from the river in tall earthen jugs which they balanced deftly on their heads. Down at the river bank Jack could see other women busy washing clothes. This laundry work was accomplished by pounding the garments between stones much to the detriment of the garments, for the hard stones rubbed innumerable holes in the cloth as Jack found later when he gave his linen to a native washerwoman.
In the village Mr. Ryder took the lead and Jack followed, leaving the rurales to their own diversions. The engineer drove toward a more pretentious hut than the rest, where a very much wrinkled old Indian sat sunning himself before the door and idly watching a half dozen scrawny razorback pigs rooting in the dirt almost at his very feet.
The two Americans reined up before the house and viewed the picture that the old fellow made as he sat there staring absently at the animals.
“That,” said Mr. Ryder, “is Señor Yuai and his pigs. Pigs and vultures, as you know, are the scavengers of Mexico. But for their able services the country would be unfit to live in because of its filth and carrion. And Señor Yuai, though he is neither pig nor vulture, is also a very useful inhabitant. He is the Indian doctor who attends to all the natives in this vicinity. The old fellow is very much looked up to and every one comes to him for advice. He is aged and very nearsighted but his mind is as keen as ever. He knows every peon for miles around and I’ve an idea that he can identify our trouble maker with the scarred foot if he wants to. Come, we’ll hear what he has to say on the question.”
The Americans dismounted and after kicking their way through the drove of grunting pigs confronted the austere old Indian. Señor Yuai peered up at them with eyes bleared by age and demanded in Spanish to know whose shadow fell across his doorway. (The following conversation then took place which Mr. Ryder translated for Jack’s benefit.)
“It is I, Señor Ryder, from the electrical plant,” said the engineer.
“Gringo friend come over mountain to see me?” asked the old Indian.
“Yes, I’ve come to see you, Señor Yuai, but not because I am sick of calentura. It is another reason. Tell me, in all your years do you remember a peon ailing of a cut heel. Did you ever cure a very deep wound that would leave a scar across a peon’s heel, thus?” Mr. Ryder illustrated his question by drawing his finger diagonally across the old man’s heel. The Indian was silent a long time and while his memory went slowly back over the many years he had been doctoring the natives, Mr. Ryder slipped a cigarette between his lean old fingers, saying, “Here, Señor Yuai, perhaps a little smoke will make you remember better.”
The Indian accepted the roll of brown paper and tobacco with a grunt of satisfaction and lit it on the glowing end of Mr. Ryder’s own cigarette which the engineer held for his convenience.
For five minutes the old native puffed in silence, exhaling great clouds of blue smoke from time to time. Finally he spoke.
“As many years ago as I have fingers came a young man to see me. He had stepped on a machette and the flesh of his foot was laid open to the bone. My medicine cured him. Soon he could walk, he could run, he could swim. He was a fine big fellow. He could shoot well, he could ride well and he was a good boy except he liked pulque too much. One day he went away. Two summers later he came back in clothes as green as the banana palm. He was then a rurale. He went away again and never came again. His name—ah—his name went with him.” Here the Indian touched his forehead with his finger as he spoke and this action told the American plainer than his words that he had forgotten the young man’s name.
Jack and the engineer looked at each other significantly when Señor Yuai finished speaking.
“Can it be that we have traitors among our rurales!” demanded Mr. Ryder incredulously.