Jack Carstairs of the power house

by Sydney Sandys

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.