Jack Carstairs of the power house

by Sydney Sandys

CHAPTER XIV

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

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

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

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

"Thanks, I will."

They adjourned to a saloon bar near.

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

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

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

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

"Never! Mr Darwen."

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

"True for ye. True for ye."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They shook hands cordially.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Would it really matter?" she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She's superbly handsome."

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

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

Carstairs frowned unconsciously.

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

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

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

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

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

"She did before, I think."

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

"On the stage! Why?"

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

"Er—have you heard her?"

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

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

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

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

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

"It's no use, Mrs Darwen."

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

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

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

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

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

"When is she coming back?" he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Darkey—Edith Darkey."

"Good Lord, what a name!"

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

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

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

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

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

"Er—yes. Certainly."

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

"No, indeed, Mr Donovan."

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

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

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

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

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

"Indeed and he does, Mr Donovan."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I explained the reason just now."

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

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

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

"Yes, sir."

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

"What name, sir?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carstairs raised his glass without a word.

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

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

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

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

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

"But what was the matter with him?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, an engine driver at the works."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, thanks, not to-night."

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

"No, I have an engagement."

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

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