“You’re all right again—your eyes are all right,” he said.
Trood turned his back on Kellock, and everybody was at work as usual. He made a tremendous effort with himself, called up his utmost resolution, smiled and nodded to Spry, who was whistling, gripped his deckle to the mould, and then strove to think of something else, pursue his business in the usual mechanical fashion, and let his unconscious but highly trained energies pursue their road.
But it was not to be. Some link had strained, if not broken, in the complexus of brain and nerve and muscle. Perfect obedience was lacking; a rebel had crept into the organism. For once, the man’s expressionless face was alive with expression; for once his steady and monotonous voice vibrated.
“It’s all up,” he said to Harold Spry.
Then he put down the mould.
Trood was beside him in an instant, and Knox came also. Elsewhere those who had no love for Kellock talked under their breath together. Others, who came and went, took the news.
Trood made the vatman try again; but only once. He saw in a moment that the breakdown could not be bluffed; the fault in the machine was too deep.
Jordan put on his coat, and Trood arranged to drive him to Totnes presently to see a doctor. The young man was calm, but his will power appeared suspended. He looked into the faces of his companions for any ray of comfort; and the fact that he could do so was testimony to his collapse.
He went back to “The Waterman’s Arms” presently; and through the Mill like lightning flashed the news that Kellock had lost his stroke.