“A pipe goes there ... and that leads to the cylinder here....” He raised his voice and pointed again.
Trane, anxious to see as much as possible, craned his neck to follow the direction of Lange’s index finger, but perceived, to his surprise, nothing more tangible than the driving clouds.
He shook his head. How could he tell his customers this? He gave it up, and lay down with the others to bask in the September sunshine.
Egholm’s boat lay some twenty yards out; the shallow water prevented it from coming closer in. It was white, with a brilliant red stripe along the side. Behind the red-leaded funnel, which was supported with stays, could be seen curious parts of bright metal. Egholm was on his knees, hat in hand, puffing at the furnace. The fuel, which consisted of half-rotten fragments of board, was not quite dry. Now and again he lifted his head and gave a brief glance towards land.
Astonishing, such a lot of people had turned up. He felt his responsibility towards them like a delicious ache at his heart.
Oh, it would turn out all right.
If only he had had someone to lend a hand. Even Sivert would have been better than nothing. Egholm looked across reproachfully at Krogh, the old blacksmith, who stood on the beach with his jaws drooping as ever. He had just come down with the last bits of the machine, but could not be persuaded to go on board. He dared not mix with the rest, even, for he was an accomplice in the thing, however much he might turn up his nose to show disapproval.
Well, well, he would have to manage alone.
What was that?—who were they lifting their hats to suddenly?