Ejaculating a little word that went in rhyme with 'jam,' he brought the volts down again. "Here, shove in that other fuse, will you? Put a bigger one this time."
The switchboard attendant was dancing round like one possessed, fumbling and twitching. Carstairs replaced his fuse and went along to look at his assistant. He watched him fumbling for a few minutes, then took it out of his hands. "Go and sit down," he said. He finished the job himself. "Stand clear there!" He motioned the switchboard attendant back. "Stand by those engines. Watch the brushes and bring them forward when they spark, far forward. Do you hear?"
"Yes, sir," the engine drivers answered. They stood in expectant attitudes by their respective engines just below the switchboard gallery.
"Alright!" He plugged in, one after the other, ducking his head out of the way of the possible flash. The fuses held. "Bring her up there! Steady, not too quickly! Whoa!" He held up his hand with the fingers outspread, then made a circular motion. "Get round number five," he shouted.
Promptly the driver ran up another engine, and Carstairs put her on. He leaned over the railing and shouted down to Darwen, "I say, would you mind ringing up Farrell and telling him I'm pumping 500 amps extra into something on the Moorfields Road?"
Darwen laughed. "Right you are, old chap."
Farrell was the mains superintendent; it was his pleasant duty to turn out of his bed, round up a gang of navvies, and dig holes in the street all night to ascertain what that "something" was, and remove it. The only consolation a Shift Engineer feels for the arduousness of his existence is that sometimes the mains man (whose life is usually cast in pleasant places) has even a rougher time than he has.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how electricity is "made"—the same as everything else that is any good—by the sweat of men. And as men woo nature, and she reveals her secrets to them, she demands, in return, ever better and better of their best. Man moves, not to peace and plenty, to cowardice and luxury, but to sublime courage and arduous, soulful work, and he may not look back.
Half an hour later, Farrell, a fat, prosperous looking individual, rode up on a bicycle.
"Is it still on?" he asked.