"What are you going to do?" he asked.
"Pump juice into it," the very young man answered with a little joyous gleam in his eyes. 'Pumping juice into it' is theoretically a rotten way of treating a fault, but practically the act operates as a soothing balm to the troubled and revengeful soul of the junior engineer.
Carstairs, although a capable and careful engineer, was very youthful himself. "Alright. Let it go," he said. "Old Farrell will take all night to locate it probably, otherwise."
So they "pumped juice into it" for some time, and burnt out several yards of expensive cable, till almost simultaneously with the mains superintendent and his gang of disreputable looking labourers, a policeman arrived to report "smoke issuing from between the paving stones at the corner of High Street."
"There you are!" Carstairs said, triumphantly. "There's your fault accurately located for you right away. I don't know what you mains chaps want Wheatstone Bridges and Potentiometers, etc., for."
"It's all very well," grumbled Farrell. "But who is going to locate the other faults you've started in the process."
"My dear chap, you must do something for your living."
The mains superintendent grunted, and went away.
Carstairs got on the station "bike," and cycled out to Darwen's. The cook opened the door to him. He was rather disappointed, but he did not dwell on it long. He was ushered into the drawing-room. He shook hands with Mrs Darwen.
"Breakdown in High Street," he announced bluntly.