"No, thanks, I'll just sit on this box and watch the wheels going round: same old box, same old wheels. How many hours of the night have I spent sitting on this box listening to your damn lies, Bounce?"
"God only knows, sir."
Carstairs sat and waited, and all sorts of fresh fancies and ideas thronged through his brain as the wheels went round and the alternators hummed and the corliss gear clicked. A distinct and complete idea for a valuable improvement shaped itself in his mind as he watched and listened. He stood up and stretched himself with a sigh of great content. "By Jove, if old Wagner composed music like that, he'd have done a damn sight more for humanity," he said to himself, with a smile at the sacrilege of the thought. To Carstairs, Wagner was a drawing-room conjurer, not to be thought of at the same instant as men who designed engines. Bounce came down the engine-room towards him with his wide-legged sailor's roll. He was attired in a blue-serge suit, spotlessly clean and neat. His strong, clean-cut features and steady, piercing eyes showed to great advantage in the artificial light and against the dark background of his clothes.
"By Jove, Bounce, I can't understand why it is you're not Prime Minister of England."
The little man's bright eyes twinkled, but his features never relaxed. "I can't understand it myself," he said.
They went off together to the hotel, where Carstairs drank whisky and Bounce rum. The waiter looked at him somewhat superciliously, till he met Bounce's eye fair and square, then he seemed impressed.
"Dr Jameson is dead. Mr Jenkins is chairman of the committee now."
"Yes, I know."
They were silent for some minutes.
"Do you know this county well, Bounce?"