From the security of their corners they heard voices shouting in the darkness, and the sounds of men in anger swearing.
"What the hell's up?"
"Stand by your engine, Jones!"
"Got a match? Let's have a look at the blooming volts."
Smith heard a bump above his head on the switchboard gallery as though some one had fallen, a match was struck down in the engine room and another on the switchboard, then he heard Darwen's voice say, "Good God! Smith! Hullo! Smith!"
He switched on the lights and ran up the switchboard steps.
Carstairs was lying limp and helpless on his back with Darwen bending over him. Smith turned as white as a ghost.
"What's up?" he asked, in an agitated voice.
"I don't know. Got a shock, I think. Look at his hands, got across the contacts in the dark somehow."
They stretched him out on his back with a folded coat underneath him, and put him through the motions for artificial respiration. The driver and stoker waived ceremony and mounted the switchboard steps to see what was wrong; they stood leaning over the prostrate form watching the anxious efforts of Smith and Darwen in silent, interested sympathy. "Shall I have a spell, sir?" the brawny stoker asked, as the agitated Smith paused for a moment in his efforts.