CHAPTER IIITHE PUNISHMENT
On reaching camp and reporting himself, Dick was sent to his tent, where he slept until he was aroused by the bustle at reveille. He had not expected to sleep; but he was young and physically tired, and the shock of trouble had, as sometimes happens, a numbing effect. He awoke refreshed and composed, though his heart was heavy as he dressed, because he feared it was the last time that he would wear his country’s uniform. The suspense was trying as he waited until the morning parade was over; then he was summoned to a tent where the Colonel and the Adjutant sat.
“I have a telegram asking if you have arrived,” the Colonel said in a curious, dry tone. “You must understand that you have laid yourself open to grave suspicion.”
“Yes,” Dick answered, wondering whether the Colonel meant that it might have been better if he had run away.
“Very well. You admitted having received the plans. What did you do with them?”
“Buttoned them into the left pocket of my coat. When I got to Storeton, the envelope was gone.”
“How do you account for that?”
“I can’t account for it, sir.”
The Colonel was silent for a few moments, and then he looked fixedly at Dick.
“Your statements were very unsatisfactory last night, and now that you have had time to think over the matter, I advise you to be frank. It’s plain that you have been guilty of gross negligence, but that is not the worst. The drawings are of no direct use to the enemy, but if they fell into their hands they might supply a valuable hint of the use to which we mean to put the pontoons. You see what this implies?”
“I don’t know how we mean to use them, sir, and I don’t want to hide anything.”
“That’s a wise resolve,” the Colonel answered meaningly; and Dick colored. After all, there was something he meant to hide.
“You took the plans with you when you left the camp, three or four hours before you were due at Storeton,” said the Adjutant. “Where did you go?”
“To my cousin’s rooms in the town.”
“Mr. Lance Brandon’s,” said the Adjutant thoughtfully. “Did you stay there?”
“No; we dined at The George.”
“A well-conducted house,” the Adjutant remarked. “You took some wine at dinner?”
“Two glasses of light claret.”
“Then where did you go next?”
“To the new music-hall.”
“And ordered drinks in the bar! Who suggested this?”
“I can’t remember,” Dick replied with an angry flush. “Of course, I see where you’re leading, but I was quite sober when I left the hall.”
The Adjutant’s expression puzzled him. He hadfelt that the man was not unfriendly, and now he looked disappointed.
“I’m not sure your statement makes things better,” the Colonel observed with some dryness. “Did you go straight to Storeton from the hall?”
“No, sir. I spent an hour at a friend’s house.”
“Whose house was it?”
Dick pondered for a few moments, and then looked up resolutely.
“I must decline to answer, sir. I’ve lost the plans and must take the consequences; but I don’t see why my private friends, who have nothing to do with it, should be involved in the trouble.”
The Adjutant leaned forward across the table and said something quietly to the Colonel, and neither of them spoke for the next minute or two. Dick was sensible of physical as well as mental strain as he stood stiffly in the middle of the tent. His knees felt weak, little quivers ran through his limbs, and a ray of hot sunshine struck through the hooked-back flap into his face, but he dared not relax his rigid pose.
The two officers looked puzzled but grave.
“Go back to your tent and stay there until I send for you,” the Colonel said at last.
Dick saluted and went out, and when he sat down on his camp-bed he moodily lighted a cigarette and tried to think. His military career was ended and he was ruined; but this was not what occupied him most. He was wondering whether Clare Kenwardine had taken the plans. If so, it was his duty to accuse her; but, actuated by some mysterious impulse, he had refused.
The longer he thought about it, the clearer herguilt became. He was a stranger and yet she had suggested a stroll through the garden and had slipped and clutched him as they went down the steps. Her hand had rested on the pocket in which the envelope was. She was the daughter of a man who kept a private gaming house; it was not surprising that she was an adventuress and had deceived him by her clever acting. For all that, he could not condemn her; there was a shadow of doubt; and even if she were guilty, she had yielded to some strong pressure from her father. His feelings, however, were puzzling. He had spent less than an hour in her society and she had ruined him, but he knew that he would remember her as long as he lived.
Dick’s common sense led him to smile bitterly. He was behaving like a sentimental fool. On the whole, it was a relief when the Adjutant came in.
“You must have known what the Colonel’s decision would be,” he said with a hint of regret. “You’re to be court-martialed. If you take my advice, you’ll keep nothing back.”
The court-martial was over and Dick could not question the justice of its sentence—he was dismissed from the army. Indeed, it was better than he had expected. Somewhat to his surprise, the Adjutant afterward saw him alone.
“I’m thankful our official duty’s done,” he said. “Of course, I’m taking an irregular line, and if you prefer not to talk—”
“You made me feel that you wanted to be my friend,” Dick replied awkwardly.
“Then I may, perhaps, remark that you made abad defense. In the army, it’s better to tell a plausible tale and stick to it; we like an obvious explanation. Now if you had admitted being slightly drunk.”
“But I was sober!”
The Adjutant smiled impatiently.
“So much the worse for you! If you had been drunk, you’d have been turned out all the same, but the reason would have been, so to speak, satisfactory. Now you’re tainted by a worse suspicion. Personally, I don’t think the lost plans have any value, but if they had, it might have gone very hard with you.” He paused and gave Dick a friendly glance. “Well, in parting, I’ll give you a bit of advice. Stick to engineering, which you have a talent for.”
He went out and not long afterward Dick left the camp in civilian’s clothes, but stopped his motorcycle on the hill and stood looking back with a pain at his heart. He saw the rows of tents stretched across the smooth pasture, the flag he had been proud to serve languidly flapping on the gentle breeze, and the water sparkling about the bridge. Along the riverside, bare-armed men in shirts and trousers were throwing up banks of soil with shovels that flashed in the strong light. He could see their cheerful brown faces and a smart young subaltern taking out a measuring line. Dick liked the boy, who now no doubt would pass him without a look, and he envied him with the keenest envy he had ever felt. He had loved his profession; and he was turned out of it in disgrace.
It was evening when he stood in the spacious library at home, glad that the light was fading, as he confronted his father, who sat with grim face in a big leather chair. Dick had no brothers and sisters, andhis mother had died long before. He had not lived much at home, and had been on good, more than affectionate, terms with his father. Indeed, their relations were marked by mutual indulgence, for Dick had no interest outside his profession, while Mr. Brandon occupied himself with politics and enjoyed his prominent place in local society. He was conventional and his manners were formal and dignified, but Dick thought him very much like Lance, although he had not Lance’s genial humor.
“Well,” he said when Dick had finished, “you have made a very bad mess of things and it is, of course, impossible that you should remain here. In fact, you have rendered it difficult for me to meet my neighbors and take my usual part in public affairs.”
This was the line Dick had expected him to take. It was his father’s pride he had wounded and not his heart. He did not know what to say and, turning his head, he looked moodily out of the open window. The lawn outside was beautifully kept and the flower-borders were a blaze of tastefully assorted colors, but there was something artificial and conventional about the garden that was as marked in the house. Somehow Dick had never really thought of the place as home.
“I mean to go away,” he said awkwardly.
“The puzzling thing is that you should deny having drunk too much,” Brandon resumed.
“But I hadn’t done so! You look at it as the others did. Why should it make matters better if I’d owned to being drunk?”
“Drunkenness,” his father answered, “is now an offense against good taste, but not long ago it wasthought a rather gentlemanly vice, and a certain toleration is still extended to the man who does wrong in liquor. Perhaps this isn’t logical, but you must take the world as you find it. I had expected you to learn more in the army than you seem to have picked up. Did you imagine that your promotion depended altogether upon your planning trenches and gun-pits well?”
“That kind of thing is going to count in the new armies,” Dick replied. “Being popular on guest-night at the mess won’t help a man to hold his trench or work his gun under heavy fire.”
Brandon frowned.
“You won’t have an opportunity for showing what you can do. I don’t know where you got your utilitarian, radical views; but we’ll keep to the point. Where do you think of going?”
“To New York, to begin with.”
“Why not Montreal or Cape Town?”
“Well,” Dick said awkwardly, “after what has happened, I’d rather not live on British soil.”
“Then why not try Hamburg?”
Dick flushed.
“You might have spared me that, sir! I lost the plans; I didn’t sell them.”
“Very well. This interview is naturally painful to us both and we’ll cut it short, but I have something to say. It will not be forgotten that you were turned out of the army, and if you succeeded me, the ugly story would be whispered when you took any public post. I cannot have our name tainted and will therefore leave the house and part of my property to your cousin. Whether you inherit the rest or not willdepend upon yourself. In the meantime, I am prepared to make you an allowance, on the understanding that you stay abroad until you are sent for.”
Dick faced his father, standing very straight, with knitted brows.
“Thank you, sir, but I will take nothing.”
“May I ask why?”
“If you’d looked at the thing differently and shown a little kindness, it would have cut me to the quick,” Dick said hoarsely. “I’m not a thief and a traitor, though I’ve been a fool, and it hurts to know what you think. I’m going away to-morrow and I’ll get on, somehow, without your help. I don’t know that I’ll come back if you do send for me.”
“You don’t seem to understand your position, but you may come to realize it before very long,” Brandon replied.
He got up and Dick left the library; but he did not sleep that night. It had been hard to meet his father and what he said had left a wound that would take long to heal. Now he must say good-by to Helen. This would need courage, but Dick meant to see her. It was the girl’s right that she should hear his story, and he would not steal away like a cur. He did not think Helen was really fond of him, though he imagined that she would have acquiesced in her relatives’ plans for them both had things been different. Now, of course, that was done with, but he must say good-by and she might show some regret or sympathy. He did not want her to suffer, but he did not think she would feel the parting much; and she would not treat him as his father had done.
When he called the next morning at an old countryhouse, he was told that Miss Massie was in the garden, and going there, he stopped abruptly at a gap in a shrubbery. Beyond the opening there was a stretch of smooth grass, checkered by moving shadow, and at one side a row of gladioli glowed against the paler bloom of yellow dahlias. Helen Massie held a bunch of the tall crimson spikes, and Dick thought as he watched her with a beating heart that she was like the flowers. They were splendid in form and color, but there was nothing soft or delicate in their aggressive beauty. Helen’s hair was dark and her color high, her black eyes were bright, and her yellow dress showed a finely outlined form. Dick knew that she was proud, resolute, and self-confident.
Then she turned her head and saw him, and he knew that she had heard of his disgrace, for her color deepened and her glance was rather hard than sympathetic. The hand that held the flowers dropped to her side, but she waited until he came up.
“I see you know, and it doesn’t matter who told you,” he said. “I felt I had to come before I went away.”
“Yes,” she answered calmly, “I heard. You have courage, Dick; but perhaps a note would have been enough, and more considerate.”
Dick wondered gloomily whether she meant that he might have saved her pain by staying away, or that he had involved her in his disgrace by coming, since his visit would be talked about. He reflected bitterly that the latter was more probable.
“Well,” he said, “we have been pretty good friends and I’m leaving the country. I don’t suppose I shall come back again.”
“When do you go?”
“Now,” said Dick. “I must catch the train at noon.”
Helen’s manner did not encourage any indulgence in sentiment and he half resented this, although it made things easier. He could not say he had come to give her up, because there had been no formal engagement. Still he had expected some sign of pity or regret.
“You don’t defend yourself,” she remarked thoughtfully. “Couldn’t you have fought it out?”
“There was nothing to fight for. I lost the papers I was trusted with; one can’t get over that.”
“But people may imagine you did something worse.” She paused for a moment and added: “Don’t you care what I might think?”
Dick looked at her steadily. “You ought to know. Do you believe it’s possible I stole and meant to sell the plans?”
“No,” she said with a touch of color. “But I would have liked you, for your friends’ sake, to try to clear yourself. If you had lost the papers, they would have been found and sent back; as they were not, it looks as if you had been robbed.”
That she could reason this out calmly struck Dick as curious, although he had long known that Helen was ruled by her brain and not her heart.
“I’ve been careless and there’s nothing to be done but take my punishment.”
She gave him a keen glance. “Are you hiding something, Dick? It’s your duty to tell all that you suspect.”
Dick winced. Helen was right; it was his duty, buthe was not going to carry it out. He began to see what this meant, but his resolution did not falter.
“If I knew I’d been robbed, it would be different, but I don’t, and if I blamed people who were found to be innocent, I’d only make matters worse for myself.”
“I suppose that’s true,” she agreed coldly. “However, you have made your choice and it’s too late now. Where are you going, Dick?”
“To New York by the first boat from Liverpool.”
He waited, watching her and wondering whether she would ask him to stop, but she said quietly: “Well, I shall, no doubt, hear how you get on.”
“It’s unlikely,” he answered in a hard voice. “I’ve lost my friends with my character. The best thing I can do is to leave them alone.”
Then he looked at his watch, and she gave him her hand. “For all that, I wish you good luck, Dick.”
She let him go, and as he went back to the gate he reflected that Helen had taken the proper and tactful line by dismissing him as if he were nothing more than an acquaintance. He could be nothing more now, and to yield to sentiment would have been painful and foolish; but it hurt him that she had realized this.
When he wheeled his bicycle away from the gate he saw a boy who helped his father’s gardener running along the road, and waited until he came up, hot and panting. The boy held out a small envelope.
“It came after you left, Mr. Dick,” he gasped.
“Then you have been very quick.”
The lad smiled, for Dick was a favorite with his father’s servants.
“I thought you’d like to have the note,” he answered,and added awkwardly: “Besides, I didn’t see you when you went.”
It was the first hint of kindness Dick had received since his disgrace and he took the lad’s hand before he gave him half a crown, though he knew that he must practise stern economy.
“Thank you and good-by, Jim. You must have taken some trouble to catch me,” he said.
Then he opened the envelope and his look softened.
“I heard of your misfortune and am very sorry, but something tells me that you are not to blame,” the note ran, and was signed “Clare Kenwardine.”
For a moment or two Dick was sensible of keen relief and satisfaction; and then his mood changed. This was the girl who had robbed and ruined him; she must think him a fool! Tearing up the note, he mounted his bicycle and rode off to the station in a very bitter frame of mind.
CHAPTER IVADVERSITY
When he had sold his motorcycle at Liverpool, Dick found it would be prudent to take a third-class passage, but regretted this as soon as the liner left the St. George’s channel. The food, though badly served, was good of its kind, and his berth was comfortable enough for a man who had lived under canvas, but when the hatches were closed on account of bad weather the foul air of the steerage sickened him and the habits of his companions left much to be desired. It was difficult to take refuge in the open air, because the steerage deck was swept by bitter spray and often flooded as the big ship lurched across the Atlantic against a western gale.
A spray-cloud veiled her forward when the bows plunged into a comber’s hollow side, and then as they swung up until her forefoot was clear, foam and green water poured aft in cataracts. Sometimes much of her hull before the bridge sank into the crest of a half-mile sea and lower decks and alleyways looked like rivers. The gale held all the way across, and Dick felt jaded and gloomy when they steamed into New York, a day late. He had some trouble with the immigration officers, who asked awkward questions about his occupation and his reason for giving it up, but he satisfied them at length and was allowed to land.
The first few days he spent in New York helped him to realize the change in his fortunes and the difficulties he must face. Until the night he lost the plans, he had scarcely known a care; life had been made easy, and his future had looked safe. He had seldom denied himself anything; he had started well on a career he liked, and all his thoughts were centered on fitting himself for it. Extravagance was not a failing of his, but he had always had more money than would satisfy his somewhat simple needs. Now, however, there was an alarming difference.
To begin with, it was obvious that he could only stay for a very limited time at the cheap hotel he went to, and his efforts to find employment brought him sharp rebuffs. Business men who needed assistance asked him curt questions about his training and experience, and when he could not answer satisfactorily promptly got rid of him. Then he tried manual labor and found employment almost as hard to get. The few dollars he earned at casual jobs did not pay his board at the hotel where he lived in squalid discomfort, but matters got worse when he was forced to leave it and take refuge in a big tenement house, overcrowded with unsavory foreigners from eastern Europe. New York was then sweltering under a heat wave, and he came home, tired by heavy toil or sickened by disappointment, to pass nights of torment in a stifling, foul-smelling room.
He bore it for some weeks and then, when his small stock of money was melting fast, set off to try his fortune in the manufacturing towns of Pennsylvania and Ohio. Here he found work was to be had, but the best paid kind was barred to untrained men byTrade-union rules, and the rest was done by Poles and Ruthenians, who led a squalid semi-communistic life in surroundings that revolted him. Still, he could not be fastidious and took such work as he could get, until one rainy evening when he walked home dejectedly after several days of enforced idleness. A labor agent’s window caught his eye and he stopped amidst the crowd that jostled him on the wet sidewalk to read the notices displayed.
One ticket stated that white men, and particularly live mechanics, were wanted for a job down South, but Dick hesitated for a few minutes, fingering a dollar in his pocket. Carefully spent, it would buy him his supper and leave something towards his meals next day, and he had been walking about since morning without food. If he went without his supper, the agent, in exchange for the dollar, would give him the address of the man who wanted help, but Dick knew from experience that it did not follow that he would be engaged. Still, one must risk something and the situation was getting desperate. He entered the office and a clerk handed him a card.
“It’s right across the town, but you’d better get there quick,” he said. “The job’s a snap and I’ve sent a lot of men along.”
Dick boarded a street-car that took him part of the way, but he had to walk the rest, and was tired and wet when he reached an office in a side street. A smart clerk took the card and gave him a critical glance.
“It looks as if we were going to be full up, but I’ll put down your name and you can come back inthe morning,” he remarked. “What do you call yourself?”
“A civil engineer,” said Dick. “But where is the job and what’s the pay?”
“I guess Central America is near enough; mighty fine country, where rum’s good and cheap. Pay’ll pan out about two-fifty, or perhaps three dollars if you’re extra smart.”
“You can get as much here,” Dick objected, thinking it unwise to seem eager.
“Then why don’t you get it?” the clerk inquired. “Anyhow, you won’t be charged for board and all you’ll have to do is to drive breeds and niggers. It’s a soft thing, sure, but you can light out now and come back if you feel it’s good enough for you to take your chance.”
Dick went away, and had reached the landing when a man who wore loose, gray clothes and a big, soft hat, met him.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I’ve been applying for the job in the South.”
The other gave him a searching glance and Dick thought he noted his anxious look and wet and shabby clothes.
“What can you do?” he resumed.
“To begin with, I can measure cubic quantities, plan out excavating work, and use the level. If this kind of thing’s not wanted, I can handle a spade.”
“Where have you done your digging?”
“In this city. Laying sewers for a contractor, who, the boys said, had to squeeze us to make good the graft he put up to get the job.”
The other nodded. “That’s so; I know the man. You can use a spade all right if you satisfied him. But the sewer’s not finished yet; why did you quit?”
“The foreman fired three or four of us to make room for friends that a saloon-keeper who commands some votes sent along.”
“Well,” said the other, smiling, “you seem to understand how our city bosses fix these things. But my job will mean pretty tough work. Are you sure you want it?”
“I can’t find another,” Dick answered frankly.
“Very well, I’ll put you on. Look round to-morrow and get your orders. I’ve a notion that you’re up against it; here’s a dollar on account.”
Dick took the money. He rather liked the man, whose abruptness was disarmed by his twinkling smile. For the first time, with one exception, during his search for employment, he had been treated as a human being instead of an instrument for doing a certain amount of work.
It was raining hard when he reached the street, and supper would be over before he arrived at his cheap hotel, where one must eat at fixed times or wait for the next meal. There was, however, a small restaurant with an Italian name outside a few blocks further on, and going in he was served with well-cooked food and afterwards sat in a corner smoking and thinking hard. He now felt more cheerful; but the future was dark and he realized the difficulties in his path.
American industry was highly organized. The man who hoped for advancement must specialize and make himself master of some particular branch. Dick had specialized in England, and thought he knewhis subject, but could not use his knowledge. The Americans to whom he tried to sell it would have none of him, and Dick owned that he could not blame them; since it was natural to suppose that the man who was unfaithful to his country would not be loyal to his employer. When he looked for other openings, he found capital and labor arrayed in hostile camps. There was mechanical work he was able to do, but this was not allowed, because the organized workers, who had fought stubbornly for a certain standard of comfort, refused to let untrained outsiders share the benefits they had won.
Business was left; but it needed money, and if he tried to enter it as a clerk, he must first obtain smart clothes and find somebody to certify his ability and character, which was impossible. It looked as if he must be content with manual labor. The wages it commanded were not low and he was physically strong, but he shrank from the lives the lower ranks of toilers led when their work was done. The crowded bunk-house and squalid tenement revolted him. Still, he was young and optimistic; his luck might change when he went South and chance give him an opportunity of breaking through the barriers that shut him in. He sat in the corner, pondering, until it got late and the tired Italian politely turned him out.
Next morning he joined a group of waiting men at the railroad station. They had a dejected look as they sat upon their bundles outside the agent’s office, except for three or four who were cheerfully drunk. Their clothes were shabby and of different kinds, for some wore cheap store-suits and some work-stained overalls. It was obvious that adversity had broughtthem together, and Dick did not think they would make amiable companions. About half appeared to be Americans, but he could not determine the nationality of the rest, who grumbled in uncouth English with different accents.
By and by the clerk whom Dick had met came out of the office with a bundle of tickets, which he distributed, and soon afterwards the train rolled into the depot. Dick was not pleased to find that a car had been reserved for the party, since he would sooner have traveled with the ordinary passengers. Indeed, when a dispute began as the train moved slowly through the wet street, he left the car. In passing through the next, he met the conductor, who asked for his ticket, and after tearing off a section of the long paper, gave him a card, which he gruffly ordered him to stick in his hat. Then he put his hand on Dick’s shoulder, and pushed him back through the vestibule.
“That’s your car behind and you’ll stop right there,” he said. “Next time you come out we’ll put you off the train.”
Dick resigned himself, but stopped on the front platform and looked back as the train jolted across a rattling bridge. A wide, yellow river ran beneath it, and the tall factories and rows of dingy houses were fading in the rain and smoke on the other side. Dick watched them until they grew indistinct, and then his heart felt lighter. He had endured much in the grimy town; but all that was over. After confronting, with instinctive shrinking, industry’s grimmest aspect, he was traveling toward the light and glamour of the South.
Entering the smoking compartment, he found the disturbance had subsided, and presently fell into talk with a man on the opposite seat who asked for some tobacco. He told Dick he was a locomotive fireman, but had got into trouble, the nature of which he did not disclose. Dick never learned much more about his past than this, but their acquaintance ripened and Kemp proved a useful friend.
It was getting dark when they reached an Atlantic port and were lined up on the terminal platform by a man who read out a list of their names. He expressed his opinion of them with sarcastic vigor when it was discovered that three of the party had left the train on the way; and then packed the rest into waiting automobiles, which conveyed them to the wharf as fast as the machines would go.
“Guess you won’t quit this journey. The man who jumps off will sure get hurt,” he remarked as they started.
In spite of his precautions, another of the gang was missing when they alighted, and Kemp, the fireman, grinned at Dick.
“That fellow’s not so smart as he allows,” he said. “He’d have gone in the last car, where he could see in front, if he’d known his job.”
They were hustled up a steamer’s gangway and taken to the after end of the deck, where their conductor turned his back on them for a few minutes while he spoke to a mate.
“Now’s your time,” said Kemp, “if you feel you want to quit.”
Dick looked about. The spar-deck, on which the boats were stowed, covered the spot where he stood,and the passage beneath the stanchions was dark. There was nobody at the top of the gangway under the big cargo-lamp, and its illumination did not carry far across the wharf. If he could reach the latter, he would soon be lost in the gloom, and he was sensible of a curious impulse that urged him to flight. It almost amounted to panic, and he imagined that the other men’s desertion must have daunted him. For a few moments he struggled with the feeling and then conquered it.
“No,” he said firmly; “I’ll see the thing through.”
Kemp nodded. “Well, I guess it’s too late now.”
Two seamen, sent by the mate, went to the top of the gangway, and the fellow who had brought the party from the station stood on guard near. Dick afterward realized that much depended on the choice he swiftly made and wondered whether it was quite by chance he did so.
“You were pretty near going,” his companion resumed.
“Yes,” said Dick, thoughtfully; “I believe I was. As a matter of fact, I don’t know why I stopped.”
The other smiled. “I’ve felt like that about risky jobs I took. Sometimes I lit out, and sometimes I didn’t, but found out afterward I was right either way. If you feel you have to go, the best thing you can do is to get a move on.”
Dick agreed with this. He did not understand it, but knew that while he had still had time to escape down the gangway and felt strongly tempted to do so, it was impressed upon him that he must remain.
A few minutes later their conductor left them with a sarcastic farewell, the ropes were cast off, and thesteamer swung out from the wharf. When, with engines throbbing steadily, she headed down the bay, Dick went to his berth, and on getting up next morning found the American coast had sunk to a low, gray streak to starboard. A fresh southwest breeze was blowing under a cloudy sky and the vessel, rolling viciously, lurched across the white-topped combers of the warm Gulf Stream.
After breakfast, some of his companions gathered into listless, grumbling groups, and some brought out packs of greasy cards, but Dick sat by himself, wondering with more buoyant feelings what lay before him. He had known trouble and somehow weathered it, and now he was bound to a country where the sun was shining. It was pleasant to feel the soft air on his face and the swing of the spray-veiled bows. After all, good fortune might await him down South.
CHAPTER VTHE CONCRETE TRUCK
It was very hot in the deep hollow that pierced the mountain range behind Santa Brigida on the Caribbean Sea. The black peaks cut against a glaring sky and the steep slopes of red soil and volcanic cinders on one side of the ravine were dazzlingly bright. The other was steeped in blue shadow that scarcely seemed to temper the heat, and the dark-skinned men who languidly packed the ballast among the ties of a narrow-gage railroad that wound up the hill panted as they swung their shovels. At its lower end, the ravine opened on to a valley that got greener as it ran down to the glittering sea, on the edge of which feathery palms clustered round Santa Brigida.
The old city, dominated by its twin, cathedral towers, shone ethereally white in the distance, with a narrow fringe of flashing surf between it and the vivid blue of the Caribbean. It was a thriving place, as the black dots of steamers in the roadstead showed, for of late years American enterprise had broken in upon its lethargic calm. The population was, for the most part, of Spanish stock that had been weakened by infusions of Indian and negro blood, but there were a number of Chinamen, and French Creoles. Besidesthese, Americans, Britons, and European adventurers had established themselves, and the town was a hotbed of commercial and political intrigue. The newcomers were frankly there for what they could get and fought cunningly for trading and agricultural concessions. The leading citizens of comparatively pure Spanish strain despised the grasping foreigners in their hearts, but as a rule took their money and helped them in their plots. Moreover, they opened a handsome casino and less reputable gambling houses with the object of collecting further toll.
Such wealth as the country enjoyed was largely derived from the fertile soil, but the district about Santa Brigida was less productive than the rest and had been long neglected. There was rain enough all round, but much of the moisture condensed on the opposite side of the range and left the slopes behind the town comparatively arid. To remedy this an irrigation scheme was being carried out by American capitalists, and the narrow-gage railroad formed part of the undertaking.
A man dressed in rather baggy, gray clothes and a big, soft hat sat in the shadow of the rock. His thin face had been recently browned by the sun, for the paler color where his hat shaded it showed that he was used to a northern climate. Though his pose was relaxed and he had a cigar in his mouth, there was a hint of energy about him and he was following the curves of the railroad with keenly observant eyes. A girl in white dress of fashionable cut sat near him, holding a green-lined sunshade, for although they were in the shadow the light was strong. The likeness betweenthem indicated they were father and daughter.
“I expect you’re feeling it pretty hot,” Fuller remarked.
“It is not oppressive and I rather like the brightness,” the girl replied. “Besides, it’s cool enough about the tent after the sun goes behind the range. Of course, you are used to the climate.”
“I was, but that was twenty-four years ago and before you were born. Got my first lift with the ten thousand dollars I made in the next state down this coast, besides the ague and shivers that have never quite left me. However, it’s pretty healthy up here, and I guess it ought to suit Jake all right.”
Ida Fuller looked thoughtful, and her pensive expression added to the charm of her attractive face. She had her father’s keen eyes, but they were, like her hair, a soft dark-brown; and the molding of brows and nose and mouth was rather firm than delicate. While her features hinted at decision of character, there was nothing aggressive in her look, which, indeed, was marked by a gracious calm. Though she was tall, her figure was slender.
“Yes,” she agreed, “if he would stay up here!”
Fuller nodded. “I’d have to fix him up with work enough to keep him busy, and ask for a full-length report once a week. That would show me what he was doing and he’d have to stick right to his job to find out what was going on.”
“Unless he got somebody to tell him, or perhaps write the report. Jake, you know, is smart.”
“You’re fond of your brother, but I sometimes think you’re a bit hard on him. I admit I was badly riled when they turned him down from Yale, but itwas a harmless fool-trick he played, and when he owned up squarely I had to let it go.”
“That’s Jake’s way. You can’t be angry with him. Still, perhaps, it’s a dangerous gift. It might be better for him if he got hurt now and then.”
Fuller, who did not answer, watched her, as she pondered. Her mother had died long ago, and Fuller, who was largely occupied by his business, knew that Jake might have got into worse trouble but for the care Ida had exercised. He admitted that his daughter, rather than himself, had brought up the lad, and her influence had been wholly for good. By and by she glanced at Santa Brigida.
“It’s the casino and other attractions down there I’m afraid of. If you had some older man you could trust to look after Jake, one would feel more satisfied.”
“Well,” said Fuller with a twinkle, “there’s nobody I know who could fill the bill, and I’m not sure the older men are much steadier than the rest.”
He stopped as a puff of smoke rose at the lower end of the ravine and moved up the hill. Then a flash of twinkling metal broke out among the rocks, and Ida saw that a small locomotive was climbing the steep track.
“She’s bringing up concrete blocks for the dam,” Fuller resumed. “We use them large in the lower courses, and I had the bogie car they’re loaded on specially built for the job; but I’m afraid we’ll have to put down some pieces of the line again. The grade’s pretty stiff and the curves are sharp.”
Ida was not bored by these details. She liked her father to talk to her about his business, and her interestwas quickly roused. Fuller, who was proud of her keen intelligence, told her much, and she knew the importance of the irrigation scheme he had embarked upon. Land in the arid belt could be obtained on favorable terms and, Fuller thought, be made as productive as that watered by the natural rainfall. It was, however, mainly because he had talked about finding her scapegrace brother employment on the work that Ida had made him take her South.
As she glanced at the track she noted that room for it had been dug out of the hillside, which was seamed by gullies that the rails twisted round. The loose soil, consisting largely of volcanic cinders, appeared to offer a very unsafe support. It had slipped away here and there, leaving gaps between the ties, which were unevenly laid and at the sharper bends overhung the steep slope below. In the meantime, the small locomotive came nearer, panting loudly and throwing up showers of sparks, and Ida remarked how the rails bent and then sprang up again as the truck, which carried two ponderous blocks of stone, rolled over them. The engine rocked, sparks flashed among the wheels as their flanges bit the curves, and she wondered what the driver felt or if he had got used to his rather dangerous work.
As a matter of fact, Dick Brandon, who drove the engine, felt some nervous strain. He had applied for the post at Kemp’s suggestion, after the latter had given him a few lessons in locomotive work, and had since been sorry that he had obtained it. Still he had now a room to himself at the shed where the engine was kept, and a half-breed fireman to help him with the heavier part of his task. He preferred this toliving in a hot bunk-house and carrying bags of cement in the grinding mill, though he knew there was a certain risk of his plunging down the ravine with his engine.
The boiler primed when he started and was not steaming well. The pistons banged alarmingly as they compressed the water that spurted from the drain-cocks, and his progress was marked by violent jerks that jarred the couplings of the bogie truck. Though Dick only wore a greasy shirt and overall trousers, he felt the oppressive heat, and his eyes ached with the glare as he gazed up the climbing track. The dust that rolled about the engine dimmed the glasses, the footplate rattled, and it looked as if his fireman was performing a clumsy dance.
By and by he rather doubtfully opened the throttle to its widest. If the boiler primed again, he might knock out the cylinder-heads, but there was a steep pitch in front that was difficult to climb. The short locomotive rocked and hammered, the wheels skidded and gripped again, and Dick took his hand from the lever to dash the sweat from his eyes.
They were going up, and he would be past the worst if he could get his load round the curve ahead. They were half way round when there was a clang behind him and the engine seemed to leap forward. Glancing over his shoulder as he shut off steam, Dick saw the fireman gazing back, and a wide gap between the concrete blocks and his load of coal. The couplings had snapped as they strained round the bend and the truck would run down the incline until it smashed through the sheds that held the grinding and mixing plant at the bottom. He saw that prompt action wasneeded, and reversing the machinery, gave the fireman an order in uncouth Castilian.
The fellow looked at him stupidly, as if his nerve had failed, or he thought the order too risky to obey. There was only one thing to be done, and since it must be done at once, Dick must undertake it himself. The engine was now running down the line after the truck, which had not gathered much speed yet, and he climbed across the coal and dropped upon the rear buffer-frame. Balancing himself upon it, he waited until the gap between him and the truck got narrower, and then put his hand on top of the concrete and swung himself across. He got his foot upon the side of the car and made his way along, holding the top of the block, while the dust rolled about him and he thought he would be jolted off. Indeed, there was only an inch-wide ledge of smooth iron to support his foot, which slipped once or twice; but he reached the brake-gear and screwed it down. Then, crawling back, he hooked on the spare coupling and returned, breathless and shaky, to his engine. A minute or two later he brought it to a stop and had got down upon the line when somebody called him.
Looking round, he saw Fuller standing near, and knew him as the man who had given him the dollar in the American town. He had heard that his employer had come out to see what progress was being made, but had not yet encountered him. He did not notice Ida, who was sitting in the shadow of the rock.
“You were smart,” said Fuller. “There’d have been an ugly smash if the blocks had got away down the grade. But why didn’t you stick to the throttle and send your fireman?”
“I don’t think he understood what he ought to do, and there was no time to explain.”
Fuller nodded. “So you did it yourself! But why didn’t you push the car? You could have held her up better then.”
“I couldn’t get behind it. The loop-track down at the switches has caved in.”
“I see. But it’s a stiff grade and you didn’t seem to be hustling your engine much.”
“The boiler was priming and I was afraid of the cylinders.”
“Just so. You pumped up the water pretty high?”
“No; it was at the usual working level,” said Dick, who paused and resumed thoughtfully: “I can’t account for the thing. Why does a boiler prime?”
There are one or two obvious reasons for a boiler’s priming; that is to say, throwing water as well as steam into the engine, but this sometimes happens when no cause can be assigned, and Fuller saw that Dick did not expect an answer to his question. It was rather an exclamation, prompted by his failure to solve a fascinating problem, and as such indicated that his interest in his task was not confined to the earning of a living. Fuller recognized the mind of the engineer.
“Well,” he replied, “there’s a good deal we don’t know yet about the action of fluids under pressure. But do you find the grade awkward when she’s steaming properly?”
“I can get up. Still, I think it will soon cost you as much in extra fuel as it would to relay this bit of line. Two hundred cubic yards cut out at the bend would make things much easier.”
“Two hundred yards?” said Fuller, studying the spot.
“Two hundred and fifty at the outside,” Dick answered confidently, and then felt embarrassed as he saw Miss Fuller for the first time. His clothes were few and dirty and he was awkwardly conscious that his hands and face were black. But his employer claimed his attention.
“What would you reckon the weight of the stuff?”
Dick told him after a short silence, and Fuller asked: “Two-thousand-pound tons?”
“Yes; I turned it into American weight.”
“Well,” said Fuller, “you must get on with your job now, but come up to my tent after supper.”
Dick started his locomotive, and when it panted away up the incline Fuller looked at his daughter with a smile.
“What do you think of that young man?”
“He has a nice face. Of course he’s not the type one would expect to find driving a locomotive.”
“Pshaw!” said Fuller. “I’m not talking about his looks.”
“Nor am I, in the way you mean,” Ida rejoined. “I thought he looked honest, though perhaps reliable is nearest what I felt. Then he was very professional.”
Fuller nodded. “That’s what I like. The man who puts his job before what he gets for it naturally makes the best work. What do you think of his manner?”
“It was good; confident, but not assertive, with just the right note of deference,” Ida answered, andthen laughed. “It rather broke down after he saw me.”
“That’s not surprising, anyhow. I expect he’s used to wearing different clothes and more of them when he meets stylish young women. It doesn’t follow that the young fellow isn’t human because he’s professional. However, I want to see what the boys are doing farther on.”