Brandon of the Engineers. Harold Bindloss
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 to living 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 was needed, 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, and then 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.”
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