Brandon of the Engineers. Harold Bindloss
for which engineers and artillery had cleared the way. It was some time before the first battalion crossed, but the long yellow line still ran back up the hillside to the spot at which it emerged from the deepening shade, and the next platoon took the bridge with unbroken step. It swayed and shook with a curious regular tremble as the feet came down; but there was no giving way of tie and stringer-beam, and Dick forgot the men who were passing, and thought of fastenings and stressed material.
He was young and the pomp of war had its effect on him, but the human element began to take second place. Although an officer of the new army, he was first of all an engineer; his business was to handle wood and iron rather than men. The throb of the planks and the swing of the pontoons as the load passed over them fascinated him; and his interest deepened when the transport began to cross. Sweating, spume-flecked horses trod the quivering timber with iron-shod hoofs; grinding wheels jarred the structure as the wagons passed. He could feel it yield and bend, but it stood, and Dick was conscious of a strange, emotional thrill. This, in a sense, was his triumph; the first big task in which he had taken a man’s part; and his work had passed the test. Taste, inclination, and interest had suddenly deepened into an absorbing love for his profession.
After a time, the Adjutant sent for him and held out a large, sealed envelope.
“These are the plans I showed you,” he said. “Colonel Farquhar is driving to Newcastle, and will stop at Storeton Grange for supper at midnight. The plans must be delivered to him there. You have a motorcycle, I think?”
“Yes.”
“Very well; it is not a long ride, but I’ll release you from duty now. Don’t be late at Storeton, take care of the papers, and get Colonel Farquhar’s receipt.”
There was a manufacturing town not far off, and Dick decided to go there and spend the evening with a cousin of his. They might go to a theater, or if not, Lance would find some means of amusing him. As a rule, Dick did not need amusing, but he felt that he must celebrate the building of the bridge.
Lance Brandon was becoming known as an architect, and he had a good deal of constructive talent. The physical likeness between him and Dick was rather marked, but he was older and they differed in other respects. Lance knew how to handle men as well as material, and perhaps he owed as much to this as to his artistic skill. His plans for a new church and the remodeling of some public buildings had gained him recognition; but he already was popular at country houses in the neighborhood and was courted by the leading inhabitants of the town.
Dick and he dined at the best hotel and Lance listened sympathetically to the description of the bridge. He was not robust enough for the army, but he hinted that he envied Dick; and Dick felt flattered. He sometimes bantered Lance about his social gifts and ambitions, but he had never resented the favors his father had shown his cousin. Lance had been left an orphan at an early age and the elder Brandon—a man of means and standing—had brought him up with his son. They had been good friends and Dick was pleased when his father undertook to give Lance a fair start at the profession he chose. He imagined that now Lance was beginning to make his mark, his allowance had stopped, but this was not his business. Lance was a very good sort, although he was clever in ways that Dick was not and indeed rather despised.
“What shall we do next?” Dick asked when they had lounged for a time in the smoking-room.
Lance made a gesture of resignation as he stretched himself in a big chair. He was dressed with quiet taste, his face was handsome but rather colorless, and his movements were languid.
“You’re such an energetic beggar,” he complained. “The only theater where they put on plays worth seeing is closed just now, but there’s a new dancer at the nearest hall and we might look in. I hope my churchwarden patrons won’t disapprove if they hear of it, because they talk about building an ornamental mission room.”
Dick laughed.
“They wouldn’t find fault with you. Somehow, nobody does.”
“There’s some truth in that; the secret is that I know when to stop. One can enjoy life without making the pace too hot. People aren’t really censorious, and even the narrow-minded sort allow you certain limits; in fact, I imagine they rather admire you if you can play with fire and not get singed. Women do, anyhow; and, in a sense, their judgment’s logical. The thing that doesn’t hurt you can’t be injurious, and it shows moderation and self-control if you don’t pass the danger line.”
“How do you know when you have come to the line?”
“Well,” smiled Lance, “experience helps; but I think it’s an instinct. Of course, if you do show signs of damage, you’re done for, because then the people who envied you throw the biggest stones.”
“Let’s start,” said Dick. “I’m not much of a philosopher. Building bridges and digging saps is good enough for me.”
“They’re healthy occupations, so long as you don’t get shot; but, considering everything, it’s strange that they still monopolize your interest.”
Dick colored. He knew what his cousin meant. He had been attracted by a girl of whom his father approved and who was well-bred, pretty, and rich. Dick imagined that his father’s views were agreeable to Helen’s relatives and that she was not ignorant of this. Still, nothing had been actually arranged, and although he admired Helen, it would be time enough to think of marriage when he was a captain, for instance.
“Pontoons and excavations have their charm for men with constructive tastes,” Lance went on; “but you may find later that they don’t satisfy all your needs.”
“Get your hat!” Dick returned with a smile, jumping up as he spoke.
The music-hall was badly filled. The audience seemed listless and the performance dragged. Even the much-praised dancer was disappointing, and there was an unusual number of shabby loungers in the bar. Dick had come prepared to enjoy himself after a day of arduous work, and by way of doing so, he ordered a drink or two that he did not really want. As a rule, he was abstemious, but the hall was very hot. It struck him as glaring and tawdry after the quiet dale where the water sparkled among the stones; and the pallid loungers with their stamp of indulgence differed unpleasantly from the hard, brown-faced men he led.
“Let’s clear out,” he said at last. “Is there anywhere else to go?”
“My rooms,” Lance suggested.
“Oh, I want something fresh to-night,” Dick replied with a smile.
Lance pondered.
“Well, I can show you some keen card-play and perhaps a clever game of billiards, besides a girl who’s a great deal prettier than the dancer. But it’s four miles out of town.”
Dick glanced at his watch.
“I can take you on the carrier,” he said. “I’ve plenty of time yet.”
They set off, and presently stopped at a tall iron gate on the edge of a firwood. A glimmer of lights indicated that a house stood at the end of the drive.
“Kenwardine will be glad to receive you as a friend of mine,” Lance said; “and you needn’t play unless you like. He’s fond of company and generally has a number of young men about the place.”
“A private gambling club?”
“Oh, no. You’re very far from the mark. Kenwardine certainly likes a bet and sometimes runs a bank, but all he wins wouldn’t do much to keep up a place like this. However, you can see for yourself.”
Dick was not a gambler and did not play many games, but he wanted a little excitement, and he looked forward to it as he followed his cousin up the drive.
CHAPTER II
DICK’S