Brandon of the Engineers Part 8

"Were you an officer?"

d.i.c.k had dreaded the question. It looked as if truthfulness would cost him much; but he determined that his new friends should know the worst.

"Yes."

"Then why did you quit?"

d.i.c.k glanced at Ida, and imagined that she was interested, though she did not look up.

"I was turned out, sir."

"Ah!" said Fuller, without surprise. "May I ask why? It's not impertinent curiosity."

"I was sent with some important papers, which I lost. This was bad enough, but there was some ground for suspecting that I had stolen them."

"Do you know how they were lost?"

d.i.c.k was grateful for the way the question was put, since it hinted that Fuller did not doubt his honesty.

"No," he said. "That is, I have a notion, but I'm afraid I'll never quite find out."

Fuller did not reply for a minute or two, and d.i.c.k, whose face was rather hot, glanced back at Ida. Her eyes were now fixed on him with quiet interest, and something in her expression indicated approval.

"Well," said Fuller, "I'm going to give you a chance of making good, because if you had done anything crooked, you wouldn't have told me that tale. You'll quit driving the locomotive and superintend on a section of the dam. I'm not satisfied with the fellow who's now in charge. He's friendly with the dago sub-contractors and I suspect I'm being robbed."

d.i.c.k's eyes sparkled. His foot was on the ladder that led to success; and he did not mean to stay at the bottom. Moreover, it caused him an exhilarating thrill to feel that he was trusted again.

"I'll do my best, sir," he said gratefully.

"Very well; you'll begin to-morrow, and can use the rooms behind the iron office shack. But there's something you have forgotten."

d.i.c.k looked at him with a puzzled air; and Fuller laughed.

"You haven't asked what I'm going to pay you yet."

"No," said d.i.c.k. "To tell the truth, it didn't seem to matter."

"Profession comes first?" Fuller suggested. "Well, that's right, but I've hired professional men, engineering and medical experts, who charged pretty high. Anyhow, here's my offer--"

d.i.c.k was satisfied, as was Fuller. The latter was often generous and would not have taken unfair advantage of d.i.c.k's necessity, but he did not object to engaging a talented young man at something below the market rate.

"While I'm here you'll come over twice a week to report," he resumed.

"And now if there's anything you'd like to ask."

"First of all, I owe you a dollar," d.i.c.k remarked, putting the money on the table. "The pay-clerk wouldn't take it, because he said it would mix up his accounts. I'm glad to pay you back, but this doesn't cancel the debt."

"It wasn't a big risk. I thought you looked played out."

"I was played out and hungry. In fact, it took me five minutes to make up my mind whether I'd pay the agent who gave me your address his fee, because it meant going without a meal."

Fuller nodded. "Did you hesitate again, after you knew you'd got the job?"

"I did. When we were hustled on board the steamer, there was n.o.body at the gangway for a few moments and I felt I wanted to run away. There didn't seem to be any reason for this, but I very nearly went."

"That kind of thing's not quite unusual," Fuller answered with a smile.

"In my early days, when every dollar was of consequence, I often had a bad time after I'd made a risky deal. Used to think I'd been a fool, and I'd be glad to pay a smart fine if the other party would let me out. Yet if he'd made the proposition, I wouldn't have clinched with it."

"Such vacillation doesn't seem logical, in a man," Ida interposed. "Don't you practical people rather pride yourselves on being free from our complexities? Still I suppose there is an explanation."

"I'm not a philosopher," Fuller replied. "If you have the constructive faculty, it's your business to make things and not examine your feelings; but my explanation's something like this--When you take a big risk you have a kind of unconscious judgment that tells you if you're right, but human nature's weak, and scares you really don't believe in begin to grip. Then it depends on your nerve whether you make good or not."

"Don't they call it sub-conscious?" Ida asked. "And how does that judgment come?"

"I guess it's built up on past experience, on things you've learned long since and stored away. In a sense, they're done with, you don't call them up and argue from them; but all the same, they're the driving force when you set your teeth and go ahead."

Ida looked at d.i.c.k. "That can't apply to us, who have no long experience to fall back upon."

"I've only made one venture of the kind, but I've just discovered that it turned out right."

Fuller smiled. "That's neat." Then he turned to Ida. "But I wasn't talking about women. They don't need experience."

"Sometimes you're merely smart, and sometimes you're rather deep, but I can't decide which you are just now," Ida rejoined. "However, I expect you're longing to get back to the plans."

"No," said Fuller. "They have to be thought of, but life isn't all a matter of building dams. Now I'm getting old, I've found that out."

"And you? Have you any opinion on the subject?" Ida asked d.i.c.k.

d.i.c.k hesitated, wondering whether she meant to put him at his ease or was amused by his seriousness.

"I don't imagine my views are worth much and they're not very clear. In a way, of course, it's plain that Mr. Fuller's right--"

"But after all, building dams and removing rocks may very well come first?"

d.i.c.k pondered this. So far, his profession had certainly come first. He was not a prig or a recluse, but he found engineering more interesting than people. Now he came to think of it, he had been proud of Helen's beauty, but she had not stirred him much or occupied all his thoughts.

Indeed, he had only once been overwhelmingly conscious of a woman's charm, and that was in Kenwardine's garden. He had lost his senses then, but did not mean to let anything of the kind happen again.

"Well," he said diffidently, "so long as you're content with your occupation, it doesn't seem necessary to make experiments and look for adventures. I expect it saves you trouble to stick to what you like and know."

He noted Ida's smile, and was silent afterwards while she argued with her father. He did not want to obtrude himself, and since they seemed to expect him to stay, it was pleasant enough to sit and listen.

The air was getting cooler and the moon had risen and cast a silver track across the sea. The distant rumble of the surf came up the hillside in a faint, rhythmic beat, and the peaks above the camp had grown in distinctness. A smell of spice drifted out of the jungle, and d.i.c.k, who was tired, was sensible of a delightful languor. The future had suddenly grown bright and besides this, Ida's gracious friendliness had given him back his confidence and self-respect. He was no longer an outcast; he had his chance of making good and regaining the amenities of life that he had learned to value by their loss. He was very grateful to the girl and Fuller, but at length took his leave and returned to the locomotive shed with a light heart and a springy step.

Next morning he began his new work with keen energy. It absorbed him, and as the dam slowly rose in a symmetrical curve of molded stone, its austere beauty commanded his attention. Hitherto he had given utility the leading place, but a change had begun the night he sat beneath the copper-beech with Clare Kenwardine. The design of the structure was good, but d.i.c.k determined that the work should be better, and sometimes stopped in the midst of his eager activity to note the fine, sweeping lines and silvery-gray l.u.s.ter of the concrete blocks. There were soft lights at dawn and when the sun sank in which the long embankment glimmered as if carved in mother-of-pearl.

In the meantime, he went to Fuller's tent twice a week and generally met Ida there. Once or twice, he pleaded with his employer for extra labor and cement to add some grace of outline to the dam, and, although this was unproductive expenditure, Fuller agreed.

"I like a good job, but it's going to cost high if you mean to turn out a work of art," he said. "However, if Bethune thinks the notion all right, I suppose I'll have to consent."