to bob’s great disgust his first job was not out on the construction work. whiskers had turned him over to mr. taylor, who set him to work in the draughting room. all day long he sat on a stool, and did simple sums: endless multiplications and divisions of figures that came from the blue prints made by the engineers. it was stupid work and had in it little of the romance which he had always associated with the work he was to do. however, he comforted himself with the thought that if it were not necessary, the chief would never set him at it.
jerry, on account of his experience, had at once been assigned to active outside work as the aid of one of the many junior assistant engineers. at night he would tell bob of the day’s work and commiserate with him that his lot was not as exciting. but at lunch hour and after work was over for the day, bob found a chance to investigate the outside work. it was fascinating. along one side of the valley the river had been forced by means of a temporary dam into an artificial channel, called the spillway, so that the river bottom where the dam was to be built should be clear of water. from the river bed rose the rough foundations of the permanent dam.
it was like a giant staircase on the side which would not come against the water. it was about half finished when bob first got there, but each day it rose steadily higher and higher. bob examined it all. each operation he came to fascinated him, and by using his eyes he soon grew to understand much of the method by which results were achieved.
it was weeks before there came a break in the monotony of his work. he had forced himself to be cheerful about his stupid job and not to show by the least sign that he was not entirely content with the work he had been set to do. mr. taylor, who since the advent of the chief, had taken charge of the office work, spoke to mr. whitney. “that boy, hazard, is a good lad,” he said. “although the plucky beggar won’t own up, i think he is eating his heart out at the draughting board. i can get along without him, so give him a chance outside if you can.”
“a little office work won’t do him any harm,” commented mr. whitney. “i asked you to put him to work there on purpose. i don’t want him to get too inflated an idea of the romance of engineering. but i’ll remember what you said and if something turns up i’ll see what i can do.”
the time was to come sooner than either taylor or whitney expected. the chief engineer had been so busy familiarizing himself with all the details of the outside work that he had spent little time in the office and so had not often seen bob. not an activity, from the operation of the railway branch to the pouring of a new batch of concrete on the dam itself, had escaped his inspection. he wanted to know all the foremen of the different gangs, to size them up, and to gain their personal loyalty. the long experience he had had in bossing men, taught him that being human and approachable did not impair discipline. besides, in times of emergency, the men could be more counted on.
from the men with whom he came into contact, bob hazard realized that his boss was rapidly becoming very popular. every one was singing his praises and the general feeling was that the work was going ahead at a pace never equalled under the preceding engineers. all this was pleasing to the boy who had idolized the man, and helped him to be content with the work at which he had been placed.
it was not of course the sort of life he had pictured. that had been rather a vague idea of khaki-clad figures, perched with their instruments on perilous peaks and over yawning chasms; and a general idea of romance had run through his dreams. to be put into an office to do sums was little better than going to school. that his drawing board faced a window below which the job spread out, was a help, for while his mind mechanically did the figuring that was necessary, he could imagine himself out on the work mingling with the crowd.
one part of the activity drew him especially. this was the cableway system. between the towers set up on the high ground on each side of the river, the strands of wire rope were suspended. along them ran great pulleys from which the buckets hung. the buckets would flash across bob’s vision endlessly, carrying loads of mixed concrete, of sand, of anything that was needed.
their flight was swift, swooping something like a bird’s. from one tower the bucket would speed, only to stop silently and, almost before its crossways movement had ended, it would drop to the surface of the work. an instant to unload the bucket and in a flash it was up and gliding like the wind back to its starting point.
there was something so fascinating, so rhythmical in this operation, that bob had difficulty in tearing his eyes away and concentrating on his work.
one morning, however, something new occurred to distract his attention. happening to glance out of the window, he saw jerry coming up the path to the office, running with all the speed of which he was capable.
the door of the draughting room was open into the hall where the telephone central was seated. her job was trying to keep in touch with all the different division chiefs so that they might be found if any emergency should occur. therefore bob knew that he would hear what was the cause of this especial emergency that had galvanized jerry into such a tremendous haste.
“the chief!” he heard jerry pant as the footsteps ended in the hall. “where is he?”
“mixer last!” snapped the girl, plugging in and ringing her call at the same time. “i’ll see if he’s still there!”
“meantime, where’s mr. taylor? he’d help—”
“can’t get him—gone to las cruces. yes, hello, mixer? the chief? gone? yes, yes! where? north end spillway! right! ’bye.” she pulled out the plug and said to jerry, “started for spillway ten minutes ago. no phone there yet. take fifteen minutes get messenger there—can you wait?”
“no,” said jerry. “mr. rutherford, my chief, wants him. wall of auxiliary spillway this side of the river giving way—will flood all the buttress excavation. we’re shoring it, but mr. rutherford wants the chief and in a hurry. i’m off but i’m afraid i’ll get him too late! if he calls up send him to mr. rutherford at once!” with this jerry shot out of the office and down the hill, evidently planning to make his legs take him to the chief.
inside, bob had been listening with wide open ears and his mind pictured the scene jerry had left to find mr. whitney and filled out the holes the winded boy had left in his description. he knew the auxiliary spillway and the harm it could do if it should fail to carry its burden. it was a temporary affair of wood to be used only until a system of drains could be built to take care of the excess water that collected below the coffer dam. his mind’s eye saw rutherford and jerry at the dangerous place: rutherford, young and inexperienced, doing what he could to avert disaster, but rattled, probably badly so. he wanted mr. whitney or somebody with practical knowledge and he had sent jerry off to bring help. all bob could do was to hope that the wall would hold.
reluctantly he started to take up his dreary work but on the way to the board, his eyes glanced through the window and rested on a grab bucket that was speeding through the air. for a second the sight meant nothing special to him, then suddenly it brought him to his feet. without a word to the other draughtsmen he dashed out of the room, not waiting to snatch his cap.
a plan had come to him in a flash. whitney was needed and needed in a hurry. he was on the other side of the river valley at the head of the spillway. the opposite cableway tower over there was near this spot—if the buckets could go over, couldn’t he? he’d try anyway!
with all the speed he could muster he ran towards the cable tower, thanking his stars that the control station was on this side of the river, and that he knew one of the lever men. it was this fellow’s job to dispatch the buckets and hoist and lower them.
“trouble below, billy!” gasped bob as he came to the shed that protected the operator from the rays of the sun. “need the big boss. he’s over at the spillway. shoot me over?”
“’gainst rules, son,” was the man’s answer, pulling a lever which made a great bucket shoot up from the depths.
“but this—this is serious,” cried the boy. “rules don’t count! they’ve got to have him!”
“sorry,” was the short response, “but orders are orders. nothing doing.”
bob continued to waste a few precious seconds in a vain endeavor to move his friend billy, but kept his eye on the returning bucket. it came almost to billy’s shed and then, in response to a sharp jerk on a lever, it dropped into the mixing shed of the concrete plant.
a way of overcoming this obstacle came to bob. without wasting any more time talking he rushed down to the concrete shed to get there just as the loading gang had finished changing the great hook of the cableway from the empty bucket to a full one. the foreman had his hand raised to signal billy to hoist away when bob darted in and jumped onto the bucket.
the foreman was so surprised that involuntarily his hand made the signal and a second later bob was climbing through space, faster than a rocket!
the wind whistled in his ears and he was choked by the rapid ascent, yet the sensation was not entirely unpleasant. it was like riding in the fastest elevator he’d ever been in—at triple the speed.
not until the bucket had reached the height of the cableway was he able to take any interest in looking about him. the second or so that had elapsed since he had taken passage on the concrete conveyor had been fully occupied in putting himself in a position where he could hold on and not be in danger of being tipped over the side. worming himself around he found he could seat himself comfortably in the hook that held the bucket and clasp his arms around the great iron ball that hung just under the many sheaved pulley.
when this was done he ventured a look over the side. from the attitude of billy he knew that the operator had seen him. what would billy do? the success of his whole scheme depended on it. he had figured that the man would be sport enough to shoot him across if he had once got on the bucket and was on his way.
the speed of the bucket slackened as it neared the cable height and for an agonizing second he thought that billy was about to drop him back to the spot he had started from. it would be a rotten ending to his adventure, and the whole camp would have the laugh on him. on a sudden impulse he disengaged one hand and motioned that he wanted to go on.
it was a dangerous expedient but it was worth it, for billy, resigned to the situation, waved back and a moment later the bucket started to swoop towards the other shore.
bob was facing the way in which they were going and he was conscious that it was like sliding down a great hill, for the cable above him dipped towards the center. there was little time for thought, however, as the bucket lost no time in gathering headway. at one moment it was almost still, the next it was whistling through the air.
the first down rush was glorious. not until he started to climb up the other incline of the cable did bob give any thought to the speed he was making. there was a slight slackening in the rush through the air, but so quickly was the whole journey over that bob’s first impression was the one that he slipped off the bucket with when it touched ground at the foot of the west tower.
billy had been a sport! he had shot bob just as far over as he could and the boy was correspondingly grateful.
the inspection trips he had made outside of working hours now proved a great help, for he knew the quickest way to the place the chief was supposed to be. setting out on a run he was soon there. mr. whitney was engaged in conversation with the foreman but broke off as the boy rushed up.
“what’s the row, bob?” he wanted to know.
“need you—quick—over at the east spillway—wall giving way—” but faster than the words could tremble out, the chief was acting.
“come along,” he directed. “talk as we go!”
he made tracks for a dinky engine that was hitched to a load of empties.
“uncouple!” he yelled to the engineer. as he and bob swung into the cab, the little locomotive[121] was already moving slowly. “to the east bank, quick!” he ordered and caught the whistle cord. the prolonged screech told the switchmen and other trains that something serious was afoot, and that the line must be cleared.
“know anything else?” demanded the chief as the engine rocked crazily on the narrow gauge track, and when bob shook his head, asked, “how did you get over?”
“bucket,” said the boy briefly.
“good idea,” commented mr. whitney and was silent until the engine pulled up snorting as near their destination as it could get. “come along,” invited mr. whitney as he swung off the engine. pleased, bob did his best to keep up with his long-legged boss who had headed for the point of trouble with great strides.
it has taken a long time to describe the things that had happened to bob since he heard jerry’s predicament in the office, yet the actual time it had taken him to get mr. whitney to the scene of action was hardly a handful of minutes. this was proved by the fact that bob had a confused belief that halfway back on the little engine he had seen jerry on his way to find mr. whitney. these thoughts mingled in his brain as he followed his chief to the temporary spillway.
nothing serious had happened so far, he was glad to see, as they came upon mr. rutherford and the gang of men who were attempting to shore up the wall of the stream. the waterway at this point was built entirely of wood and the present trouble was due either to an unexpected pressure of water or some defect in construction.
the gang had been working feverishly and without much order until steve whitney came on the scene. bob was amazed at the change that seemed to take place as soon as his chief had uttered a few incisive directions. the rescue work went on smoothly and efficiently. there was no panic, no blundering.
“here, you men, down stream a bit with that timber. rutherford, you’ve the right idea—stick to it. rush ’em up, boys,” to a gang bringing up a supply of planks. “have you diverted any of the water, rutherford?”
“no, sir, i—i never thought of—”
“you should have!” this was all the rebuke the young engineer was to get. perhaps it was because whitney did things that way, that all his men adored him. he did not think that because a man made a mistake that he should be shamed before his fellow workers. he turned to bob.
“chase up to the dam line. there’s an overflow gate in the spillway there. break it open!”
bob hustled off on his errand and found the place the chief had designated. a few blows with a stone and he had loosened the gate sufficiently to let a big stream of water flow out.
“what the dickens are you doing?” yelled the foreman of a surfacing gang, starting for the boy on a run. “want to flood the works?”
“keep your shirt on! chief’s orders!” but he had to explain the whole matter before the man realized that he was not an anarchist. the foreman’s strength added to his was sufficient to give the water a clear outlet, and bob saw with satisfaction that the body of water passing down the canal to the weakened spot was considerably less.
when he reported to the chief he found that all danger was past and the gang at work making a permanent repair of the damage.
“good work,” said mr. whitney as the boy came up. “water slackened just in time.” then he turned to rutherford.
“when you finish the shoring, close the gate immediately.”
suddenly bob remembered that he had left his job in the office without anybody’s authority. the excitement had made him forget that he had a job. now, when everything was quiet, the realization that probably he had been missed came to him and he started to make tracks in the general direction of the office. he had not gone far, however, when he heard a familiar voice hail him from behind. it was mr. whitney, so he slowed up and turned.
“hold on, bob. i want to speak to you.”
a moment later mr. whitney was beside him, an expression on his face which the boy could not fathom. it was a stern look yet there was a twinkle in the kind eyes. his first words were ominous.
“what are you doing away from your drawing board? did mr. taylor send you for me?”
“no—no, sir,” stammered bob, helplessly. “he wasn’t there—he’s in las cruces—”
“and you came across the river on the cableway, didn’t you?”
“yes, sir. it was the only—”
“no excuses! it means that you have broken discipline twice, doesn’t it? left your work and then rode a bucket, which is against all orders. i’ll have to fire that control operator who let you do it.”
“he couldn’t help it!” cried the boy, horrified that what he had done might get someone else into trouble. “i jumped the bucket in the mixing plant and i was halfway across before billy ever saw me!”
“so that’s how you did it!” ejaculated the chief. “in that case i may not have to do more than reprimand billy.”
“that’s fine!” said the much relieved boy.
“but as for you—i must punish you much more severely,” the twinkle in the man’s eyes grew more pronounced, and in spite of himself he smiled. “you are sentenced to be my rodman, to stay with me all the time we’re on the job.”
“gee whiz!” whistled bob, the suddenness of the turn the talk had taken amazing him. “then—then what i did was right?”
“you bet it was! both right and plucky. i’m proud of you—”
“and i’m going to be on your own corps? this is too much,” and the boy laughed happily.
“yes, bob,” said steve whitney seriously, “i want someone on whom i can rely to think quickly and not lose his head in an emergency. rules and regulations must be broken when the jam is tight enough—and many tight jams occur in the service. you proved to-day that you used your brains and were plucky enough to act on what your brain told you to do. probably the few minutes you saved in getting me, were worth thousands of dollars to the service and days of delay. if that spillway wall had broken, the buttress excavations would have filled and all the digging work would have had to be done over.”
before bob could stammer his thanks, the chief continued, “report to me in the morning. better go back now and finish up your work.”
the conversation had taken place as they climbed the hill to the upper town. now, mr. whitney went off in the direction of his cottage, and bob to the office.
that night jerry came in late to the room that he still shared with bob.
“lucky stiff!” he said pleasantly. “beat me to it, didn’t you?”
“reckon so,” grinned bob happily. “sore?”
“not a bit—only wish i’d thought of it. was the old man pleased?”
“he made me his rodman, if that’s any sign.”
“you are lucky but i’m mighty glad for you. it’ll be a heap more fun than that office work.”
bob thought he detected a little note of disappointment in his chum’s tone, but the words of congratulation seemed sincere.
“it will be your turn next,” said bob as they turned off the light.
