After he had dressed, Alexander sat down at the window and drew into his

lungs deep breaths of the pine-scented air. He had awakened with all his

old sense of power. He could not believe that things were as bad with

him as they had seemed last night, that there was no way to set them

entirely right. Even if he went to London at midsummer, what would that

mean except that he was a fool? And he had been a fool before. That was

not the reality of his life. Yet he knew that he would go to London.

Half an hour later the train stopped at Moorlock. Alexander sprang to

the platform and hurried up the siding, waving to Philip Horton, one

of his assistants, who was anxiously looking up at the windows of the

coaches. Bartley took his arm and they went together into the station

buffet.

"I'll have my coffee first, Philip. Have you had yours? And now, what

seems to be the matter up here?"

The young man, in a hurried, nervous way, began his explanation.

But Alexander cut him short. "When did you stop work?" he asked sharply.

The young engineer looked confused. "I haven't stopped work yet,

Mr. Alexander. I didn't feel that I could go so far without definite

authorization from you."

"Then why didn't you say in your telegram exactly what you thought, and

ask for your authorization? You'd have got it quick enough."

"Well, really, Mr. Alexander, I couldn't be absolutely sure, you know,

and I didn't like to take the responsibility of making it public."

Alexander pushed back his chair and rose. "Anything I do can be made

public, Phil. You say that you believe the lower chords are showing

strain, and that even the workmen have been talking about it, and yet

you've gone on adding weight."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Alexander, but I had counted on your getting here

yesterday. My first telegram missed you somehow. I sent one Sunday

evening, to the same address, but it was returned to me."

"Have you a carriage out there? I must stop to send a wire."

Alexander went up to the telegraph-desk and penciled the following

message to his wife:--

I may have to be here for some time. Can you come up at once? Urgent.

BARTLEY.

The Moorlock Bridge lay three miles above the town. When they were

seated in the carriage, Alexander began to question his assistant

further. If it were true that the compression members showed strain,

with the bridge only two thirds done, then there was nothing to do

but pull the whole structure down and begin over again. Horton kept

repeating that he was sure there could be nothing wrong with the

estimates.




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