Brandon of the Engineers

Jake spent the day following Dick about the works and made no complaint

about the heat and dust, though he frowned when a shower of cement or a

splash of oil fell upon his clothes. It was obvious that he knew nothing

about engineering, but the questions he asked indicated keen intelligence

and Dick was satisfied. A room adjoining the latter's quarters had been

prepared for the newcomer, and they sat, smoking, on the veranda after

the evening meal.

"Do you think you'll like your work?" Dick asked.

"I've got to like it, and it might be worse. Since I'm not allowed to

draw or model things, I can make them, and I guess that's another form of

the same talent, though it's considerably less interesting than the

first."

"But perhaps more useful," Dick suggested.

"Well, I don't know. Our taste is pretty barbarous, as a rule, and you

can't claim that yours is more advanced, but I allow that the Spaniards

who built Santa Brigida had an eye for line and color. These dagos have a

gift we lack; you can see it in the way they wear their clothes. My

notion is that it's some use to teach your countrymen to admire beauty

and grace. We're great at making things, but there's no particular need

to make them ugly."

"Then you're a bit of an artist?"

"I meant to be a whole one and might have made good, although the old man

has not much use for art. Unfortunately, however, I felt I had to kick

against the conventionality of the life I led and the protest I put up

was a little too vigorous. It made trouble, and in consequence, my folks

decided I'd better be an engineer. I couldn't follow their arguments, but

had to acquiesce."

"It's curious how you artists claim to be exempt from the usual rules, as

if you were different from the rest of us."

"We are different," Jake rejoined with a twinkle. "It's our business to

see the truth of things, while you try to make it fit your formulas about

what you think is most useful to yourself or society. A formula's like

bad spectacles; it distorts the sight, and yours is plainly out of focus.

For example, I guess you're satisfied with the white clothes you're

wearing."

"I don't know that it's important, but what's the matter with them?"

"Well," said Jake, with a critical glance, "they're all wrong. Now you've

got good shoulders, your figure's well balanced, and I like the way you

hold your head, but your tailor has spoiled every prominent line. I'll

show you some time when I model you in clay." He paused and grinned. "I

guess the Roman sentinel pose would suit you best, as I noted it when you

stood on the mole waiting for me, determined to do your duty at any cost.

Besides, there is something of the soldier about you."