O'Donnell's Revenge

Engineer Trevannion was annoyed. The Works Committee at Berthwer, who managed the affairs of the new wharf under construction, had written to announce that they had appointed an assistant engineer, adding that “Mr. Garstin would prove of exceptional aid in the theoretical department, leaving Mr. Trevannion more time for the practical work in the execution of which he had given such satisfactory proof of his ability.”

Despite the flattering words, Trevannion understood the real message and resented it. He had been in sole charge since the beginning. The chief engineer, who lived on the other side of town, only came by once a fortnight, so trustworthy did he consider his subordinate. Trevannion had labored over the detailed plans, wrestled with scale measurements until his eyes ached. He had stood about the works in all weathers, supervised the men personally, and never made a slip in his weekly reports.

He had to write those reports correctly, keep the Committee informed of cement used, piles driven, water pumped out, concrete put in, and notify casualties in a way that suggested the Committee's obligations without harrowing their feelings. He had to be at the works by nine every morning, not leave till five, be either in the iron shanty called the engineer's office, supervising concrete mixing, clambering over beams and piles, shouting through the telephone, interviewing the ganger, or doing one of the hundred other things that made up the day's work. Surely that was all that was required, and he flattered himself he had done it very well.

Now the Committee was going to foist an assistant on him. Assistant! The very name was a slight on his capabilities, a slur on his independence. Why had they treated him so?

He thought he knew the reason, ridiculous as it seemed. The new wharf, meant to increase Berthwer's importance as a river port, had not progressed rapidly in recent weeks. There had been difficulties—difficulties Trevannion attributed to unforeseen circumstances. The Committee, however, might have blamed circumstances that ought to have been foreseen.

Herein lay the gist of his resentment. The Committee, while recognizing his diligence, energy, and pluck, considered he lacked some finer qualities of insight, the ability to forestall difficulties and meet them economically. So they had appointed Garstin to help him—in other words, to supply the brain qualities they imagined he lacked. It was unfair and humiliating.

“Some puling theoretician!” he muttered, walking to the works one winter morning. “Some dandy who can draw cubes and triangles and can't do anything else except come here—late probably—in an overcoat and comforter. One of those sickly office-desk beggars who are ill half the time and useless the rest. Absolutely sickening!”

He strode along in a temper matched by the weather: gusty, bleak, and wet. Pools of water lay on the rough roads through the poor quarter of town. To reach the works, he had to cross the river by ferry. When he reached the landing-stage that morning, the boat was moored against the opposite bank, but no ferryman was in sight, and his shouts brought no response.

He shouted again and again, then turned up his collar—he disdained a greatcoat—pulled his cap over his eyes, and used strong language to relieve his feelings. He was still blaming the river and the ferryman when he became conscious of a light footfall and saw a young man standing beside him.

“I can't make the ferryman hear,” Trevannion said in an aggrieved tone, as if the newcomer were responsible. “It's an awful nuisance—I'm already late. He's never played this trick before.”

“I've been here ten minutes,” the young man replied. “The man has either gone away or gone to sleep. Hadn't we better get across some other way? There's a boat a few yards down. We might borrow it and scull ourselves over, if you think—”

“Good idea!” exclaimed Trevannion, then hesitated. “You—you're not going to the wharf, are you?”

“Yes—for the first time in my life.”

“Is your name Garstin?”

“That's it. Perhaps you can tell me—”

“I'm Trevannion,” he said briefly. “I didn't expect you quite so soon. Er—I'm glad to meet you.”

His eyes went to the heavy coat the lad—he was little more—was encased in, to the fashionable bowler contrasting with his own tweed cap, to the umbrella protecting the bowler from the dripping rain—yes, even to the comforter. It was as he had feared. Garstin was an office-desk weakling, and a mere boy at that. The Committee had added insult to injury.

“Oh, you're Mr. Trevannion,” said the “insult,” shyly extending a gloved hand. Trevannion took it limply and quickly let it drop. “Come on,” he said. “We'll get across first and talk afterwards.”

The gruffness of his tone discouraged conversation, and little was said as they unmoored the boat and rowed across. Trevannion had ample opportunity to size up his companion. The water was rough; Garstin handled his oar clumsily, lacking the strength to impart vigor to the stroke, confirming Trevannion's suspicion that muscular development had not been part of his education. Trevannion stood six-foot-one in his stockings, well-knit with supple muscles, and naturally he believed physical fitness was essential for an engineer, especially one in charge of a rough crew. He resolved to recommend a course of Sandow to the new hand.

“Mind how you get out,” he said as the boat bumped against the slimy ladder. “The steps are greasy, and those togs of yours aren't suited to this job.”

Garstin flushed but said nothing, and Trevannion flattered himself the hint wasn't wasted. He had already decided the new engineer would need many lessons; this was Lesson No. 1.

Hardly had they scrambled onto the wharf when Trevannion's ganger came up.

“Morning, sir. Can I speak to you a moment? There's been trouble between O'Donnell and Peters. O'Donnell was drunk—leastways so Peters says. Anyhow, they got fighting and mauled each other pretty severe; Peters is in hospital. Thought you'd better hear of it, sir.”

“Quite right,” said Trevannion judicially. It was a common enough story on the wharf, but now—glancing at the slight figure beside him, who evidently needed as many object-lessons as possible—he decided this was an opportunity for Lesson No. 2. “Pay O'Donnell and sack him,” he commanded.

“Very good, sir,” said the ganger, moving away.

“That's how we have to treat our fellows here,” Trevannion said. “Summary justice, you know. They're a rough lot. Now come and see the office and the plans.”

Garstin said nothing, but followed submissively. Perhaps he wondered that any engineer should wield such powers, but he had little time for wondering—he was too busy keeping pace with his nimble, long-legged comrade. He stumbled over heaps of granite and sand, over rails along which cranes moved ponderously, over tarpaulins and old iron tools—over every object Trevannion avoided with ease.

By the time they reached the shanty, Garstin was rather distressful, for the pace had been hot and he'd been impeded by his fatal greatcoat and muffler. After divesting himself, he stood still and breathed hard in front of a cheerful coke fire, while Trevannion unrolled the plans and pinned them to the long, sloping desk.

Then the engineer began to explain the plans in detail, elaborating with simpler explanations, going through sections one by one with slow precision, repeating his elucidation of black lines, red lines, green lines, the length, breadth, and numbers of piles, the soil, subsoil, and sub-subsoil—all in the manner of one instructing a child, for he was certain Garstin would need lots of instruction.

Garstin seemed a patient listener, and Trevannion had almost begun to enjoy himself when Garstin suddenly laid his finger on a certain spot and asked a question about water-pressure and resisting force. Trevannion was surprised into giving what he thought was the correct answer. He was even more surprised when Garstin proved by figures that the answer was incontestably wrong.

That was the beginning. Garstin quickly found more questions, more criticisms of Trevannion's replies. Trevannion at first tried to crush him with calm superiority, but Garstin's logic made calm useless, and trying to be superior was worse. The intruder stuck to his guns with respectful pertinacity. Perhaps the fire had warmed his brain; Trevannion wondered if that was so, or if it was Garstin's normal state—a horrible thought!

At any rate, within those four stuffy walls Garstin was in his element; Trevannion clearly was not. In half an hour his treasured theories had been picked to pieces and his argument exhausted, while his rival appeared as fresh as the woodwork.

The climax came when Section D came up for discussion. Things had not gone well there in practice. Trevannion incautiously admitted that Section D represented a point where the river persistently forced its way into the cavity intended for good concrete. Garstin promptly demonstrated the probable reason. That was too much. Trevannion shut up the discussion by opening the door.

“Phew!” he said. “Let's go out and get some fresh air. We'll have a look at the section itself.”

He stepped out, followed meekly by the other.

It was still raining. Under the leaden sky the works looked more dismal than ever. Lakes of water lay where there had been pools; rails and machinery glistened as if oiled. A thick light-brown river raced past. The echoing wind and the hoarse murmur of the gang working on Section D mingled with the groaning and clattering of cranes. Garstin missed the warmth of the fire and shivered; he had forgotten his overcoat. He experienced only mild curiosity in the surroundings. Trevannion walked rapidly and in silence, thinking mainly of how to get his own back from this usurper.

They came to the edge of Section D. Below yawned a huge pit with uneven walls sheer from top to bottom. Fronting them, on the river side, solid piles went down into an abyss ending in black water; these were a barrier—a support to the wedge of earth the mighty river pressed against their backs. Transverse beams stretched from the land side to the tops of the piles, two or three yards apart, with more beams lower down as stays against buckling—a giant scaffolding embedded in the earth. A few rough blocks of concrete peeped from the water below. Fountains spurted between the piles and splashed into the basin.

Trevannion looked at the fountains and frowned. There would be work for the pumps shortly; there was always too much work in Section D. Disregarding the slippery state of the transverse beams, he stepped onto one and stood poised for a moment over sixty feet of hungry voidness.

“Come over to the other side,” he said to Garstin. “You can't see what's going on below from there. Why, what—?”

Garstin, after placing one foot on the beam, had drawn back, a leaden pallor showing unmistakably under his skin.

Trevannion stared. The laugh and jeer that had risen in his heart at this sudden failure of nerve never found expression. There was something in the young man's face that spoke of more than nervousness—a pitiful terror, the pleading terror of a dumb, helpless animal before a tormentor.

For a moment the engineer stood irresolute. Two men mixing cement a few yards away had laid down their spades and were looking at “the new bloke” in mild wonder. A third slowly trundled a wheelbarrow of sand toward them. Trevannion took in these details in a flash—and realized their significance. Here was an easy chance to shame Garstin before the gang, to convict him of cowardice, to get his own back. Yet an uncontrollable impulse of generosity prevented him from seizing it. He stepped onto the bank and stood beside the fear-struck figure.

“You must come on,” he whispered, barely audible. “Pull yourself together. I'll hold you.”

An instant later, and only for an instant, the two stood together on the narrow beam, Garstin shrinking, his limbs shaken by something more potent than the gusty wind, his face turned anywhere but downward. Trevannion didn't hold him, but his hand rested reassuringly on the other's quivering arm. Then Garstin was pushed onto the firm bank again and hurried toward the office.

Trevannion talked jerkily once they were out of earshot. “Sudden attack of funk—rather a bogie place on a slippery day—might happen to anybody—get used to it—dance a jig on top of the king pile one day and wonder how you could ever have been such a—”

“Coward,” finished Garstin quietly.

“No—not exactly the word,” said Trevannion lamely, and waited for explanation or extenuation.

But none came. It was as if Garstin was quite aware of his cowardice and didn't want his companion to think otherwise. Trevannion marveled at the seeming abasement.

A few days later Trevannion reported progress to his wife about the new assistant, whom he had grown to like.

“Wonderfully brainy chap, Garstin. He's helped me no end with Section D—you know, where we've had all the trouble. With luck we'll have it finished in a week or two. At the same time,” he added with conviction, “he'll never make a practical engineer. Wouldn't be any good in an emergency. No nerve—no nerve at all. Seems to go to bits directly he gets outside the office. Can't even look down into the section without holding on to something. If a crane starts anywhere near, it makes him jump. And as to being any good with the gang, why, he daren't speak to one of them. Only this afternoon, when O'Donnell came and blustered—”

“O'Donnell?” said his wife.

“Yes—a man I sacked for being drunk and fighting. He came to the office this afternoon and asked to be taken on again. He said he could get no other job, and his wife and children were starving. I told him regulations wouldn't admit of his re-employment; besides, I'd reported him as dismissed and filled the vacancy. Then he started cursing and threatening that he'd do for the wharf and me too, unless I relented. Of course I didn't relent. I turned him out—he was half-drunk. And there—what do you think?—Garstin with his hands covering his face, shivering and shaking as if he'd seen a ghost.

“'I'm sure that fellow means mischief, Mr. Trevannion,' he muttered. 'I'm sure he does—I read it in his eyes. Hadn't you better take him back—just for the sake of his wife?'

"Of course I couldn't—wouldn't. But Garstin's a brainy beggar—oh, wonderfully brainy."

***

A certain Friday evening found the two men sitting late in their office, compiling the weekly report. Trevannion was in high good humor, for had not their joint efforts—as he liked to call Garstin's useful suggestions—proved successful in ousting the river from Section D? That troublesome part was ready for good concrete as soon as it could be made. He recorded the gratifying intelligence for the Committee with relish.

"Nothing to fear now for the old section," he remarked cheerfully.

"Nothing but the unexpected collapse of a pile," said Garstin.

"Oh, that's impossible."

"It's improbable."

The report was finished and placed in its long envelope, and they prepared to go home. Trevannion busied himself with a heavy oil lantern. "I'm going to have a look at the section on the way," he said; "just to see that the river hasn't come over the top," he added jestingly. "It's a whim of mine. But don't come if you'd rather not. I can join you at the steps."

"Oh, I'll come," said Garstin—without enthusiasm.

The pair stepped out into the night, Trevannion locking the door behind him. It was pitch-dark on the wharf. They could feel the presence of, rather than see, the river flowing silently in front of them, and they could roughly locate the far bank by the myriad of starry lights showing Berthwer town beyond. A single red lamp glowed dully far to the west; it belonged to a steamer they had seen come to her moorings that afternoon. No other vessels showed lights. The rest was black with a blackness sentient of vague forms—an impenetrable wall of darkness between them and the outer world.

Picking their way carefully among debris, they made toward the section. Halfway there, Garstin stopped. "Don't you hear something?" he asked. "I'm almost sure I wasn't mistaken. It was like the sound of blows. There can't be anybody there now, can there?"

Trevannion halted and listened.

"I don't hear anything," he said presently. "Besides, who could be on the wharf now? You know the regulations, and the watchman is there to enforce them."

"I think—the noise has stopped."

Trevannion flashed the lantern on him suspiciously. "Nerves again," he thought. But he said nothing and resumed his march, swinging the lantern to gain a larger circumference of light. Suddenly he stopped again as an unexpected sound fell on his ears.

"By jove—water!" he exclaimed, and broke into a run.

Garstin followed as fast as he could, but, deprived of the light, he quickly came to grief over some old metal. When he picked himself up, the other was yards ahead, and he had to content himself with keeping the lantern in view.

The engineer reached Section D and stopped breathless on the brink. He had forgotten Garstin—forgotten everything except that water was again forcing its way into the unhappy section. He anxiously examined the opposite side with his lantern and soon discovered what was the matter, causing a thrill of amazed horror. The “improbable thing” had happened: one of the piles was buckling—bending inward—and the earth dam was slowly giving way at that point. He turned to shout to Garstin.

Then something hit him on the shoulder and he fell backward into Section D, wildly clutching at a beam to save himself.

***

"Trevannion! Trevannion!"

The voice of Garstin, office-desk theoretician, assistant engineer—Trevannion was clear about that. What he didn't realize so clearly was what had happened to himself. He was lying face down on something, his left arm under his breast; his right seemed to have disappeared. He was conscious of a weight hanging downward from his middle and wondered vaguely what had become of his legs. He felt a curious disinclination to stir.

Yet the voice went on calling, and presently he was impelled to answer, "Hello, Garstin." Then, while listening to the unfamiliar echo of his own voice, he heard just behind him a splash, splash, splash, and his left arm jerked itself from beneath his breast, his hand touching a substance that was hard, cold, and slimy.

Then he realized.

He was somewhere near the bottom of Section D. His body lay across one of the lowest beams; his legs dangled in the water. Garstin was somewhere above, and the river was pouring steadily into the section, splashing with monotonous regularity. The water was rising—creeping up toward the level of the beam where he lay.

Trevannion tried to raise himself with his right arm, but the limb gave way with an agonizing shoot of pain; it was broken. He remained still and considered. Was the broken arm the extent of his injuries? The cold water had numbed his legs beyond feeling; they were so much dead weight. Both might be fractured for all he knew.

The main fact was that he was incapable of moving, of helping himself, until assistance came. And the water was rising. Would rescue or the water arrive first?

He looked up painfully through the clammy gloom. Nothing but patches of sky between black beams greeted his eyes. There was no sound save the water—splash, splash, drip, drip. For an instant the fear of death conquered him, and he almost shrieked.

As physical exhaustion renewed its hold, he grew calmer. He began to recall what had happened. He had fallen into the section—no—he had been pushed. There flashed before him the vision of a sullen, black-haired laborer he had refused to reinstate; this act was O'Donnell's revenge.

What had happened after that? The man would scarcely have had time to escape before Garstin came up. Well, it didn't matter—he had heard Garstin's voice since, proof that he had survived any encounter. But the absence of Garstin now, the oppressive silence? Garstin had gone for help, of course. A boy like that could do nothing by himself, even if he had the nerve; and Garstin had none. He wouldn't be long in finding the watchman and bringing him to rescue. They ought to be here now. They certainly ought to be here now.

Nervously anxious, he listened for any sound of footfall or voice. Did Garstin realize the danger of the black water rising, ever rising? Had he failed to find the watchman at his post?

A smooth wave flowed slowly over the beam, and he shuddered.

Suddenly—after hours, as it seemed—something flickered on the surface of the water in front of him. A shadowy white gleam danced before his eyes like a mocking spirit—and was gone. But shortly it reappeared, and with it a lantern and a rope, with somebody clinging to the end. Trevannion had just time to recognize Garstin, swaying slowly above him, before he lost consciousness.

***

Garstin got him out, of course. But it was many days before Trevannion learned the details of the rescue.

It appeared that Garstin had arrived just in time to witness O'Donnell's treacherous attack and to confront the infuriated man as he turned to retreat. In a blind frenzy the boy sprang at his enemy; the latter, taken by surprise, went down with a crash, striking his head on a heap of stones, and lay senseless.

Thereupon Garstin, with the one idea of rescuing Trevannion, hurried off to the watchman's hut—only to find the fellow had left his post. However, he found there a lantern and a coil of rope, and, taking them, he returned to Section D, resolved to attempt the rescue himself. Having shouted and received a reply, he hitched one end of the rope to a beam and was about to lower himself when he discovered the rope was so badly frayed in its center that it couldn't be trusted to bear even his slight weight.

There was nothing to do but postpone the attempt until he had found a more substantial cable. He remembered there was some in the office, and set out at once. The door being locked and Trevannion having the key in his pocket, he had to force the lock with the first implement he could lay hands on.

This occupied several minutes, and when he returned to the section, he was tormented by the fear that Trevannion might already be drowned. He hastily affixed the new rope and let himself down into the abyss, where he discovered Trevannion insensible, his forehead almost touching the water.

It didn't take long to make a noose and slip it over the latter's shoulders, but he had hardly done so when a gush of water swept over the beam, carrying away the lantern and plunging them into total darkness. For some subsequent seconds the boy clutched the rope and Trevannion's lifeless body in an agony of terror and doubt.

Then he started to climb up. The process proved exceedingly laborious, for the hemp was thin and damp, difficult to grip. However, he managed to reach the summit and clambered over the brink, then paused for breath and strength before essaying the hardest task of all—hauling Trevannion into safety.

How his puny strength enabled him to do this, he never could say. His foothold was none too secure, and the only available leverage was a narrow piece of masonry jutting from the side. Yet, working inch by inch, he accomplished it, and when Trevannion had been brought near the top, he made the rope fast to a convenient block of granite and, kneeling down, regardless of his own peril, lifted him over the side. It was quite ten minutes before he could stagger with his burden to the office.

Safely inside, he made up the fire and telephoned for the doctor. Then he remembered O'Donnell and sent a message to the police station, whence two constables were dispatched; they found the man stunned and considerably bruised. Neither did he forget Section D—with the result that a breakdown gang was on the spot before midnight.

The buckled pile was found to have been nearly chopped through a few feet from the top, and there was no doubt that if O'Donnell had been undisturbed, he would have done serious mischief. As it was, the completion of the section was delayed for two months.

Trevannion heard this story during his convalescence—a lengthy period, since two ribs were broken as well as the arm, and he had suffered severely from shock and exposure. In answer to a question, Garstin said that at the time he had scarcely noticed the physical strain. The thing uppermost in his mind was the fear that Trevannion might drown before he could get to him. No, he had experienced no personal sensation of nervousness when preparing to descend. Whereupon Trevannion thought deeply.

"I owe my life to your pluck, and I was a fool to faint at the critical moment," was all he said.

But his thoughts were many and profound, and he was never again heard to reflect on Garstin's "want of nerve."