XXIII
"GOOD ENOUGH"
"Alf" Banule, the electrical genius for whom Jennings had sent to helphim rewind an armature and who therefore had taken Jennings's place asconstructing engineer, had the distinction of being the only personBruce had ever seen who could remove his socks without taking off hisshoes. He accomplished the feat with ease for the reason that there werenever any toes in the aforesaid shoes. As he himself said, he would havebeen a tall man if there had not been so much of him turned up at theend.
The only way he was able to wear shoes at all, save those made to order,was to cut out the toes; the same applied to his socks, and the exposedportion of his bare feet had not that dimpled pinkness which moves poetsto song. From the rear, Banule's shoes looked like two bobsleds goingdown hill, and from the front the effect of the loose soles was that oftwo great mouths opening and closing. Yet he skimmed the river bouldersat amazing speed, seeming to find no inconvenience in the flap-flappingof the loose leather as he leaped from rock to rock.
In contrast to his yawning shoes and a pair of trousers the originalshade of which was a matter of uncertainty, together with a black satineshirt whose color made change unnecessary, was a stylish Tyrolesehat--green felt--with a butterfly bow perched jauntily on one side. Andunderneath this stylishness there was a prematurely bald head coveredwith smudges of machine grease which it could readily be believed weresouvenirs of his apprentice days in the machine shop. If indifference toappearance be a mark of genius it would be impossible to deny Banule'sclaim to the title.
He was the direct antithesis of Jennings, harnessed lightning inclothes, working early and late. He flew at the machinery like a madman,yelling for wrenches, and rivets and bolts, chiselling, and soldering,and oiling, until the fly-wheel was on its shaft in the power-house, andthe dynamos, dragged at top speed from the river-bank, no longer lookedlike a pile of junk. The switchboard went up, and the pressure gauge,and the wiring for the power-house light. But for all Bruce's relief atseeing things moving, he had a feeling of uneasiness lest there was toomuch haste. "Good enough--that's good enough!" were the words ofteneston Banule's lips. They filled Bruce with vague forebodings, misgivings,and he came to feel a flash of irritation each time the genius saidairily: "Oh, that's good enough."
Bruce warned him often--"Don't slight your work--do it right if it takestwice as long."
Banule always made the same cheering answer: "Don't worry, everything isgoing fine; in less than a month we'll be generating 'juice'." And Brucetried to find comfort in the assurance.
When Bruce pulled the lever which opened the valve, and heard the hissof the water when it shot from the nozzle and hit the wheel, and watchedthe belt, and shaft, and big fly-wheel speed up until the spokes were ablur and the breeze it created lifted his hair, it was the happiestmoment of his life. When he saw the thread of carbon filament in theglass bulb turn red and grow to a bright, white light, he had somethingof the feeling of ecstasy that he imagined a mother must have when shelooks at her first-born--a mixture of wonder and joy.
He had an odd, intimate feeling--a strong feeling of affection--forevery piece of machinery in the power-house. He liked to hear the squeakof the belting and the steady chug-chug of the water-wheels; the purr ofthe dynamos was music, and he kept the commutators free from dust withloving care.
But these moments alone in the power-house were high-lights in a worldof shadows. His periods of elation were brief, for so many things wentwrong, and so often, that sometimes he wondered if it was the way someguardian angel had of warning him, of trying to prevent him from keepingon and making a big mistake bigger; or was it only the tests that theFates have a way of putting humans through and, failing to break theirhearts, sometimes let them win?
Important as the power-house was it was only a small portion of thewhole. There was still the 10-inch pump in the pump-house with its 75horse-power motor and the donkey engine with the 50 horse-power motor toget to working right, not to mention the flume and sluice-boxes, withtheir variety of riffles and every practicable device for trapping theelusive fine gold. And not the least of Bruce's increasing anxieties was"Alf" Banule with his constant "good enough."
It was well toward the end of October and Bruce, hurrying over the trailwith sheets of mica for Banule, who was working on the submerged motorwhich had to be rewound, noticed that the willows were turning black.What a lot had happened since he had noticed the willows turning blacklast year! A lifetime of hopes and fears, and new experiences had beencrowded into twelve flying months.
His mind straying for a moment from the work and its many problems, hefell to thinking of Helen Dunbar and her last letter. When he was notthinking of undercurrents or expanded metal riffles or wonderinganxiously if the 10-inch and 8-inch pumps were going to raise sufficientwater, or if the foundation built on piling, instead of cement, was"good enough," Bruce was thinking of the girl he loved.
She had written in her last letter--Bruce knew them all by heart--
I had a visitor yesterday. You will be as surprised, when I tell you who it was, as I was to see him. Have you guessed? I'm sure you haven't. None other than our friend Sprudell--very apologetic--very humble and contrite, and with an explanation to offer for his behavior that was really most ingenious. There's no denying he has cleverness of a kind--craft, perhaps, is a better word.
His humility was touching but so unlike him that I should have been alarmed if he had not been so obviously sincere.
Nevertheless his visit has upset me. I've been worried ever since. Perhaps you'll only laugh at me when I tell you that it is because I am afraid for _you_. Truly I am! I don't know that I can explain exactly so you'll understand but there was something disturbing which I _felt_ when he spoke quite casually of you. It was almost too intangible to put into words but it was like a gloating secret satisfaction, as though he had the best of you in some way, the whip-hand.
It may be just a silly notion, one of those fears that pop into one's head in the most inexplicable way and stick, refusing to be driven out by any amount of logic. Tell me, is there anything that he can do to you? Any way that he can harm you?
I am nervous--_anxious_--and I cannot help it.
She was anxious about him! That fact was paramount. Somebody in theworld was worrying over _him_. He stopped short in the trail with freshwonder of it. Every time he thought of it, it gave him a thrill. Hisface, that had been set in tired, harsh lines of late, softened with asmile of happiness.
And he did so long to give her substantial evidence of his gratitude. Ifthat machinery ever started--if the scrapers ever got to haulingdirt--her reward, his reward, would come quick. That was one of thecompensating features of mining; if the returns came at all they camequick. Bruce started on, hastening his footsteps until he almost ran.
The electrical genius was driving a nail with a spirit-level when Brucereached the pump-house and Bruce flared up in quick wrath.
"Stop that, Banule! Isn't there a hammer on this place?"
"Didn't see one handy," Banule replied cheerfully, "took the first thingI could reach."
"It just about keeps one pack-train on the trail supplying you withtools."
"Guess I am a little careless." Banule seemed unruffled by thereproach--because he had heard it so many times before, no doubt.
"Yes, you're careless," Bruce answered vigorously, "and I'm telling youstraight it worries me; I can't help wondering if your carelessnessextends to your work. There, you know, you've got me, for I can't tell.I must trust you absolutely."
Banule shrugged a shoulder--
"This ain't the first plant I've put up, you know." He added--"I'llguarantee that inside two weeks we'll be throwin' dirt. Eh, Smaltz?Ain't I right?"
Smaltz, who was stooping over, did not immediately look up. Bruce saw anodd expression cross his face--an expression that was something likederision. When he felt Bruce looking at him it vanished instantly and hestra
ightened up.
"Why, yes," with his customary grin, "looks like we orter make a_start_."
The peculiar emphasis did not escape Bruce and he was still thinking ofthe look he had caught on Smaltz's face as he asked Banule:
"Is this mica right? Is it the kind you need?"
Smaltz looked at Banule from the corner of his eye.
"'Taint exactly what I ought to have," Banule responded cheerfully. "Iforgot to specify when I ordered, but I guess I can make it do--it'sgood enough."
It seemed to Bruce that his over-strained nerves snapped all at once. Hedid not recognize the sound of his voice when he turned on Banule:
"S'help me, I'm goin' to break every bone in your body if you don't cutout that 'good enough'! How many hundred times have I got to tell youthat nothing's good enough on this plant until it's right?"
"I didn't mean anything," Banule mumbled, temporarily cowed.
Bruce heard Smaltz snicker as he walked away.
The sluice-boxes upon which Bruce was putting the finishing touches werehis particular pride. They were four feet wide and nearly a quarter of amile in length. The eight per cent grade was steep enough to carry offboulders twice, three times, the size of a man's head when there was aforce of water behind them.
The last box was well over the river at a point where it wassufficiently swift to take off the "tailings" and keep it free. The topearth, which had to be removed to uncover the sand-bank, was full ofjagged rocks that had come down in snowslides from the mountain andbelow this top earth was a strata of small, smooth boulders--"riverwash."
This troublesome "overburden" necessitated the use of iron instead ofwooden riffles, as the bumping and grinding of the boulders would soonhave worn the latter down to nothing. So, for many weary trips, a stringof footsore pack-horses had picked their way down the dangerous trailfrom Ore City, loaded to their limit with pierced iron strips, rods,heavy sacks of nuts and bolts.
It had been laborious, nerve-racking work and every trip had had itsaccident, culminating in the loss of the best pack-horse in the string,the horse having slipped off the trail, scattering its pack, as Smaltzannounced it, "from hell to breakfast."
But the iron strips and rods were made into riffles now, and laid. Brucesurveyed the whole with intense satisfaction as he stood by thesluice-boxes looking down the long grade. It was _his_ work and he knewthat he had done it well. He had spared no labor to have itright--nothing had been just "good enough."
There was cocoa matting under the riffles of the first six boxes.Half-way the length of the sluice-boxes the finest gravel, yellow andblack sand, dropped through perforated sheet-iron grizzles into the"undercurrents" while the rocks and boulders rushed on through thesluice-boxes to the river.
At the end of the undercurrents there was a wide table having a slightgrade, and this table was covered with canton flannel over which wasplaced more riffles of expanded metal. And, as a final precaution, lestsome infinitesimal amount of gold escape, there was a mercury trap belowthe table. While Bruce was expecting to catch the greater part of it inthe first six sluice-boxes he was not taking a single chance.
Now, as he stood by the sluice-boxes looking their length, he allowedhimself to dream for a moment of the days when the mercury, turned toamalgam, should be lying thick with gold behind the riffles; toanticipate the unspeakable happiness of telegraphing his success toHelen Dunbar.
Even with the tangible evidence before his eyes it was hard to realizethat after all the struggle, he was so near his goal. The ceaselessstrain and anxiety had left their marks upon his face. He looked olderby years than when he had stood by the river dipping water into hisold-fashioned cradle and watching "Slim" scramble among the rocks.
But it would be worth it all--all and more--he told himself exultingly,if he succeeded--as he must. His eyes shone with enthusiasm and hetingled with his joy, as he thought what success meant.
A sound behind him brought him back to earth. He turned to see Toypicking his way gingerly over the rocks.
"You old rascal!" he cried joyfully. "Dog-gone, I'm glad to see you,though you don't deserve it."
"I come back now," the Chinaman announced serenely. "No go way no more Ithink."
The Man from the Bitter Roots Page 23
