Part 23 (1/2)

It took longer than we thought to work our way out of the bayou and up to Becker's floating wharf. As soon as we were tied up he came down with a lot of negroes, who began at once to unload the lumber, carrying it piece by piece back near his building operations. Captain Marianna checked it as it left.

Now on the windward side of the plant it was possible to eat. It was a long rambling building, painted the color of a freight car, occasionally rising to two stories; on one end were the posts driven in the ground for a considerable addition.

After supper we sat smoking, well up on the bank. It soon became evident that Becker did not intend to lose a chance to get expert advice on his gas-engine troubles. He waddled over to us with some real Havanas and with little tact reminded me of my promise.

Though the sun was low, Becker was still in his working togs, bareheaded and stripped to an unders.h.i.+rt. In this array he was a sight to behold, with his sagging jowls, from which great billows of fat formed rolls about his neck.

”This boy here is my a.s.sistant, Mr. Becker--he has found engine trouble even when I couldn't,” I said, pointing toward Hiram, as we got up to go with him.

How vitally interested Hiram was in this move would be hard to estimate.

Much more experienced, I could only contain myself and be natural by refusing to think of the tremendous importance of our acting now, and, without coaching, I think Hiram did the same thing. The slightest false move would render worse than useless planning that had consumed much time and large expenditure.

Hiram walked beside Becker as nonchalantly as though strolling along Broadway, while I followed slightly in the rear. Hiram's now wonderfully developed physique seemed ready for action, ready to break loose with overpowering ferocity. I watched him furtively out of the corner of an eye to make sure he did not precipitate an affair that would ”spill the beans.”

Becker led us around the outside of the buildings--I was sure there was a short cut through them--to a lean-to shed containing the troublesome engine now laboring with its burden as a locomotive starting to move an overload.

”Ben, the engine is overcrowded,” said Hiram, as we stood by it, addressing himself to me just loud enough for Becker to hear. Becker stood slightly apart from me as though he had turned a patient over to us for the time being. I was glad his big black engineer was not there.

My policy was never to kill, but my duty was to get what I went after.

We spent ten minutes examining the details of the engine, narrowly watched by Becker. Hiram's conduct was wonderful. He acted as though there was nothing under Heaven or on earth that interested him so much as discovering how we could help cure the sick motor. We asked to see the load on the driving belt that disappeared from the driving pulley through a board part.i.tion.

Becker, fairly a.s.sured, took us inside into a dark s.p.a.ce to a ten-ton ice machine, developing about half its capacity because of slow speed.

Glancing about it for a moment, we returned to the engine room and went outside as though about to return to the dock, considering it a hopeless case. Becker followed us, greatly concerned.

”Mr. Becker, it is a plain case of overload; you must lighten the work of your ice machine. You are attempting to make the motor do too much.

The engine might be helped a little by readjusting, but that would not be enough,” I said, with a sort of hesitating finality, as we both edged away in the direction we had come.

Becker followed and came close up beside us.

”How can I do that?--you see I am so far away up here I can get no one to do such things,” he pleaded.

”The only way is to reduce the circulating distance of the ammonia mixture, and then what you have left will cool more s.p.a.ce than it does now,” I said, actually feeling sure that was the case.

”How can I do that?” he urged, noticing quickly our inclination to leave.

”That might be very easy or it might be quite a job. We could not tell without examining your piping system,” I replied as one who had done a big day's work and was thinking more of sleep than of his troubles, particularly since he had not offered us anything to remedy. Becker had enough sense to see this.

He screwed up his face in a way that brought prodigious wrinkles upon his forehead. Then followed an attempt to be patronizingly generous.

”Boys, I'll tell you what I'll do. I know you've been working all day and are tired, but if you will take time enough to look the whole system over and help it some, I will give you five dollars apiece--I must do something or I will have a lot of stuff spoiled--in fact, I have had some spoil already,” he ended half to himself.

Hiram glanced at me quickly, and Becker thought that this swift movement to take down his pipe was caused by the lure of his cash offer.

CHAPTER XXVII