navvies all versed in his ways, he would bring the risks as low as those on a level, open-skies working. Their profit usually fell between thirty and forty per cent of the tender.
The Penmanshiel Tunnel contract, which they had finished last December and whose accounts she had just closed while John had been playing with the children on the "castle," was a case in point. The tender had been taken at £42,800, no trouble being expected. But halfway through they had met a section where the slaty-black Lingula flagstone of the lower Silurian beds was badly fragmented. It would have bankrupted a less experienced contractor. But John knew just where to lay his hands on some hydraulic presses, which his engineer, an impatient little Irishman called Flynn, had quickly adapted to hold the overburden while iron stanchions were placed. Then, entirely on his own initiative, Flynn had further modified the hydraulic devices so that they could be used for forcing a slurry of cement deep into the rock fissures and thus bind the fragments together, the way you might grout a crumbling stone wall. The fact that Flynn had wrecked all six hydraulic cylinders, giving John an awkward day with the friend who had lent them, was neither here nor there in the long run. The point was that John knew a thousand dodges for getting around the thousand-and-one troubles you could meet on any sort of working, and he'd pick the right men to invent the other eleven, so that Stevenson's could always go ten better than anything the firm of Nature, Fate & Co. might pit against them. The proof had come in that day's mail, in the final accounts for the Penmanshiel tunnel.
"There," she said proudly. "The profit on Penmanshiel was thirty-seven per cent."
He nodded, trying to look nonchalant. "It'd be more if we'd known the geology. We are the first to tunnel through that lower Silurian."
"It would have been a loss if any other firm had tried it."
He picked up the summary of the heads of account and looked at them.
"Were you long with the children?" she asked. "They were freezing."
"Not long," he said. "I'll tell you who I met today. Came riding out a-purpose to see me. George Hudson." He laid down the account and crossed the room to draw the curtain. Far away to the west the last glimmer of twilight was settling on the horizon. "He says he met you on York platform and you talked about iron."
He saw a confusion behind her eyes. "I'd forgotten that," she said. "It must have been last back end. November, sometime."
"So why, this front end, does he go out of his way, early one cold morning, to see if Stevenson's has gone into ironfounding?"
He watched her closely. This time there was no confusion; her astonishment was genuine. "He never did!"
"Four miles. And rode on with me to Burythorpe, near enough."
"What did he say?"
He snorted. "You know Hudson. His mind clicks like a compound engine. He'd get three bites at any cherry."
"But his exact words?"
John turned and went back to the fire, speaking as he went. "He just said he'd wager I wished I had my ironworks already."
"Already!" Nora said, falling into the selfsame trap.
John spun around, pointing at her and grinning. He did not need to tell her that was just what he had said. "Did he mention ironworks to you?" he asked. "In December. He says it was December, not November."
She stood up then, very firm and erect, and she looked at him steadily. "I first mentioned ironworks to you last August. Because it was during the Reverend Woods' sermon for Saint Bartholomew that the notion came to me. You talked to Brassey about it in September. And to Rodet. And again to Rodet in November. There's a dozen ways it could have gotten to Hudson."
John nodded, still restless. "Rodet!" he said. "The little frog is never there—yet never too far away."
"I don't honestly know about Rodet. But this meeting with Hudson means nothing," she
The Penmanshiel Tunnel contract, which they had finished last December and whose accounts she had just closed while John had been playing with the children on the "castle," was a case in point. The tender had been taken at £42,800, no trouble being expected. But halfway through they had met a section where the slaty-black Lingula flagstone of the lower Silurian beds was badly fragmented. It would have bankrupted a less experienced contractor. But John knew just where to lay his hands on some hydraulic presses, which his engineer, an impatient little Irishman called Flynn, had quickly adapted to hold the overburden while iron stanchions were placed. Then, entirely on his own initiative, Flynn had further modified the hydraulic devices so that they could be used for forcing a slurry of cement deep into the rock fissures and thus bind the fragments together, the way you might grout a crumbling stone wall. The fact that Flynn had wrecked all six hydraulic cylinders, giving John an awkward day with the friend who had lent them, was neither here nor there in the long run. The point was that John knew a thousand dodges for getting around the thousand-and-one troubles you could meet on any sort of working, and he'd pick the right men to invent the other eleven, so that Stevenson's could always go ten better than anything the firm of Nature, Fate & Co. might pit against them. The proof had come in that day's mail, in the final accounts for the Penmanshiel tunnel.
"There," she said proudly. "The profit on Penmanshiel was thirty-seven per cent."
He nodded, trying to look nonchalant. "It'd be more if we'd known the geology. We are the first to tunnel through that lower Silurian."
"It would have been a loss if any other firm had tried it."
He picked up the summary of the heads of account and looked at them.
"Were you long with the children?" she asked. "They were freezing."
"Not long," he said. "I'll tell you who I met today. Came riding out a-purpose to see me. George Hudson." He laid down the account and crossed the room to draw the curtain. Far away to the west the last glimmer of twilight was settling on the horizon. "He says he met you on York platform and you talked about iron."
He saw a confusion behind her eyes. "I'd forgotten that," she said. "It must have been last back end. November, sometime."
"So why, this front end, does he go out of his way, early one cold morning, to see if Stevenson's has gone into ironfounding?"
He watched her closely. This time there was no confusion; her astonishment was genuine. "He never did!"
"Four miles. And rode on with me to Burythorpe, near enough."
"What did he say?"
He snorted. "You know Hudson. His mind clicks like a compound engine. He'd get three bites at any cherry."
"But his exact words?"
John turned and went back to the fire, speaking as he went. "He just said he'd wager I wished I had my ironworks already."
"Already!" Nora said, falling into the selfsame trap.
John spun around, pointing at her and grinning. He did not need to tell her that was just what he had said. "Did he mention ironworks to you?" he asked. "In December. He says it was December, not November."
She stood up then, very firm and erect, and she looked at him steadily. "I first mentioned ironworks to you last August. Because it was during the Reverend Woods' sermon for Saint Bartholomew that the notion came to me. You talked to Brassey about it in September. And to Rodet. And again to Rodet in November. There's a dozen ways it could have gotten to Hudson."
John nodded, still restless. "Rodet!" he said. "The little frog is never there—yet never too far away."
"I don't honestly know about Rodet. But this meeting with Hudson means nothing," she
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