That was not
the reality of his life. Yet he knew that he
would go to London.
Half an hour later the train stopped at
Moorlock. Alexander sprang to the platform
and hurried up the siding, waving to Philip
Horton, one of his assistants, who was
anxiously looking up at the windows of
the coaches. Bartley took his arm and
they went together into the station buffet.
"I'll have my coffee first, Philip.
Have you had yours? And now,
what seems to be the matter up here?"
The young man, in a hurried, nervous way,
began his explanation.
But Alexander cut him short. "When did
you stop work?" he asked sharply.
The young engineer looked confused.
"I haven't stopped work yet, Mr. Alexander.
I didn't feel that I could go so far without
definite authorization from you."
"Then why didn't you say in your telegram
exactly what you thought, and ask for your
authorization? You'd have got it quick enough."
"Well, really, Mr. Alexander, I couldn't be
absolutely sure, you know, and I didn't like
to take the responsibility of making it public."
Alexander pushed back his chair and rose.
"Anything I do can be made public, Phil.
You say that you believe the lower chords
are showing strain, and that even the
workmen have been talking about it,
and yet you've gone on adding weight."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Alexander, but I had
counted on your getting here yesterday.
My first telegram missed you somehow.
I sent one Sunday evening, to the same address,
but it was returned to me.
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