PAGE 7
The Sand-Hog
by
At last the hiss of escaping air ceased. The door to the modern dungeon of science grated open. We walked out of the lock to the elevator shaft and were hoisted up to God’s air again. We gazed out across the river with its waves dancing in the sunlight. There, out in the middle, was a wreath of bubbles on the water. That marked the end of the tunnel, over the shield. Down beneath those bubbles the sand-hogs were rooting. But what was the mystery that the tunnel held in its dark, dank bosom? Had Kennedy a clue?
“I think we had better wait around a bit,” remarked Kennedy, as we sipped our hot coffee in the dressing-room and warmed ourselves from the chill of coming out of the lock. “In case anything should happen to us and we should get the bends this is the place for us, near the medical lock, as it is called – that big steel cylinder over there, where we found Orton. The best cure for the bends is to go back under the air-recompression they call it. The renewed pressure causes the gas in the blood to contract again, and thus it is eliminated – sometimes. At any rate, it is the best-known cure and considerably reduces the pain in the worst cases. When you have a bad case like Orton’s it means that the damage is done; the gas has ruptured some veins. Paddy was right. Only time will cure that.”
Nothing happened to us, however, and in a couple of hours we dropped in on Orton at the hospital where he was slowly convalescing.
“What do you think of the case?” he asked anxiously.
“Nothing as yet,” replied Craig, “but I have set certain things in motion which will give us a pretty good line on what is taking place in a day or so.”
Orton’s face fell, but he said nothing. He bit his lip nervously and looked out of the sun-parlour at the roofs of New York around him.
“What has happened since last night to increase your anxiety, Jack?” asked Craig sympathetically. Orton wheeled his chair about slowly, faced us, and drew a letter from his pocket. Laying it flat on the table he covered the lower part with the envelope.
“Read that,” he said.
“Dear Jack,” it began. I saw at once that it was from Miss Taylor. “Just a line,” she wrote, “to let you know that I am thinking about you always and hoping that you are better than when I saw you this evening. Papa had the chairman of the board of directors of the Five-Borough here late to-night, and they were in the library for over an hour. For your sake, Jack, I played the eavesdropper, but they talked so low that I could hear nothing, though I know they were talking about you and the tunnel. When they came out, I had no time to escape, so I slipped behind a portiere. I heard father say: ‘Yes, I guess you are right, Morris. The thing has gone on long enough. If there is one more big accident we shall have to compromise with the Inter-River and carry on the work jointly. We have given Orton his chance, and if they demand that this other fellow shall be put in, I suppose we shall have to concede it.’ Mr. Morris seemed pleased that father agreed with him and said so. Oh, Jack, can’t you do something to show them they are wrong, and do it quickly? I never miss an opportunity of telling papa it is not your fault that all these delays take place.”
The rest of the letter was covered by the envelope, and Orton would not have shown it for worlds.
“Orton,” said Kennedy, after a few moments’ reflection, “I will take a chance for your sake – a long chance, but I think a good one. If you can pull yourself together by this afternoon, be over at your office at four. Be sure to have Shelton and Capps there, and you can tell Mr. Taylor that you have something very important to set before him. Now, I must hurry if I am to fulfil my part of the contract. Good-bye, Jack. Keep a stiff upper lip, old man. I’ll have something that will surprise you this afternoon.”