Who is to blame?"
It was because he himself was away on a business journey and Falkman had
neglected to take elementary precautions that the big rock-fall
occurred in the tunnel, killing four men, and destroying the new Belgian
rock-drill, that had cost a good hundred thousand, before it had begun
to work. This sort of thing was not faulty calculation--it was malicious
fate.
"Come up, boy! We must get there to-night. The flood mustn't have a
chance this year to lay the blame on me because I wasn't on the spot."
And then, to cap the other misfortunes, his chief contractor for
material had gone bankrupt, and now prices had risen far above the rates
he had allowed for--adding fresh thousands to the extra expenditure.
But he would put the thing through, even if he lost money by it. His
envious rivals who had lately begun to run down his projects in the
technical papers--he would make them look foolish yet.
And then?
Well, it may be that the Promethean spirit is preparing a settling day
for the universe somewhere out in infinity. But what concern is that of
mine? What about my own immortal soul?
Silence--push on, push on. There may be a snowstorm any minute. Come
up--get along, you scarecrow.
The dun struggles on to the end of a twelve-mile stage, and then the
valley ends and the full blast from the plateau meets them. Here lies
the posting station, the last farm in the valley. He swings into the
yard and is soon sitting in the room over a cup of coffee and a pipe.
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