Chapter X: The Son of His Father Indeed

Meade, Senior, was an old man. Although unlike Moses his eye was dim and his natural force abated, the evidences of power were still apparent, especially to the observant. There rose the broad brow of the thinker. His power of intense concentration was expressed outwardly by a directness of gaze from the old eyes which, though faded, could flash on occasion. Other facial characteristics of that snow-crowned, leonine head, which bespoke that imaginative power without which a great engineer could not be in spite of all his scientific exactitudes, had not been cut out of his countenance by the pruning knife of time.

He was a great engineer and looked it, sitting alone in his office with the telegram crushed in his trembling hand, despite the fact that his gray face was the very picture of unwonted weakness, of impotency, and abiding horror. The message had struck him a terrific blow. He had reeled under it and had sunk down in the chair in a state of nervous collapse.

Time was when he would have rallied from the shock, when the stroke of fortune would have found him ready to deal blow for blow. But he was now too old for that. He saw himself for the little remainder of his life bereft of all title and dignity, shamed, dishonored, with the blood of men and the tears of women and little children upon him.

The telegram fairly burned the clammy palm of his hand. He would fain have dropped it yet he could not. Slowly he opened it once more. Ordinarily, powerful glasses stimulated his vision. He needed nothing to read it again. It is doubtful whether his eyes saw it or not and there was not need, for the message was burned into his brain.

To a layman the message was harmless enough, indeed, inexplicable, but to the great engineer it spelled failure in the great project with which he had fondly hoped to crown his long, distinguished, and honorable career. It meant financial ruin to great men who had trusted to his skill; death and destruction to smaller men who had confided in his assurance; deprivation, sorrow, hardship, starvation, to dependent women and children.

He read again the mysterious words.

"_One and three-quarter inch camber in C_-10-_R_."

There could be no mistake. The name that was signed to it was the name of his son, the young engineer, the child of his father's old age, whom he himself had trained to follow in his footsteps, to don the royal mantle of supremacy when he had laid it aside. Other things connected themselves with the hideous fact conveyed by the telegram. The boy, as the old man thought of him, had ventured to dispute his father's figures, to question his father's design, but the elder man had overborne him with his vast experience, his great authority, his extensive learning, his high reputation. Age had laughed youth to scorn.

And now the boy was right. Strange to say some little thrill of pride came to the old engineer at that moment. The boy in this was greater than he. But it was lost in the imminence and magnitude of the catastrophe. He tried to find out from the telegram when it had been sent. That day was a holiday--the birthday of one of the Worthies of the Republic--in some of the United States, New York and Pennsylvania among them, and only by chance had he come down to the office that morning. The wire was dated the night before. Perhaps even--no, the morning papers would have said if the inevitable accident had occurred. And he recalled that the state from which the bridge ran did not observe that day as a holiday. They would be working on the International as usual unless----

One and three-quarter inches of deflection! Good God! No bridge that was ever made could stand with a bend like that in the principal member of its compression chord, much less so vast a structure as that which was to span the greatest of rivers and to bring nation into touch with nation. He ought to do something, but what was there to do? Presently, doubtless, his mind would clear. But on the instant all he could think of was the impending ruin.

The Uplift Building, in which he had his offices, was mainly deserted on account of the holiday. The banks were closed and the offices and most of the shops and stores. It was very still in the hall and, therefore, he heard distinctly the door of the single elevator in service open with an unusual crash, then the sound of rapid footsteps along the corridor as of someone running. They stopped before the outer door of the suite which bore his name. Instantly he suspected a messenger of disaster. The door was opened, the office was crossed, a hand was on the inner door.

The old engineer strove vainly to rise to meet the bearer of evil tidings, but failed. His trembling limbs would not support him. He sank back almost as one dead waiting the shock, the blow. It was not so much of himself as of the consequences to others he thought, although the one failure would dissolve the fame he had gained by all the successes of the past.

When the door was opened, instinctively he put his arm across his eyes as if to shield himself from the attack.

"Father," exclaimed the newcomer.

"Thank God," said the old man, dropping his arm, "you are here."

"You got my telegram?"

The other silently exhibited the crumpled paper in his hand.

"What have you done?"

"Why, I--nothing."

"Good God! Nothing! Why, you must have received it early this morning. I--

"It's a holiday, don't you know? I only got it a few moments ago. The bridge?"

"Still stands."

"But for how long?"

"I can't say. The Martlet's resident engineer is mad. I begged, threatened, implored. I tried to get him to stop work, to take the men off the bridge, to withdraw the traveler, but he won't do it. Said you designed it, you knew. I was only a cub."

"But the camber?"

"He said, 'Damn the camber, I'll jack it into line again.' Like every other engineer who sees a big thing before him it looks to him as if it would last forever. I tried to get you on the telephone here and at the house last night and failed. I wired you. Then I jumped on the midnight express and----"

"What is to be done?" asked the old man.

Meade, Senior, was thankful that the younger man had not said, "I told you so," as well he might. But really his father's condition was so pitiful that the son had not the heart.

"Telegraph the Martlet Bridge Company at once," he answered.

"What shall we say?" asked the old man, uncertainly.

The young man shot a quick look at him, that question evidenced the violence of the shock. His father was old, broken, helpless, dependent, at last....

"Give me the blank," he answered, "I'll wire in your name."

He repeated the telegram that he had sent to his father and added these words as he signed the old man's name to it:

"_Put no more load on the bridge. Withdraw men and traveler._"

He read the message to his father. The old man nodded helplessly. The young man seized the telephone, called up the Western Union and soon the message was on the wire to the great bridge works in the Pennsylvania hills.

"Now, father," said the young man encouragingly, "don't give up. The Martlet people will pay attention to that message. Even if the bridge goes down, there will be no lives lost."

"How many men are working on it?"

"About two hundred. Abbott told me he wouldn't take a single man off. I wanted to tell them myself, but I couldn't do that. He is in charge. I am only representing you. He would not even agree to take direction from you."

"Of course not."

"We will get hold of the bridge people. Colonel Illingworth will telegraph Abbott to back up the traveler, withdraw the men, and get all possible load off the member. Pull yourself together. Let's figure out some way to strengthen it until we can replace it, or devise----"

"You are right, boy, you are right," said the old man, rising in his chair and turning toward his desk. "Let us get to work."

"Good," said the young man. "We ought to hear from Colonel Illingworth in half an hour and we'll pull the thing through yet."