Jack Carstairs of the Power House: A Tale of Some Very Young Men and a Very Young Industry

A young engineer stood at the gates of the electric power house yard watching the sun set. It was the middle of June, in the north of Scotland, where the summer days are very long and very beautiful.

The sun sank slowly behind a little wooded hill, throwing into strong relief a clump of fir trees at the summit, and making lanes of golden light along the sparkling rushing river where the silver salmon leapt in sportive joy. As the last edge of the sun disappeared behind the hill, a sudden hush seemed to descend on all the land. The power house was about a mile from the little town that nestled at the foot of the hills. It was a bare, brick building standing alone on the river-bank in the middle of a large tract of waste moorland. Inside, a stalwart, bearded highlander sat on a box eating his "piece," and drinking tea from a can; he and the young engineer at the door were the only occupants of the place. There was no machinery running, a battery was doing the work, for the needs of this little town in summer time were very small.

The young man at the door gazed around him enchanted with the beauty of the evening; the sudden hush that fell on everything seemed to strike him too. He felt subdued with a great awe, the great and awful majesty of Nature seemed thrust upon him suddenly; only the faint rustle of the long grass near the water served to make the stillness more intense; some crisis in Nature seemed impending.

Suddenly a strange note struck his ear, and immediately afterwards all the usual sounds of life started afresh; a robin and a thrush commenced to sing simultaneously, several birds started chirping all around, a salmon splashed heavily in the river, the distant moo of a cow was borne in upon his ears, the Scotsman inside moved his box with a harsh creak: all these things seemed to start off at once, as though some tension were removed, some crisis past.

The engineer looked in the direction of the sound that had at first broken the stillness and perceived a young girl, with a basket on her arm, raking over the heaps of ashes outside the boiler-house in search of stray bits of coal or coke.

He looked at her intently, with an unusual interest. There was a gipsy camp not far off, and some members of the tribe were usually hovering round the works for what they could pick up; as a rule they were very young and very dirty. This girl seemed about seventeen, and somewhat clean; every movement showed graceful, even lines. He strolled towards her.