If Smaltz had been the villain of fiction, he would have been a coward as well. But Smaltz was not a coward. It is true he was startled--so startled that his skin turned a curious yellow-green like a half-ripe pear--but he was not afraid. He knew that he was "in for it." He knew that something was going to happen, and quick. That Bruce was sitting on the wooden casing quietly pulling off his heavy boots did not deceive him in the least.
It was as still as the tomb in the power-house when Bruce stood up and walked toward Smaltz. Grimy streaks of perspiration showed on his colorless face, from which every drop of blood seemed to have fled, and his black eyes, that shone always with the soft brilliancy of a warm, impulsive nature and an imaginative mind, were glittering and purposeful.
Smaltz stood his ground as Bruce advanced.
"Why didn't you answer that telephone, Smaltz?"
In feigned surprise Smaltz glanced at the box.
"I declare--the receiver's dropped off the hook!"
Bruce ignored the answer; he did not even look, but stepped closer.
"Why didn't you shut down?"
Smaltz summoned his impudent grin, but it wavered and faded under Bruce's burning eyes even while he replied in a tone of injured innocence-"How should I know? The bell didn't ring--Banule hadn't told me to."
Bruce paid no attention to the foolish excuse. He demanded again: "Why didn't you shut down, Smaltz?"
"I've told you once," was the sullen answer.
Bruce turned to the telephone and rang the bell hard.
"Hello--hello--hello!" came the frantic reply.
"Can you swim, Banule?"
"Yes."
"Then take it where the cable crosses the river. Come quick." He put the receiver back on its hook and stepped to the lever. Smaltz's eyes opened wide as Bruce shoved it hard. He stared as though he thought Bruce had gone out of his mind. Then the dynamos began to pick up.
"What you goin' to do?" he shouted above the screech of the belting and the hot bearings.
"You're going to tell the truth!" The last vestige of Bruce's self-control vanished. His voice, which had been nearly a whisper, was like the sudden roar of a deep-hurt bear. His dark face was distorted to ugliness with rage. He rushed Smaltz--with his head down--and Smaltz staggered with the shock. Then they grappled and went down. Once more it was pandemonium in the power-house with the screeching of the red hot bearings and the glare of the crackling blue flames that meant the final and complete destruction of the plant. Over and over the grimy, grease-soaked floor of the power-house they rolled and fought. Brutally, in utter savagery, Bruce ground Smaltz's face into the rough planks littered with nails and sharp-copper filings, whenever he could--dragging him, shoving him, working him each second a little closer to the machinery with the frenzy of haste. He had not yet recovered from his run but Smaltz was no match for his great strength.