O.K. 
C. H. Bannon.

Then he walked over to the power house.  It was a one-story brick building, with whose construction Bannon had had no concern, as Page & Company had placed the contract for it elsewhere.  Every night for the past week lights had been streaming from its windows, and day and night men had waited, ready at any time for the word to go ahead.  A dozen of them were lounging about the brick-paved space in front of the battery of boilers when Bannon opened the door, and they sprang to their feet as they read his errand in his face.

“Steam up,” he said.  “We’ll be ready as soon as you are.”

There was the accumulated tension of a week of inactivity behind these men, and the effect of Bannon’s words was galvanic.  Already low fires were burning under the boilers, and now the coal was piled on, the draughts roared, the smoke, thick enough to cut, came billowing out of the tall chimney.  Every man in the room, even the wretchedest of the dripping stokers, had his eyes on the steam gauges, but for all that the water boiled, and the indicator needles crept slowly round the dials, and at last the engineer walked over and pulled the whistle cord.

Hitherto they had marked the divisions of time on the job by the shrill note of the little whistle on the hoisting engine boiler, and there was not a man but started at the screaming crescendo of the big siren on top of the power house.  Men in the streets, in the straggling boarding houses over across the flats, on the wharves along the river, men who had been forbidden to come to the elevator till they were needed lest they should be in the way, had been waiting days for that signal, and they came streaming into the elevator almost before the blast had died away.

Page’s superintendent was standing beside Bannon and Pete by the foot of the main drive.  “Well,” he said, “we’re ready.  Are you?”

Bannon nodded and turned to a laborer who stood near.  “Go tell the engineer to go ahead.”  The man, proud as though he had just been promoted, went out on the run.

“Now,” said Bannon, “here’s where we go slow.  All the machinery in the house has got to be thrown in, one thing at a time, line shafts first and then elevators and the rest of it.  Pete, you see it done up top.  I’ll look out for it down here.  See that there’s a man to look at each bearing at least once in three minutes, and let me know if it gets warm.”

It took a long time to do it, but it had to be done, for Bannon was inflexible, but at last everything in elevator, annex, and spouting house that could turn was turning, and it was reported to Bannon.  “Now,” he said, “she’s got to run light for fifteen minutes.  No—­” he went on in answer to the superintendent’s protest; “you’re lucky I didn’t say two hours.  It’s the biggest chance I ever took as it is.”

So while they stared at the second hands of their watches the minutes crept away—­Pete wound his watch up tight in the vain hope of making it go a little faster—­and at last Bannon turned with a nod to the superintendent.