Well, our Johnnie Fresh came up to me for the twentieth time that night, this time wanting to know something about the overhead crane.  At that I fairly lost my temper.

“What ails the crane?” I cried.  “It’s doing its work, isn’t it?  Isn’t everybody doing their work except you?  Why can’t you ask Hopkins?  Isn’t Hopkins there?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Then,” I snapped, “in that particular I’m as ignorant as you, and I hope it’s the only one.”

But he grabbed my arm.

“Look at it now!” he cried, pointing; and I looked up.

Either Hopkins or somebody was dangerously exceeding the speed-limit.  The thing was flying along its thirty yards of rail as fast as a tram, and the heavy fall-blocks swung like a ponderous kite-tail, thirty feet below.  As I watched, the engine brought up within a yard of the end of the way, the blocks crashed like a ram into the broken house end, fetching down plaster and brick, and then the mechanism was reversed.  The crane set off at a tear back.

“Who in Hell ...”  I began; but it wasn’t a time to talk. “Hi!” I yelled, and made a spring for a ladder.

The others had noticed it, too, for there were shouts all over the place.  By that time I was halfway up the second stage.  Again the crane tore past, with the massive tackle sweeping behind it, and again I heard the crash at the other end.  Whoever had the handling of it was managing it skilfully, for there was barely a foot to spare when it turned again.

On the fourth platform, at the end of the way, I found Hopkins.  He was white, and seemed to be counting on his fingers.

“What’s the matter here?” I cried.

“It’s Rooum,” he answered.  “I hadn’t stepped out of the cab, not a minute, when I heard the lever go.  He’s running somebody down, he says; he’ll run the whole shoot down in a minute—­look!...”

The crane was coming back again.  Half out of the cab I could see Rooum’s mottled hair and beard.  His brow was ribbed like a gridiron, and as he ripped past one of the arcs his face shone like porcelain with the sweat that bathed it.

“Now ... you!...  Now, damn you!...” he was shouting.

“Get ready to board him when he reverses!” I shouted to Hopkins.

Just how we scrambled on I don’t know.  I got one arm over the lifting-gear (which, of course, wasn’t going), and heard Hopkins on the other footplate.  Rooum put the brakes down and reversed; again came the thud of the fall-blocks; and we were speeding back again over the gulf of misty orange light.  The stagings were thronged with gaping men.

“Ready?  Now!” I cried to Hopkins; and we sprang into the cab.

Hopkins hit Rooum’s wrist with a spanner.  Then he seized the lever, jammed the brake down and tripped Rooum, all, as it seemed, in one movement.  I fell on top of Rooum.  The crane came to a standstill half-way down the line.  I held Rooum panting.