THE
Chief Engineer.
BY ONE WHO KNOWS HIM.
"P" STANDS for Peter. Does P.P. indicate Peter Piper, and if so where's the pickled pepper Peter Piper picked? The pickles he left behind him at school—too many to bring away—but his engineers will tell you about the pep—er —he puts into his work. [Horrible!—Ed.]
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To get the real Eckersley wild-life-in-natural-surroundings touch, you want to see him slouching down the passage, shoulders well up, hair on end, pipe in mouth, hands in pocket, and even then you will probably only wonder who the fellow like a roadmender with bolshevistic tendencies is.
He sports a lie like yellow fever with measles, and, if chance directs your footsteps to the engineers' lair, you can always spot it glowing through the haze of electrons. In fact, to let out a jealously-guarded secret, it was used on one occasion to replace a worn-out valve.
A Prodigious Worker.
Sometimes he broadcasts, just to keep in fettle: for, of course, in days before the B.B.C., he was a popular low comedian under the cognomen "Two Emma Toc." He will stroll up to the microphone (still pipe in mouth) and make a few noises like a milk-can in an empty tram, and call it "That Freedom." (This, ladies and gentlemen, is the finest example extant of broadcasting in ancient history.)
The Chief Engineer's position is no sinecure. He is head of a very large department and bears heavy responsibility for a satisfactory transmission every night at each of the stations.
He, for instance, occasionally visits one of the provincial stations. He calls this taking a holiday from work, and his little excursion runs on something of the following lines. He puts on pressure at the office and works at high tension all day. In fact, his output is remarkable.
At about 6 o'clock he precipitates himself into a train and arrives at the station selected in a state of low-frequency energy. This is, of course, rectified by the Station Director, and after capacity is reached Captain Eckersley inspects the apparatus in the station. He may also indulge in a little playful badinage with local oscillating fiends, or investigate suggested new sites for the main aerial. Any little amusement of this sort he enjoys after the day's work.
Correspondence Galore.
The inspecting over, the C.E. catches the night-mail and arrives in the head office at 9 a.m. next morning with an angelic smile, which widens to a grin as he views the trays of letters awaiting his attention. He is great on correspondence; here is a letter taken at random from his tray:—
"DEAR MADAM.—
"Your aerial has probably been jammed by your neighbour's cat, especially as you say in your letter that 'last night it was osculating something 'orrid.'
"The only remedy I can suggest is that you disinfect—I mean disconnect the aerial, at the same time earthing the jammed cat. Write me if it continues to transmit.
"Yours, etc."
But the very thought of the amount of correspondence he gets through has reduced the writer to a state of nervous prostration.