The pale saffron of the after-glow called Ormond from his hut to the power-house. Here he switched on the electric light, locked the door, and went over to Fysh at the jet. The spark of light jumped before him from lamp to lamp, shutting out the wild hills of dead manuka and distance with a solid wall of black. Under the near lamp-post the jet spouted from a four-inch nozzle, scoring up the rock and down as Fysh’s hand swayed it. Ormond watched for two minutes with keen eyes and tight lips. He had been up at the penstock all day, and that was an eighteen-mile walk all told. The clipped hour since his return had been crowded with Kiliat’s complaints; and Ormond steadied himself under the light before he trusted his voice to speak.
The rock shivered where the jet struck it, and sunk forward in a puddle of yellowish wash. Fysh dipped his wrist a fraction, and the water dug out a big manuka bush, tossing it over into the night beyond. Then the steady roar blattered on rock again, sending a comb of white smoke above the light-arc.
“What’s all that waste water doing round the junction?” demanded Ormond, bringing his mouth to the other’s ear.
“She’s leakin’,” explained Fysh.
“Leaking! The ———! Why, you’re using the second head, you eternal ———!” Ormond jumped for the two-way cock. “Get up to the
