stepped over to the sleeping girl and lifted the rug so that she was uncovered as far as the knees. “She’s beautiful, eh? It’s a pity I’m so old.”
Prokop frowned and covered her up again. “Show me your station,” he said shortly. A smile trembled on Daimon’s lips. “We’ll go.”
He led him through the yard. There were lights in the factory, and there was to be heard the throbbing of machinery. About the yard there sauntered the fireman, his sleeves rolled up and a pipe in his mouth. To the side was a belt with a row of trucks for the mine, the girders of its supports standing out like the ribs of a lizard. “We’ve had to close three pits,” explained Daimon. “They didn’t pay. I should have sold them a long time ago if it hadn’t been for the station. This way.” He began to ascend a steep footpath leading up through the wood to the top of the hill. Prokop could only follow him by sound; it was a black night, and from time to time heavy drops fell from the branches of the pines. Daimon stopped, breathing with difficulty. “I’m old,” he said, “I can’t get my breath as I used to. I’ve got to depend on people more and more. . . . There’s no one at the station to-day; the telegraphist has remained below with the others . . . but that doesn’t matter. Come on!”
The top of the hill was cut about as if it had been the scene of a battle; abandoned towers, a wire cable, enormous deserted slag heaps and on the top of the largest of them a wooden shed with an aerial above it. “That’s . . . the station,” panted Daimon. “It stands on forty thousand tons of magnesia. A natural condenser, you see? The whole hill
