the suck and thud of their pistons, the dull beat on the air as the
spokes of the great driving-wheels came round, a note the leather
straps made as they ran tighter and looser, and a fretful tumult
from the dynamos; and over all, sometimes inaudible, as the ear
tired of it, and then creeping back upon the senses again, was this
trombone note of the big machine. The floor never felt steady and
quiet beneath one's feet, but quivered and jarred. It was a
confusing, unsteady place, and enough to send anyone's thoughts
jerking into odd zigzags. And for three months, while the big
strike of the engineers was in progress, Holroyd, who was a
blackleg, and Azuma-zi, who was a mere black, were never out of the
stir and eddy of it, but slept and fed in the little wooden shanty
between the shed and the gates.

Holroyd delivered a theological lecture on the text of his big
machine soon after Azuma-zi came. He had to shout to be heard in
the din. "Look at that," said Holroyd; "where's your 'eathen idol
to match 'im?" And Azuma-zi looked. For a moment Holroyd was
inaudible, and then Azuma-zi heard: "Kill a hundred men. Twelve
per cent. on the ordinary shares," said Holroyd, "and that's
something like a Gord!"

Holroyd was proud of his big dynamo, and expatiated upon its
size and power to Azuma-zi until heaven knows what odd currents of
thought that and the incessant whirling and shindy set up within
the curly black cranium. He would explain in the most graphic
manner the dozen or so ways in which a man might be killed by it,
and once he gave Azuma-zi a shock as a sample of its quality.
After that, in the breathing-times of his labour--it was heavy
labour, being not only his own, but most of Holroyd's--Azuma-zi