no smoking around the machine, gentlemen!” Hammond called out. “Treat machines like they are your children, and they will obey. Returning to my advice, Mr. Mansfield, which I humor myself is good for something, it is to worry not what the other fellows do. When I built the first Hammond engine by modifying the usual design, I was called reckless. It took two months to find a railroad to purchase it, but after it was in place I could not meet the number of orders that flooded in. Last year we built five hundred locomotives! These machines on the floor, every year they grow more and more powerful. A race of giants, each one with the ability of a hundred men—athousand—yet they ask for neither food nor shelter from us. And we all may profit from it, down to the lowest apprentice, if the almighty trade unions will not prevent it. Why, look at those poor souls who were hurt in Boston Harbor last week. I have been able to donate something toward their expenses from the profits allowed by these modern machines.”
“That’s generous, sir.”
“Money is good, but it is not all about a man. You will have many successes and reversals, my boy, but remember it is your reaction to each of them that counts for your character.”
“Mansfield!” Bob charged over to his side. “There you are. Apologies for interrupting, Mr. Hammond. Mansfield, you must come outside at once! Something has happened!”
* * *
L EADING M ARCUS BY THE ARM down the steps of the locomotive works, Bob, in his usual fashion, began a long story that started somewhere in his childhood, when he first was taken to visit the business quarter of the city.
As Bob’s meandering tale unspooled, Marcus overheard Albert Hall holding court with two of the sophomore architecture students with a more direct account. “People trampled. Quite terrible—quite unprecedented.”
“What are you talking about, Hall? About what happened in the harbor?” Marcus asked.
“That’s old news! Something happened in the financial quarter, just this morning. Conny heard all about it.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Bob insisted to Marcus.
“Who told you, Conny?” Marcus asked, walking up behind Whitney Conant and tapping his arm.
“The old organ grinder passed by while I was out here having my smoke and blabbed to me,” responded Conant.
“What happened precisely, Conny?” Marcus asked the southern student. “They had another fire down there?”
“No, no, this was no fire, nothing so ordinary. Maurice said he didn’t see it, but that he heard the windows of the buildings suddenly camealive. That the most common piece of glass in the area became a deadly weapon. Well,” Conant added with a dry chuckle, probably realizing how his tale must have sounded when several classmates broke out into dismissive laughter, “you know these Papist organ grinders don’t have the finest command of the English language, and dwell on their superstitions.”
“Can we make it to State Street on the way back, before physics laboratory?” Bob asked Marcus. “It’s almost one and a half o’clock now.”
Marcus thought about it and agreed that they might.
“Wait, fellows, I wouldn’t,” Conant interjected. “You know what President Rogers always says about being seen to be associated with anything harmful to the welfare of Boston.”
Conny was right. Every time there was the occasional incident inside the Institute, when an exploding chemical or some other loud boom was overheard by some outsider, the newspapers printed a column about a “dangerous accident.” Then there had been the brief public outcry over Hammie’s infamous idea for a Steam Man. Since then, the authorities at the Institute had never failed to remind the students that when it came to scientific investigations, quiet and smart was better than clever and loud.
“Perhaps it’s not the wisest idea at that,” Edwin stammered, then changed tactics when he saw Bob was
“That’s generous, sir.”
“Money is good, but it is not all about a man. You will have many successes and reversals, my boy, but remember it is your reaction to each of them that counts for your character.”
“Mansfield!” Bob charged over to his side. “There you are. Apologies for interrupting, Mr. Hammond. Mansfield, you must come outside at once! Something has happened!”
* * *
L EADING M ARCUS BY THE ARM down the steps of the locomotive works, Bob, in his usual fashion, began a long story that started somewhere in his childhood, when he first was taken to visit the business quarter of the city.
As Bob’s meandering tale unspooled, Marcus overheard Albert Hall holding court with two of the sophomore architecture students with a more direct account. “People trampled. Quite terrible—quite unprecedented.”
“What are you talking about, Hall? About what happened in the harbor?” Marcus asked.
“That’s old news! Something happened in the financial quarter, just this morning. Conny heard all about it.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Bob insisted to Marcus.
“Who told you, Conny?” Marcus asked, walking up behind Whitney Conant and tapping his arm.
“The old organ grinder passed by while I was out here having my smoke and blabbed to me,” responded Conant.
“What happened precisely, Conny?” Marcus asked the southern student. “They had another fire down there?”
“No, no, this was no fire, nothing so ordinary. Maurice said he didn’t see it, but that he heard the windows of the buildings suddenly camealive. That the most common piece of glass in the area became a deadly weapon. Well,” Conant added with a dry chuckle, probably realizing how his tale must have sounded when several classmates broke out into dismissive laughter, “you know these Papist organ grinders don’t have the finest command of the English language, and dwell on their superstitions.”
“Can we make it to State Street on the way back, before physics laboratory?” Bob asked Marcus. “It’s almost one and a half o’clock now.”
Marcus thought about it and agreed that they might.
“Wait, fellows, I wouldn’t,” Conant interjected. “You know what President Rogers always says about being seen to be associated with anything harmful to the welfare of Boston.”
Conny was right. Every time there was the occasional incident inside the Institute, when an exploding chemical or some other loud boom was overheard by some outsider, the newspapers printed a column about a “dangerous accident.” Then there had been the brief public outcry over Hammie’s infamous idea for a Steam Man. Since then, the authorities at the Institute had never failed to remind the students that when it came to scientific investigations, quiet and smart was better than clever and loud.
“Perhaps it’s not the wisest idea at that,” Edwin stammered, then changed tactics when he saw Bob was
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