One such scene Carthew will remember till he dies.  It blew great guns from the seaward; a huge surf bombarded, five hundred feet below him, the steep mountain’s foot; close in was a vessel in distress, firing shots from a fowling-piece, if any help might come.  So he saw and heard her the moment before the train appeared and paused, throwing up a Babylonian tower of smoke into the rain, and oppressing men’s hearts with the scream of her whistle.  The engineer was there himself; he paled as he made the signal:  the engine came at a foot’s pace; but the whole bulk of mountain shook and seemed to nod seaward, and the watching navvies instinctively clutched at shrubs and trees:  vain precautions, vain as the shots from the poor sailors.  Once again fear was disappointed; the train passed unscathed; and Norris, drawing a long breath, remembered the labouring ship and glanced below.  She was gone.

So the days and the nights passed:  Homeric labour in Homeric circumstance.  Carthew was sick with sleeplessness and coffee; his hands, softened by the wet, were cut to ribbons; yet he enjoyed a peace of mind and health of body hitherto unknown.  Plenty of open air, plenty of physical exertion, a continual instancy of toil; here was what had been hitherto lacking in that misdirected life, and the true cure of vital scepticism.  To get the train through:  there was the recurrent problem; no time remained to ask if it were necessary.  Carthew, the idler, the spendthrift, the drifting dilettant, was soon remarked, praised, and advanced.  The engineer swore by him and pointed him out for an example.  “I’ve a new chum, up here,” Norris overheard him saying, “a young swell.  He’s worth any two in the squad.”  The words fell on the ears of the discarded son like music; and from that moment, he not only found an interest, he took a pride, in his plebeian tasks.

The press of work was still at its highest when quarter-day approached.  Norris was now raised to a position of some trust; at his discretion, trains were stopped or forwarded at the dangerous cornice near North Clifton; and he found in this responsibility both terror and delight.  The thought of the seventy-five pounds that would soon await him at the lawyer’s, and of his own obligation to be present every quarter-day in Sydney, filled him for a little with divided councils.  Then he made up his mind, walked in a slack moment to the inn at Clifton, ordered a sheet of paper and a bottle of beer, and wrote, explaining that he held a good appointment which he would lose if he came to Sydney, and asking the lawyer to accept this letter as an evidence of his presence in the colony, and retain the money till next quarter-day.  The answer came in course of post, and was not merely favourable but cordial.  “Although what you propose is contrary to the terms of my instructions,” it ran, “I willingly accept the responsibility of granting your request.  I should say I am agreeably disappointed in your behaviour.  My experience has not led me to found much expectations on gentlemen in your position.”