of a pot-bank, or a wheel, black and sharp against the hot lower sky, marked some colliery where they raise the iridescent coal of the place.  Nearer at hand was the broad stretch of railway, and half invisible trains shunted—­a steady puffing and rumbling, with every run a ringing concussion and a rhythmic series of impacts, and a passage of intermittent puffs of white steam across the further view.  And to the left, between the railway and the dark mass of the low hill beyond, dominating the whole view, colossal, inky-black, and crowned with smoke and fitful flames, stood the great cylinders of the Jeddah Company Blast Furnaces, the central edifices of the big ironworks of which Horrocks was the manager.  They stood heavy and threatening, full of an incessant turmoil of flames and seething molten iron, and about the feet of them rattled the rolling-mills, and the steam hammer beat heavily and splashed the white iron sparks hither and thither.  Even as they looked, a truckful of fuel was shot into one of the giants, and the red flames gleamed out, and a confusion of smoke and black dust came boiling upwards towards the sky.

“Certainly you get some fine effects of colour with your furnaces,” said Raut, breaking a silence that had become apprehensive.

Horrocks grunted.  He stood with his hands in his pockets, frowning down at the dim steaming railway and the busy ironworks beyond, frowning as if he were thinking out some knotty problem.

Raut glanced at him and away again.  “At present your moonlight effect is hardly ripe,” he continued, looking upward.  “The moon is still smothered by the vestiges of daylight.”

Horrocks stared at him with the expression of a man who has suddenly awakened.  “Vestiges of daylight? . . . .  Of course, of course.”  He too looked up at the moon, pale still in the midsummer sky.  “Come along,” he said suddenly, and, gripping Raut’s arm in his hand, made a move towards the path that dropped from them to the railway.

Raut hung back.  Their eyes met and saw a thousand things in a moment that their eyes came near to say.  Horrocks’ hand tightened and then relaxed.  He let go, and before Raut was aware of it, they were arm in arm, and walking, one unwillingly enough, down the path.

“You see the fine effect of the railway signals towards Burslem,” said Horrocks, suddenly breaking into loquacity, striding fast, and tightening the grip of his elbow the while.  “Little green lights and red and white lights, all against the haze.  You have an eye for effect, Raut.  It’s a fine effect.  And look at those furnaces of mine, how they rise upon us as we come down the hill.  That to the right is my pet—­seventy feet of him.  I packed him myself, and he’s boiled away cheerfully with iron in his guts for five long years.  I’ve a particular fancy for him.  That line of red there—­a lovely bit of warm orange you’d call it, Raut—­that’s the puddlers’ furnaces, and there, in the hot light, three black figures—­did you see the white splash of the steam-hammer then?—­that’s the rolling mills.  Come along!  Clang, clatter, how it goes rattling across the floor!  Sheet tin, Raut,—­amazing stuff.  Glass mirrors are not in it when that stuff comes from the mill.  And, squelch!—­there goes the hammer again.  Come along!”