A full
complement of men worked at every lathe, table, drill or saw. The clang
of hammers, the guttering of drills, the whine of steel planes smote his
ears in a cheerful din of labor. The laborers worked at their tasks with
that peculiar flexibility of forearms, wrists, fingers that mark skilled
machinists. The scent of lubricating oil the faint tang of metal dust
filled the air. Strange to say, the air down here was even cooler than
that in the sleeping deck above.
All sorts of queer tasks were progressing. Here, men were working on
gyroscopes that fitted into the shells of torpedoes; there, they
fabricated little hot-air engines which propelled those instruments of
destruction. They were repairing gauges, steam connections, electrical
fittings, what not.
Madden was tempted to pause and stare about this wondershop, when it
occurred to him that if he and Caradoc were discovered they would be
executed as spies. He had not thought of this before, and the mere
suggestion somehow made him feel stiff and wooden. He was not
frightened, but he felt clumsy, as a schoolboy does when he makes his
first public speech. His arms and legs felt wooden; his head did not
seem to sit in a natural manner on his neck. He felt that if anyone
glanced at him, he would immediately betray himself.
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