The same night, after a
tedious journey, and a change of trains to pass a
landslip, Norris found himself in a muddy cutting
behind South Clifton, attacking his first shift of
manual labour.
For weeks the rain scarce relented. The whole front of
the mountain slipped seaward from above, avalanches of
clay, rock, and uprooted forest spewed over the cliff's
and fell upon the beach or in the breakers. Houses
were carried bodily away and smashed like nuts; others
were menaced and deserted, the door locked, the chimney
cold, the dwellers fled elsewhere for safety. Night
and the fire blazed in the encampment: night and day
hot coffee was served to the overdriven toilers in the
shift; night and day the engineer of the section made
his rounds with words of encouragement, hearty and
rough and well suited to his men. Night and day, too,
the telegraph clicked with disastrous news and anxious
inquiry. Along the terraced line of rail, rare trains
came creeping and signalling; paused at the threatened
corner, like living things conscious of peril; the
commandant of the post would hastily review his
labours, make (with a dry throat) the signal to
advance; and the whole squad line the way and look on
in a choking silence, or burst into a brief cheer as
the train cleared the point of danger and shot on,
perhaps through the thin sunshine between squalls,
perhaps with blinking lamps into the gathering, rainy
twilight.
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