wasn't some silly incident or other. And I've been at it now, young fellow, for forty years."
"But it is amazing, isn't it, sir?" Keval returned. "Fancy this little building lighting the whole city of Prague and driving the trams and trains for sixty kilometres round, besides supplying power for thousands of factories and—and"
Mr. Cvancara shook his head sceptically. "We'll see, my young friend, we'll see. Nothing nowadays can surprise any of us of the old guard, but"—and here Cvancara lowered his voice to a whisper—"well, just look round and you'll see that they haven't even got a reserve Karburator handy. Suppose this one broke down, or even, say, went up in the air, what then—do you see what I mean?"
Keval was annoyed at not having thought of this himself, so he dissented. "That's out of the question, sir," he began. "I have reliable information. This power station here is only for show. The real Central Station is somewhere else; it's . . . it's . . ." he whispered, and pointed with his finger, "right down underground, I mustn't say where. Haven't you noticed, sir, that they are continually repairing the streets in Prague?"
"They've been doing it these forty years," said Mr. Cvancara gloomily.
"Well, there you have it," Keval lied triumphantly. "Military reasons, you know. A huge sys-
