to. But that's not the worst of it. Suppose a man
is leaning just enough to balance the wind, and suddenly the wind lets
up, say on a gusty day. Then where's your man? Or suppose it's winter
and the whole bridge is coated with ice, so that walking girders is like
sliding on glass. Then where is he, especially when it's blowing tricky
blasts? Oh, it's no dream, my friend, working on a bridge!"

And I, in hearty accord with that opinion, betook me back to the office,
where I read just outside the door this ominous notice: "All accidents
must be reported as soon as possible, or claims therefor will be
disregarded."

A workman came up at this moment, and, with a half-smile, asked if I
knew their motto, the motto of the bridge-men.

"No," said I; "what is it?"

"'We never die,'" said he, with a grim glance at the notice; "we don't
have to." Then, pointing overhead: "Come up and see us. I'll introduce
you to the boys."

II

THE EXPERIENCE OF TWO NOVICES IN BALANCING ALONG NARROW GIRDERS AND
WATCHING THE "TRAVELER" GANG

NOT that day, but later on, when I had arranged it. I accepted this
bluff invitation and became acquainted with "the boys," the ones who
"never die," and took in the fears and wonders of the bridge at closer
view. My permit was granted on the express understanding that I hold
nobody responsible for any harm that might befall. I was fortunate in
having with me as companion in this climb Mr. Varian, the artist, who
had faced perils of many sorts, but none like these.

First we clambered, pyramid fashion, up the pile of granite, big as a
church, that will hold the cable-ends; they call it the anchorage. From
the top of this we could look along the iron street that stretched away
in a slight up-grade toward the tower. We were on a level with the
roadway of the bridge, and far below us spread the housetops of
Brooklyn. Between our stone precipice and the iron street-end yawned a
gulf that we drew back from, with water in its deepest bottom. Here the
cables would be buried some day, sealed and cemented, piled over with
masonry, to hold for centuries.

Standing in the lee of a block that kept off the wind, we looked across
at the bridge, and planned how presently we might reach it by skirting
the moat-walls and drawing ourselves up at yonder corner where the
end-span rested.

Somehow, seen from here, the iron street looked delicate, not
massive; its sides were trellis-work, its top frames gently