e had taken Jennings's place as
constructing engineer, had the distinction of being the only person
Bruce had ever seen who could remove his socks without taking off his
shoes. He accomplished the feat with ease for the reason that there were
never any toes in the aforesaid shoes. As he himself said, he would have
been a tall man if there had not been so much of him turned up at the
end.

The only way he was able to wear shoes at all, save those made to order,
was to cut out the toes; the same applied to his socks, and the exposed
portion of his bare feet had not that dimpled pinkness which moves poets
to song. From the rear, Banule's shoes looked like two bobsleds going
down hill, and from the front the effect of the loose soles was that of
two great mouths opening and closing. Yet he skimmed the river boulders
at amazing speed, seeming to find no inconvenience in the flap-flapping
of the loose leather as he leaped from rock to rock.

In contrast to his yawning shoes and a pair of trousers the original
shade of which was a matter of uncertainty, together with a black satine
shirt whose color made change unnecessary, was a stylish Tyrolese
hat--green felt--with a butterfly bow perched jauntily on one side. And
underneath this stylishness there was a prematurely bald head covered
with smudges of machine grease which it could readily be believed were
souvenirs of his apprentice days in the machine shop. If indifference to
appearance be a mark of genius it would be impossible to deny Banule's
claim to the title.

He was the direct antithesis of Jennings, harnessed lightning in
clothes, working early and late. He flew at the machinery like a madman,
yelling for wrenches, and rivets and bolts, chiselling, and soldering,
and oiling, until the fly-wheel was on its shaft in the power-house, and
the dynamos, dragged at top speed from the river-bank, no longer looked
like a pile of junk. The switchboard went up, and the pressure gauge,
and the wiring for the power-house light. But for all Bruce's relief at
seeing things moving, he had a feeling of uneasiness lest there was too
much haste. "Good enough--that's good enough!" were the words oftenest
on Banule's lips. They filled Bruce with vague forebodings, misgivings,
and he came to feel a flash of irritation each time the genius said
airily: "Oh, that's good enough."

Bruce warned him often--"Don't slight your work--do it right if it takes
twice as long."

Banule always mad