not long ago, spent most of it in tramping over the
Island Works, guided by two men who had worked for many years with
Andrews and who, like others we saw and thousands we did not see, held
his memory almost in reverence. In and out, up and down we went, through
heat and rain, over cobble stones and tram lines; now stepping on planks
right down the double bottom, three hundred yards long, from which was
soon to rise the _Titanic's_ successor; now crouching amongst the shores
sustaining the huge bulk of another half-plated giant; now passing in
silent wonder along the huge cradles and ways above which another
monster stood ready for launching. Then into shop after shop in endless
succession, each needing a day's journey to traverse, each wonderfully
clean and ordered, and all full of wonders. Boilers as tall as houses,
shafts a boy's height in diameter, enormous propellers hanging like some
monstrous sea animal in chains, turbine motors on which workmen
clambered as upon a cliff, huge lathes, pneumatic hammers, and quiet
slow-moving machines that dealt with cold steel, shearing it, punching
it, planing it, as if it had been so much dinner cheese. Then up into
the Moulding Loft, large enough for a football ground, and its floor a
beautiful maze of frame lines; on through the Joiners' shops, with their
tools that can do everything but speak; through the Smiths' shops, with
their long rows of helmet-capped hearths, and on into the great airy
building, so full of interest that one could linger in it for a week,
where an army of Cabinetmakers are fashioning all kinds of ship's
furniture. Then across into the Central power station, daily generating
enough electricity to light Belfast. On through the fine arched Drawing
hall, where the spirit of Tom Andrews seemed still to linger, and
into his office where often he sat drafting those reports, so
exhaustively minute, so methodical and neatly penned, which now have
such pathetic and revealing interest. Lastly, after such long
journeying, out to a wharf and over a great ship, full of stir and
clamour, and as thronged with workmen as soon it would be with
passengers.

[Illustration: THE TURNING SHOP]

And often, as one went, hour after hour, one kept asking, "Had Mr.
Andrews knowledge of this, and this, and that?"

"Yes, of everything--he knew everything," would be the patient answer.

"And could he do this, and this, and this?" one kept on.

"He could do anything," would be