It was already dark; but the entire deck of the dredge and the faces of those present were glowing with a tender light. The splash of oars was heard below the dredge, then the boat stopped alongside. “Hi, there!” cried a man’s voice. “Is Mr. Kuzenda there?”

“Yes, he is here,” answered Kuzenda in the voice of an angel. “Come right up, brethren of the police. I know that the innkeeper of Stechovice has laid information against me.”

Two policemen mounted to the deck. “Which of you is Kuzenda?” asked the sergeant.

“I am, sir,” said Kuzenda, rising higher in the air. “Kindly come up here to me, sergeant.” And forthwith both police officers rose into the air and floated upwards towards Kuzenda. Their feet groped desperately for some support, their hands clutched wildly at the yielding air, and one could hear their quick and frightened breathing.

“Don’t be afraid, officers,” said Kuzenda beatifically, “and say after me this prayer: O God, our Father, who are incarnate in this vessel . . .”

“O God, our Father, who are incarnate in this vessel,” repeated the sergeant in a choking voice.

“O God, our Father, who are incarnate in this vessel,” Mr. Hudec began in a loud voice, and he fell on his knees, and on the deck a chorus of voices mingled with his own.

IX. The Ceremony

CHAPTER IX

THE CEREMONY

CYRIL KEVAL, district reporter on the staff of the Prague People’s Journal, hurried into evening-dress for the occasion and dashed off to Stvanice just after six o’clock in the evening, to write up the ceremonial opening of the new Central Karburator Electric Power Station for Greater Prague. He shouldered his way through the curious crowds that overflowed the whole Petrov quarter, penetrated the three ranks of police, and reached a small concrete structure decorated with flags. From inside the little building could be heard the objurgations of the workmen, who were, of course, behind time with the erecting of the machine, and were now trying to catch up. The whole Central Power Station was an insignificant affair, no bigger than a public convenience. Old Cvancara of the Venkov was walking pensively up and down in front of it, looking somewhat like a meditative heron.

“Well, my friend,” he said quietly to the young journalist, “it’s safe to bet on something happening to-day. I’ve never yet seen a function where there 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——”