a story of what might happen in the days to come, when underground london is tunnelled in all directions for electric railways, if an explosion should take place in one of the tubes.

i.

it seemed as if london had solved one of her great problems at last. the communication difficulty was at an end. the first-class ticket-holders no longer struggled to and from business with fourteen fellow-sufferers in a third-class carriage. there were no longer any particularly favoured suburbs, nor were there isolated localities where it took as long getting to the city as an express train takes between london and swindon. the pleasing paradox of a man living at brighton because it was nearer to his business than surbiton had ceased to exist. the tubes had done away with all that.

there were at least a dozen hollow cases running under london in all directions. they were cool and well ventilated, the carriages were brilliantly lighted, the various loops were properly equipped and managed.

all day long the shining funnels and bright platforms were filled with passengers. towards midnight the traffic grew less, and by half-past one o'clock the last train had departed. the all-night service was not yet.

it was perfectly quiet now along the gleaming core that lay buried under bond street and st. james's street, forming the loop running below the thames close by westminster bridge road and thence to the crowded newington and walworth districts. here a portion of the roof was under repair.

the core was brilliantly lighted; there was no suggestion of fog or gloom. the general use of electricity had disposed of a good deal of london's murkiness; electric motors were applied now to most manufactories and work-shops. there was just as much gas consumed as ever, but it was principally used for heating and culinary purposes. electric radiators and cookers had not yet reached the multitude; that was a matter of time.

in the flare of the blue arc lights a dozen men were working on the dome of the core. something had gone wrong with a water-main overhead, the concrete beyond the steel belt had cracked, and the moisture had corroded the steel plates, so that a long strip of the metal skin had been peeled away, and the friable concrete had fallen on the rails. it had brought part of the crown with it, so that a maze of large and small pipes was exposed to view.

"they look like the reeds of an organ," a raw engineer's apprentice remarked to the foreman. "what are they?"

"gas mains, water, electric light, telephone, goodness knows what," the foreman replied. "they branch off here, you see."

"fun to cut them," the apprentice grinned.

the foreman nodded absently. he had once been a mischievous boy, too. the job before him looked a bigger thing than he had expected. it would have to be patched up till a strong gang could be turned on to the work. the raw apprentice was still gazing at the knot of pipes. what fun it would be to cut that water-main and flood the tunnels!

in an hour the scaffolding was done and the débris cleared away. to-morrow night a gang of men would come and make the concrete good and restore the steel rim to the dome. the tube was deserted. it looked like a polished, hollow needle, lighted here and there by points of dazzling light.

it was so quiet and deserted that the falling of a big stone reverberated along the tube with a hollow sound. there was a crack, and a section of piping gave way slightly and pressed down upon one of the electric mains. a tangled skein of telephone wires followed. under the strain the electric cable parted and snapped. there was a long, sliding, blue flame, and instantly the tube was in darkness. a short circuit had been established somewhere. not that it mattered, for traffic was absolutely suspended now, and would not be resumed again before daylight. of course, there were the work-men's very early trains, and the covent garden market trains, but they did not run over this section of the line. the whole darkness reeked with the whiff of burning indiarubber. the moments passed on drowsily.

along one side of bond street the big lamps were out. all the lights on one main switch had gone. but it was past one o'clock now, and the thing mattered little. these accidents occurred sometimes in the best regulated districts, and the defect would be made good in the morning.

it was a little awkward, though, for a great state ball was in progress at buckingham palace. supper was over, the magnificent apartments were brilliant with light dresses and gay uniforms. the shimmer and fret of diamonds flashed back to lights dimmer than themselves. there was a slide of feet over the polished floors. then, as if some unseen force had cut the bottom of creation, light and gaiety ceased to be, and darkness fell like a curtain.

there were a few cries of alarm from the swift suddenness of it. to eyes accustomed to that brilliant glow the gloom was egyptian. it seemed as if some great catastrophe had happened. but common-sense reasserted itself, and the brilliant gathering knew that the electric light had failed.

there were quick commands, and spots of yellow flame sprang out here and there in the great desert of the night. how faint and feeble, and yellow and flaring, the lights looked! the electrician down below was puzzled, for, so far as he could see, the fuses in the meters were intact. there was no short circuit so far as the palace was concerned. in all probability there had been an accident at the generating stations; in a few minutes the mischief would be repaired.

but time passed, and there was no welcome return of the flood of crystal light.

"it is a case for all the candles," the lord chamberlain remarked; "fortunately the old chandeliers are all fitted. light the candles."

it was a queer, grotesque scene, with all that wealth of diamonds and glitter of uniforms and gloss of satins, under the dim suggestion of the candles. and yet it was enjoyable from the very novelty of it. nothing could be more appropriate for the minuet that was in progress.

"i feel like one of my own ancestors," a noble lord remarked. "when they hit upon that class of candle i expect they imagined that the last possibility in the way of lighting had been accomplished. is it the same outside, sir george?"

sir george egerton laughed. he was fresh from the gardens.

"it's patchwork," he said. "so far as i can judge, london appears to be lighted in sections. i expect there is a pretty bad breakdown. my dear chap, do you mean to say that clock is right?"

"half-past four, sure enough, and mild for the time of year. did you notice a kind of rumbling under—merciful heavens, what is that?"