All right. Do you know where the problem is? No. 1 Sir says, slowly this time.
Johnny nods.
Well then, take me to it, dont just stand there like an imbecile.
They go deep into the machine. On a clean blue canvas sheet laid on the floor, Johnnys tools are neatly spread out, ready for use. Dozens and dozens of tools, all shiny and clean.
Here, Johnny says, pointing.
The Sirs walk around the part of the machine which Johnny has pointed at. No. 1 Sir has his hands in his pockets. No. 2 Sir checks his fingernails as he paces back and forth. No. 3 Sir rubs his brow. Sirs No. 4 and No. 5 say and do nothing they are young and do not yet know anything.
Its the belt, says No. 1 Sir.
Its the rotator, says No. 2.
Its the oil supply. The wiring, I mean, says No. 3.
Johnny says, The parts in the gearbox are broken, I think. They are not moving.
Well, fix it, No. 3 says.
The machine it requires new parts, Johnny says. Maybe.
You bloody well fix it now, No. 3 Sir says. His face is red and shining with sweat.
They watch as Johnny goes back to the machine. He does not know what he is going to do, how he is going to fix this unfixable problem, but he knows that he will find a way. Somehow, he will.
Piece by piece, Johnny takes the gearbox apart. He brushes each piece with a wire brush, washes it in water, then wipes it with grease. He gives it new life. He feels no fear: his hands are calm and strong and his eyes are cool and level. Turning to pick up another tool, he catches the eye of No. 1 Sir, who is blinking to keep out the heat and dust of the afternoon. At last, Johnny turns to the Sirs and says, It is ready.
The Sirs look at each other. About bloody time, No. 1 says.
Johnny walks to the control box and rests his hands on it. He trusts the machine, he trusts himself. The whir of the Dredger is uncertain at first, but soon it becomes a steady growl, and then the familiar roar fills the entire space, drifting out into the Valley, singing in Johnnys ears.
One by one the Sirs walk back to their cream-coloured hut. Imagine millions of tons of ore under our feet, No. 1 says, putting his wide-brimmed hat on. That damned Chinaman will be the ruin of us all.
Nearly twenty past four, says No. 2.
Just in time for tea, says No. 3.
Johnny packs up his tools, one by one, making sure he cleans the grime and grease from each one. He wraps them up in his blue canvas cloth and listens to the song of the machine.
Four days later, the machine breaks down again. Once more, Johnny is summoned to repair it, and again he succeeds. The next day it breaks down again. And the next day too. By now Johnny has taken to sleeping next to the faulty part of the machine. He can hear its heartbeat, feel its pulse. It is weak and failing.
By the fourth or fifth morning the workers have become used to the great silence that has fallen over the mine. They know there will be no work for them. Without the machine, the tin remains buried deep under their feet. There is nothing to wash, nothing to grade, nothing to store or melt. So the workers sit around, placidly chewing tobacco or betel leaves, their lips and tongues becoming stained with the juice of this stupor-inducing nut. As the days go by, the dry earth around the longhouse becomes pockmarked with patches of red spittle.
At the start of the second week without the machine, the Sirs come to where Johnny is working. His tools are laid out on the mattress beside him. Some of his tools have had more rest than he has.
What on earth is this monkey doing? says No. 1.
I told you not to let a Chinaman loose on the Dredger, says No. 2.
Johnny looks at them with young eyes made old by work.
So, says No. 1, what do you have to say for yourself?
Johnny blinks. Their suits are white and blinding in the sunlight. I need new parts, he says, turning back to the machine.
How dare you answer back! No. 3 shouts.
Parts indeed.
Its his fault anyway.
When, No. 1 says slowly, Will. It. Be. Fixed?
Johnnys chest rises and falls heavily. He doesnt know how to answer. Soon, he says. But he knows it is useless. The machine is dying in his hands, like a sick child on its mothers breast.
Soon?! No. 1 explodes.
Soon?! echoes No. 2.
What does that mean? say Nos. 3, 4, and 5.
Later that morning the Sirs make an announcement at a specially arranged workers meeting outside the cream-painted huts. The workers are told that they will not be paid to sit around doing nothing. The mine cannot afford to pay their wages if no tin is being processed.
It is simply uneconomical for the Darby Mine to continue like this, says No. 1, his voice rising above the angry murmur. As long as the Dredging Machine is not working
But that is not our fault! someone shouts.
as long as the Dredging Machine remains
That is none of our business! Get the damn machine working!
Until the machine is fixed, says No. 1 with all the authority he can muster, there will be no pay. So go home, all of you.
Thats the problem with coolies, says No. 2 as the Sirs back into their hut and lock the door.
Wheres that lazy dog-boy? the men outside shout. Wheres Johnny? Its all that bastards fault!
Lets teach him a lesson!
My children will go to sleep hungry!
Damned son of a whore!
Hes doing this to kill us all!
When they find him, they are swift and brutal. They hit him with their bare fists and kick him with shoeless feet, again and again. Johnny closes his eyes as the first blow strikes him on the side of his face. He crashes onto the machine and feels it press against his body, cold and lifeless. Soon he can no longer feel pain. He does not see or hear the men set fire to his mattress. That will teach him to sleep all the time, lazy animal. Now maybe he will work to fix this machine.
By the time they leave him they are no longer angry. They walk slowly off the mine and go home, heads bowed, arms hanging limply by their sides.
When Johnny opens his eyes again it is night. He sees, through swollen eyelids, the grey bulk of the machine. Slowly, he moves his head so that his ear touches the Dredger. He can hear nothing, and suddenly his arms and legs and head and chest start to hurt, and he collapses again.
You had it coming, I must say, No. 2s voice says. Youre not as clever as I thought.
In the dark, Johnny can barely make out No. 2s figure standing over him.
I told him, No. 2 says, pacing slowly before Johnny. I told him not to do it, not to take on a dirty Chinaman like you. I told him a Chinamans place is in the mines, loading and carrying. But no, he had to put you in charge of the machine. A Chinaman operating the biggest Dredger in the Valley? Well, thats plainly ridiculous. And he fed you and clothed you and housed you. What foolishness.
I need new parts, Johnny whispers.
Over my dead body, No. 2 says. You are responsible for whats happened, you cretin. He kicks Johnnys tools into a pile. Many of them have been burnt with the mattress, their shiny faces now blackened with soot.
Pack up, No. 2 says. I never want to see you here again.
Feebly, Johnny begins to gather his tools. They are still hot from the fire.
Dont forget, No. 2 says, that you are responsible for this machine. Its your fault.
Johnny raises his gaze to meet No. 2s.
Dont you dare look at me like that, No. 2 says. He kicks Johnny away with the tip of his shoe.
Johnnys hand lands on his pile of tools. He finds that his hand has come to rest on a screwdriver. Its handle is smooth and fire-warm. Johnny grasps it and thrusts it deep into No. 2s thigh.
The court case was short but complicated; there were many difficulties. First of all, no one was certain of Johnnys age, not even Johnny himself. It was not unusual for a child of lowly rural background not to have a birth certificate why was there need for one? and as a result, the precise date and location of Johnnys birth remained a mystery. Advocates acting for the Darby Mine insisted that Johnny should stand trial for the most serious charge: attempted murder. His physical appearance alone, they argued, suggested that he was at least eighteen. But Charlie Gopalan, a local barrister who specialised in such criminal cases, convinced the magistrate that Johnny was merely fourteen, and should not, under the circumstances, go to prison, where he would surely fall under the influence of Communist guerillas. Mr. Gopalan was a man who had earned the trust of the British. He had studied at the Inner Temple and his clothes were nicely tailored in Singapore. His round-rimmed glasses added to his serious, scholarly manner. In pictures from the newspaper archive in the Public Library, he appears a small, neat-looking man, often holding a briefcase and a hat. He is even said to have begun translating Homers Odyssey into Malay. His word, in any event, carried much influence.
There was also the matter of No. 2s condition. Johnny had managed to stab him in the fleshy part of the thigh, in exactly the place where the artery is at its thickest. The blood loss was immense. It was reported in court that the two men were found nearly lifeless, writhing feebly as if swimming in a shallow pool of blood. For a month after the stabbing, No. 2 remained in the General Hospital in Ipoh. Though he was for some days on the brink of death, he improved steadily. Doctors praised his bravery and admired his buffalo-like constitution, and his progress was such that, by the time of the hearing, he was able to walk, albeit gingerly. The familiar rosy-pinkness of his complexion was by this time fully restored to his cheeks.
Thus the case against Johnny was halfhearted, the lawyers becoming increasingly bored as the days wore on. In the face of Mr. Gopalans persuasiveness, the magistrate decided that it was sufficient that Johnny received ten lashes of the rotan, to teach boys like you to know and respect your position in society. He was cleared of all charges.
What no one knew at the time was that gangrene or septicemia or some other mysterious infection had worked its way into No. 2s blood, unnoticed by the doctors who had tended to him. He collapsed, was rushed to hospital, but again made a near-miraculous recovery. Once more, doctors marvelled at his God-given strength, and when he collapsed a second time they knew he would pull through and he did. Month after month, this continued, until finally No. 2 died, exactly a year and a week after first being stabbed by Johnny.