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I could see they hadn't been getting along; that was natural enough, though. Carol stopped when she saw me. “You don't look well, Bill,” she said. “Don’t come down with anything. Kiko behaves as if he ought to be in a psychopathic ward, somewhere. I don’t want to have to nurse you.” She isn't unsympathetic, really, but she's my cousin, of course. You know how it is. I trailed along behind them while Broome took her to her door. Maybe I oughtn't to have looked, but I noticed that she didn't let him kiss her good night—though he tried. I was as limp as a wet rag when he came back to me, and he was in one of his nastiest moods. “Well?” he said. “Well!” I answered. my advice and stopped badgering that poor devil that was trying to earn his living as a wild man—” For a minute we stood and glared at one another. Then we began to laugh. “If I thought he'd call it square, I’d let him give me a licking—it's coming to me, all right,” said Broome. “But he wouldn’t. He's got that nasty feeling about my heart. Must have read about Shylock, some time. Well — wonder where we are?” “We’ve just passed Poughkeepsie,” I said. “You think you’d better try that stunt?” “Unless you’ve thought of something better.” Well, I hadn't. So we went down to the lowest deck we could reach, and he took off all his clothes except his underwear, and we made a package of his things. We wrapped them in a slicker he’d brought out in case Carol was damp, and tied the bundle around his neck, so it would have a chance to stay out of the water. So, when he was ready, he dropped over, and I stayed by the rail, and watched him, swimming toward the eastern shore. The other was nearer, but he wanted to strike the New York Central main line, to have more chance to get a train for Albany.
WAITED until I couldn't see him any more. But I wasn’t worried about him, anyway; that swim was no stunt for him. And on my way back to our room I ran into Kiko—the original Kiko. He was hanging about near our door. He put out his hand to stop me, and when he spoke his voice was as gentle as a little child's. But there was a quality in it that made my flesh creep, just the same. “Could yo' tell me whe’ all I could see Misto’ Murray Broome fo' a minute, sah?” he asked me. “He’s asleep—he's sick,” I said. “You can’t see him to-night.” I wondered if it would occur to him to cut out some of me on account. But he just shook his head, sorrowfully. “Then I reckon I'll have to wait, till mornin’,” he said, and took himself off. I was about all in when I finally crawled into my berth. But I didn’t sleep very well; every time I dropped off I dreamed about murders, and I’d wake up and think I saw the real Kiko's head sticking through the window. Things looked better in the morning, of course; they always do. When I got up the whole performance seemed melodramatic and absurd—old Broome swimming ashore, and everything. But that was before I ran into the real Kiko. He was dressed up in his Sunday clothes, and he was sharpening the biggest razor I’d ever seen—rubbing it up and down, lovingly, against the palm of his hand. “That-all’s some razor, George!” one of the other waiters said to him. “Take off yo' beard, all right!” “I ain't a-aimin’ to shave with it,” said Kiko, in that honey-dipped voice of his. And he looked straight past me, over my shoulder. I made up some explanation of Broome’s absence that passed muster, even with Carol. She looked annoyed, but that was all. I chevied them ashore, somehow, and got them on the train, and when the porter opened the door of the drawing room, there was Broome, sure enough, shaved and looking fine. I never was so glad to see anyone in my life. Pretty soon I wandered out, and he
It seemed that Broome had made
shore just about the time a freight
E was still pretty nervous as we
Broome, was sitting with Carol, and
he'd pulled down the shade—on account
I could see the people
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of the sun, he said. I kept looking back from my window. Our little engine puffed and wheezed a bit, and gave its best imitation of a whistle, and we began moving, jerkily. And just then Carol leaned forward and pulled up the shade—and in that same moment I saw Kiko come tearing around the end of the other train and start after us, hellbent for election. Lord, but he covered the ground! He was waving his arms, and yelling, and the people stood up, in our car, to look back at him. But, fast as he came, he wasn’t fast enough. We were getting up speed every second, and he couldn't catch us. I was so excited that I yelled, I know. But I stopped, mighty suddenly. For Kiko certainly had more brains than you'd ever have thought. He stopped running the second he saw he couldn't catch the train, instead of running on till he dropped, the way most people would have. For a second he
been afraid to do.
Then he turned and jumped for a buckboard that was tied to a stump— the team was tied, that is. A couple of men ran out in front of him, but he made them jump out of his way, and straightened those two horses out in a gallop in a road that, as I knew only too darned well, led to Doane. It was a rotten road; only a buckboard could make it. But it was miles shorter than the railway.
NEVER looked at Broome until I'd seen Kiko get away with that buckboard. He was pretty shaky. “Kiko!” said Carol—and he groaned. “What in the world's the matter? Tell me at once—” He swallowed once or twice, and stared at her. What could he do? He wasn’t in any shape to think up a lie that would have fooled anyone, much less Carol. And neither was I. So he told her. “It's that nigger you saw—the one with the scar, who waited on us on the boat last night,” he said. “He’s got a grudge against me. He says he's
going to cut my black heart out with
a razor, and I guess he means it.” Carol laughed. She isn't one of those silly, giggling girls. But I wish you could have heard Broome. Anyone would have laughed at him. “But — that's absurd" she said. “Kiko–” “Don’t call me that!” he cried. “That nigger's the real Kiko—” She'd heard the story, of course. But even then she couldn't take it as seriously as we did. “We can have him arrested—” she said. Well, it did seem that there must be something to be done. I thought of appealing to the train crew. But they were obviously pensioners, old and decrepit men, who were too proud really to retire. And there wasn't another man on the train! crowd, there were only women and children. I counted myself in, of course, but I had no illusions about the help I'd be to Broome. Carol was beginning to be frightened. But she was tremendously interested too. She baffled me, rather. Because there were times when I could have sworn, from the way she looked at Broome, that she was tickled to death. Finally I got a clue. She had something on him, at last. Here was old Broome, you see, showing traces— that's understating it, rather—of exactly the sort of human frailty he'd driven us all mad by not having. He was human; he did have nerves; he could be scared. We could see the road at last, and we all kept our eyes glued on it, looking for the first sign of Kiko and his buckboard. We saw nothing of him, but at the landing, while the steamer was still two hundred yards away, Kiko came around the turn in the road, with his horses all in a white lather.
“All right,” said Broome. His voice was almost gay. “So long, you two.” And he went to meet Kiko. It seems
to me that was probably the first really brave thing Broome had ever done— because it was the first thing he'd ever Carol called out
Except for our
after him, but he didn't turn. Kiko had jumped down from his buckboard, and he was running, too, to meet Broome. For just a second I stood perfectly still. I hadn’t expected Broome to go to meet Kiko like that. So he had a good lead before I went after him, and the whole fight was spread out before me, even though I was running toward it as fast as I could. Kiko had something in his hand—his razor, of course. It's hard to describe what happened. And that is because it was so quick. Broome did the only thing that would have given him a chance. If he'd let Kiko get his arms around him, there'd have been no fight. So he left his feet, without ever breaking his stride, when he was still about ten feet from Kiko,
and went for his knees—brought him
down with the sort of flying tackle you see in a big football game. I could hear the grunt that came out of Kiko when he hit the ground. And then, while I still kept running, with some fool idea of trying to get that razor, I could see Broome squirming around, on top of Kiko and reaching for one of his hands. He was after the razor too, I supposed. Kiko was struggling. But he was too late. Just as I got there he let out an unearthly screech, and I saw what had happened. Broome had a hammer lock—he had caught Kiko's wrist, and brought his arm around, so that he was pushing it up, against the joint of the elbow. There wasn't a bit of fight left in Kiko once Broome had that grip working. It hurts worse than anything I know—and if you try to fight it you just break your own arm. Broome straightened up, panting. He loosened his grip, but he still held it, and he called to me. “Get his razor, Bill !” he said. I bent down and pried Kiko's fingers apart. He was muttering and moaning all the time. It was easy enough; he had no strength left. But it wasn't a razor I found—it was a roll of dirty paper money—French money! Broome and I stared at one another, and Broome was so surprised that he let Kiko's wrist go, and the poor negro stood up. “Say, whaffo' yo' go treat me lak that, Misto' Murray Broome?” he said, in the most absurd voice I’ve ever heard —he was so surprised and injured. “I know I done wrong to steal yo’ money— I done got religion before I spen’ it. An' I been tryin' to find yo' to give it back—”
AROL had come up by that time, and she had to hear the explanation. It wasn't Kiko at all, of course; it was some poor devil of a buck private from another company of Broome's regiment who'd stolen a hundred francs from his tent one day in France. Broome had never even missed the money, much less known who'd taken it. Well, Broome gave him fifty dollars, to keep with the hundred francs, and promised to square the buckboard business. So the negro went off, happy. But my idea that Broome's case of nerves would fix up his trouble with Carol didn't work out at all. It wasn't Carol's fault; she was perfectly happy. It was Broome's own black heart, that the real Kiko had sworn to cut out, that got in the way. He sulked all the way to camp. And they had a fright- . ful row that night, and he went back to town the next day ! It's a fact. He'd been trying for weeks to make her marry him. And now, when she was willing to do it, instead of snatching his chance, he turned sulky, because he knew she had something on him. There's no doubt about the wisdom of Solomon when he made that remark about not being able to understand the way of a man with a maid. I put my foot in it, of course. I told Carol he’d come back when he was through sulking. “You’re so clever, Bill, dear,” said Carol. “You know everything, don't you? You know he'll come back. , But do you know whether he'll find me when he does?” I said I didn't. But he did.
EMPERATURES run very high in
boiler furnaces, sometimes exceeding
3,000 degrees F. Even the best materials commercially usable will stand such heat but temporarily.
Fire Brick, built into walls and archways becomes furnace masonry: which is expected to withstand such heats.
But as soon as the “bond" between the bricks begins to disintegrate, crumble, or melt, the life of the fire bricks themselves is immediately threatened.
"Close-up" of fire
rick work set up with No. 31 Refractoru Cement — Note that the heat has not harmed itin the least.
P until a few years ago, no method
of the great heats that modern boilers
The most fire-resistant clays, brick and tile, succumb prematurely to this action, so that boiler plants were forced too frequently into idleness, while the chewed and broken walls of their fire boxes were torn out and replaced by still more food for the fire rat.
To the rectification of these fire clay failures, Johns-Manville has contributed largely, for by research and experiment it has made the science of refractories of practical service to man – an important contribution to conservation and an interesting story as well. The findings are applicable alike to the fire pot in the kitchen stove or to an industrial process of the obscurest sort.
What happens in a boiler fire box
The great weakness, then, in all furnace
Any of these reactions removes the fire clay
By ingenious mixtures
Fire Brick chewed out and cracked after exposure to heat.
age. They are resistant to high temperatures and retard the adhesion of clinkers. It is this treatment that has improved the life of boiler settings many fold.
So successful has Johns-Manville heat treatment been in boiler practice that the application of its materials and principles has extended rapidly in the last few years, and today includes similar treatments for many types of furnaces and processes where high heats are employed.
A list of these materials is given below, together with other heat saving materials that combine to effect the conservation of power, fuel and equipment.
Johns-Manville Refractory Cements; Retort Cement No. 20; Refractory Cements Nos. 31 and 26
for use between bricks;
Joo. as over-all surface coatings. ANVILLE Of great elasticity, these materials accept and Ammonia Insulation, Underground Consovo; brick expansion and contraction without dam- duit Insulation and Insulating Cements. --- --- Trocortunin- JOHNS-MANVILLE, INC., Madison Ave., at 41st St., New York City
New York: 416 West 13th Street. London: 6 Henrietta Street. Covent Garden, W. C. 2
A man stands forth from among them—her captain, of course—and he shouts back: “Who’s in a bad way? She's only rolled down to take a little rest, an’ when I pass her the word, up she'll come bounding”
Captain Joe Gurley
HE was the Mary Gurley of Gloucester and under a two-reefed foresail she was easing herself into the tumbling seas. Sam Leary and Archie Gillis had the watch. From the lee of a piece of tarpaulin lashed to the fore rigging they from time to time would have a look to windward. It was a day of high winds and high seas, and the hard rain came shooting into their faces every time they had a windward look; but otherwise—she being a great vessel hove to, as all men out o' Gloucester well knew—it wasn't the worst kind of a Grand Banks day at all. Just to be doing something, Archie began to dance little jigs and Sam to sing:
In sailin’ through this wide, wide world,
So sang Sam, the same being from the ancient Gloucester Trawler's Toast, and he was going on with more of it when “Sail ho!” roared Archie, and the
By James B. Connolly Illustrated by William B. King
A tiny Gloucester schooner wallowing in tumbling seas. A broken mainmast. Wreckage all about. Through it all the skipper calm. Refusing aid. Resenting the offer. At the end a falling market for fish. A transatlantic liner pounding through the storm. Travelers clinging, anxious. At the end a loving cup for the captain, and a news story of brave seamanship. Mr. Connolly has found his drama among the Gloucester fishermen. The drama is more vital because the actors do not realize it.
hail must have reached the ears of the gang below deck, because almost at once the inquiring head of Joe Gurley came sticking up through the cabin hatchway. “Steamer,” shouted Archie down the deck. “Westbound. A big brute with four funnels an' smoke enough rollin' up from her to cloud out half the heavens. The Great Syndic, hah, skipper?” “That's who. An’ cert’nly steamin' enough.” “To the south'ard of her reg'lar course, ain't she, skipper?” Joe nodded. “Got word of ice driftin' down to the west’ard, prob'ly.” “A few days more and I s'pose it’ll be drivin' us out of here too—hah, skipper?” “If we're here. But give me one more day's good fishin' and off for the Boston market you'll see us
swingin'.” Archie nodded and began humming:
Out the way, for it’s home she’s comin', Her house awash an' her riggin' hummin'!
“Was ever a good vessel built that liked to loaf