Trustee from the Toolroom
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When his sister’s boat is wrecked in the Pacific, Keith Steward becomes the trustee for his little niece. In order to save her from destitution he has to embark on a voyage in a small yacht in inhospitable waters.
likely to get hurt, no damage to the motor either. I don’t care about high-voltage current in the mill, any more than the chains. ‘Manny’s got the drawings and the specifications on the table there,’ he said. ‘I wondered if you’d care to take a look at them.’ ‘I’d like to very much,’ said Keith. ‘I don’t know that I’d be able to help much, you know. It’s not as if I was a consulting engineer.’ ‘No. But you’ve been around a bit. I’d appreciate it if you’d look the scheme over.’ Keith crossed
trying to sort it out on the plane,’ he said, ‘but it’s all foreign, so it wasn’t too easy. I didn’t have to spend very much.’ He pulled a muddled sheaf of notes from his breast pocket, with a black wallet of traveller’s cheques. He shuffled the pack. ‘There’s a pound note,’ he said, pulling it from the mess. ‘And there’s another. These things must be francs. You see what you can make of it.’ He passed the lot to her. She opened the little wallet. ‘There’s forty pounds here that you haven’t
man’s instructions, and he had written later to say that the cruise had been interrupted. Sooner or later Solly Hirzhorn meant to fit Ferris hydraulics as a trial installation in one of his mills, on all of the conveyors. Amongst the many accidents that happened in the lumber business a man caught in the flying chains and sprockets of the conveyors was the most horrible; it always made the newspapers in all its gory detail. It created too much adverse comment. Sooner or later he would have to fit
He lived at Midlake, close outside Seattle. Here his small son had several model aeroplanes fitted with mass-production compression ignition motors, and he had spent many hours contracting a sore finger twiddling the props to try to make them go. He was very familiar with small motors of that sort. This, which he now held cradled in his hand, was something totally different. It was a four-cycle motor, for a start, with tiny valves and valve springs and push rods, beautifully miniaturised,
suburban type, content to go along upon a miserable salary for the sake of doing the work he loved, with a wife who was prepared to work in order that he should maintain that way of life. There was no deceit about this man. That was important, for she had little confidence in Chuck Ferris. He was too anxious to sell his hydraulics, to get in to the lumber industry. Jim Rockawin was better, but not much. Seventeen hundred thousand dollars for the conversion of the Flume River mill was quite a