"DOING HIS BIT."
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(Leaves from a "Loader's" Log-book.) By Fred Gillett.
ON selecral recent occasions I have journeyed by road in the capacity of selfappointed, honorary, amateur " loader " to a one-ton lorry.. The shifting of heavy weights has never been a hobby of mine ; my shifting powers being usually confined to beer and responsibilities. However, Jason, who drives the lorry, told me that the niceties of the law would not allow him to take a first-class passenger, so I must go as his " loader."
When he mentioned that he was going to take a load of "twelve mantels " I saw no objection to accompanying him and giving him a hand with them. My previous experience of "mantels" visualized them as those flimsy little things like mushrooms which are placed on gas-burners, and I could not imagine why a one-ton lorry should be chartered to convey twelve of these gossamer trifles to Bolton. When I reached the warehouse where we were to take our cargo aboard and discovered that it was not gas-mantles, but twelve large mantel-pieces made of oak and walnut and marble, with grates and fireirons complete, I remembered that I had forgotten my gloves, and told Jason that I would look round a bit later. By that time he had got_the goods on board, s6 I was too late to assist in the loading.
As it was a pouring wet day I am unable to find printable words to describe the local scenery which surrounds the industrial towns of Eccles, Bury and Wogden, through which we passed. The finest landscape is handicapped when it has to accommodate coal-dumps and factory chimneys. The scenery in these parts was probably laid up about 100 years ago and has never been renewed.
It was my first visit to Bolton ; so, on reaching the spot where we were to dump the mantels, I naturally lost no time in hurrying away from the lorry in order to make a brief inspection of the town. It was about six o'clock in the evening, and I could hear the feet of the mill-hands—that sounds wrong—I mean, I could hear the clatter of the innumerable wooden clogs 'which are worn on the trotters of Bolton wanderers. Alter listening to this pleasant patter for about twenty minutes I hastened back to the lorry, to give a hand in uploading the mantels. I arrived just '-too late, for the last mantel had been unloaded, and there was nothing for it but to load ray pipe, and take my seat beside the driver, with that Village-ble,cksmithy feeling of something attempted, nothing _doing. And so home; Nothing remained but to jot down the wayside pressions I had picked up and unload them on the reader.
The Second Bit. •
My next experience as a 'loader" involved the conveyance of the working parts of a military band (including about 16 cwt. of bandsmen) to a public park, where the band would 'play from 3 to ö and from 7 to 9. Some of the musical instruments, such as the trombones and big drum, looked very ponderous, and, as I watched the stout and hefty bandsmen heave them up on the back of the lorry, I admired their graceful swing and display of skill.
There was one particularly,large case, about the size and shape of a coffin, which contained either the big bass violoncello or the body , of Tut-ankh-men. As loader, I wished to do my bit—however small— but did not wish to appear greedy, so I selected the smallest box I could see and took it by one of ite handles whilst a stout bandsman took the other, and we proceeded to swing it up by our united efforts."One—two—three—now l ' At the word " Now! " his end went up, but mine did not. On inquiry I found that this box was full of pieces of cast-iron which constitute the component parts of the music stands. So, not wishing to injure these delicate instruments, I left the loading of the other boxes in abler hands.
After these exertions it was restful to listen to light opera from 3 to 5. Then we had tea, and at the festive board I helped to load up. I loaded up a lot of cold beef, salad, stewed fruit, custard and cake, and did my bit thoroughly. As I listened to the band again from 7 till 9, I felt full of satisfaction to think that I had been instrumental in transporting the tuneful trombone and bringing the big drum into touch with the ear-drums of the audience, and BO soothing any savage breasts that might be at large.
And so home again, with another lot of stray notes unloaded.
The Third Bit.
My third journey as a loader-up of considerable trifles was a soft job compared with my two previous efforts. In fact, on this occasion I had nothing to do hut look on and lie law.
A noble lord who owns a large estate in the country was about to give a feast to his tenants, at which feast there was to be ham and lamb and the usual extras. To cheer, but not to inebriate, the villagers some large tea-urns had to be conveyed from a town caterer's to the noble lord's mansion, and the one-tonner was indented for. Besides the tea-urns and some large zine jugs, we carried on board the butler who was to act as master of ceremonies at these well-urned festivities.
Iehave always known that a butler beats a bishop for dignity and gravity of demeanour, but never realized the extent of a butler's lielf-control until I saw him, so to speak, under fire. The one-tonner, in spite of its many merits, has its playful little ways at times, and one of these is a !trick of working loose the connecting nut on its exhaust pipe' so that the voice of the engine, instead of travelling by tube and trembling away among the broken melodies of the silencer, pops direct out of the engine like a jack-in-the-box and jazzes up under
the floorboards and round the feet of thor occupants of the "cab." Bang ! Bang-bang !—like Chitty-only more so.
This suddenness was a severe test of the butler's immovable dignity born of an unendorsed character from his last place. He did not start, as a common person mighte but at each bang he started to start and then, remembering that he was a butler, nipped himself in the bud, as it were, and throttled down each recurring tendency to jump in his seat. It was
B20 a severe ordeal for him, but, he sat it out without turning a cat's whisker. A few turns of a King Dick tightened the nut and saved the butler from internal combustion due to super-suppression of his startling apparatus.
The Fourth Bit.
Another playful little trick of this particular onetooner is played by its radiator. It is probably a radiator of a particularly excitable disposition. When it bubbles over withqooiIing joy, I often think
it might take a lesson in deportment and selfsuppression from the butler. But it never does. It is a self-startling radiator. It is always asking for trouble—also for more—not trouble for itself but for its poor relation the engine and for those whose duty it is to quench ite chronic thermo-siphon thirst.
Fortunately, filling a rapacious radiator is no part of a loader's duty. If it were, I should have to throw up my job as loader. I would no more think of tampering with a hot radiator cap than I would of fooling about with a stiff starting handle. A loaderup, like a looker-on, sees most of the game. Once the goods are loaded up, I consider the loader's job is finished, and he can rest on his barrels.
On the fourth occasion on which I acted as loader (without portfolio) we went round collecting cans of milk from outlying farms. Milkcans are heavy, even when empty. Fortunately, we took with us a dairyman who understood human kindness, and after my varying experiences as a loader of many cargoes I must say that the dairyman and the farmers we visited handled those heavy milkcans in a masterful manner. It seemed to take a load off my mind to watch them. Even a loader must ea' canny at times.
The collection of dairy produce of that ilk caused me to get up at the small and early hour of 5 a.m.an hour at which, I think, all self-respecting loaders should be in.bed and asleep. Watching the day dawn was a novel experience, certainly, and the sun rose in a wealth of golden clouds regardless of expense. By eight o'clock we had collected about a dozen gross of gallons of milk, and then we turned our, bonnet homeward. I had-never come home with the milk so late before.
About that radiator. On the way home it showed exceptional friskiness. Perhaps it thought we wanted some hot water for tea to go with the milk, It boiled and steamed. We gave it all the water we had on board in a petrol can. It swallowed it; and
still asked for more. We drove several miles across the moors without finding any more liquid refreshment to give it. I suggested giving it milk, but the dairyman put the lid on that.
The radiator continued to glory in its hot-stuffiness and bubbled and chuckled over the poor hot engine. At last we steamed into a town where there was a garage. The radiator cap was taken off and it laughed up soda-fountains of scalding steam and spray. But it laughed its last. Outside that garage there was a man with a long hose-pipe, washing down a taxi. The radiator of our one-tonner evidently supposed that it was just going to be treated to a small cooling draught and have the usual jugful of cold protection poured into it. Imagine how sick it felt when the hose-pipe was turned into it! It had the shock of its life and has since adopted the slogan of Mr. Ford's presidential candidate, "Keep Coolidge] "
FRED. GILLETT.