THE OUTLAV
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By Hamish McTavish
and we were in full flight backwards! The back of my head suddenly crashed hard against the cab and we came to a sudden standstill—no, not quite to a standstill, we were still moving slowly.
George gave a wild whoop and, leaping out of the cab, ran to the back of the trailer Still a little shaken, I leaned out of the cab and looked behind to find that we were slowly pushing a tram down the hill. I could hear George yelling encouragement to the tram driver: " Owd them ruddy brakes on, ye b , ! "
A stream of sparks was rising from the skating wheels of the tram and the driver's face was growing paler and paler as the sand poured uselessly on to the smoking flanges.
. . When He's Down"
Finally we came to a standstill. We had a certain amount of uncensored conversation with the tram driver and then went off to find a blacksmith in Hollinwood, who soon forged a new pin for the broken chain. He refused to charge for it. " Don't be daft," he protested, not when yer broke down. . ."
The sun as setting when we reached the outskirts of Burnley. The water in the tank was getting low, but 1 knew a good horse trough outside the town It was illegal, of course, but as I have said before, we were outlaws
I was rolling up the hosepipe when I heard George talking.
" Tha means to.stond theer an' tell me as th' Almighty sends down all this 'ere rain just for donkeys and cart-horses and bobbies to sup. . ." A rosy-cheeked young constable was listening to him with a silly grin on his face.
"What abaht steam-wagons? " queried George. " Dusta think as th' Almighty would stand by an' watch 'em go thirsty?" The hose was stowed now In a flash we mounted the cab and left the puzzled fellow still grinning feebly
Going Downhill I always hated the descent into Burnley. As George was his mother's sole support I made him follow me on foot. Then slowly, ever so slowly, I crept over the top of the hill.
The aforementioned designer of my steam-wagon had a theory that the use of the reversing lever would provide an adequate retardation when going down hills In practice, what usually happened, and happened now, was that the steel-tyred rear wheels revolved merrily in reverse on the slippery cobbles and the vehicle careered down the hill with everincreasing momentum.
The trailer, not even discouraged by backward revolving wheels, always tried to overtake the lorry. Consequently, by alternate wrenchings of the steering and my neck 1 fought desperately to keep the lorry in front of the trailer, descending the hill in a series, of partly controlled slides Such was a normal descent. The abnormal ones are recorded at the back of the family album.
We spent the night at a lodging house, I shared a bed with George, knowing from past experience that he would slowly rotate in a clockwise direction until he looked like a mummy. For once I did not mind. It was a 'warm night and the sheets did not look very clean in any case.
We delivered our load at the flour mill and were on the road again at 8 a.m. Never before had we carried such a load-23 tons of bagged flour! It did not enter my head to protest. My employer never turned away. money.
Approaching the hill leaving Burnley, I looked at the pressure, gauge. We had 250 lb. per sq. in, in the boiler. This . was our "limit." Two thin wisps of steam were arising from the safety valves.
Backwards Downhill George threw on several shovelfuls of coal and I slowly and steadily opened the throttle valve, Reaching the steep part of the climb, our speed slackened to a snail's pace—slower, and slower, and slower—until at last we stopped, then slipped backwards with the trailer wheels in the gutter.
George knew what to do. He threw a piece of sacking over the safety valves and, climbing on top of the boiler, stood with his two feet firmly placed on them. Taking the shovel, I began to stoke up. After 10 minutes or so the pressure had risen to 310, Jan unprecedented height.
Thrusting from my mind the vision of George's widowed mother, I continued to throw on coal until the pressure had risen to 350. This seemed a nice, round figure. Hurriedly throwing on four more shovelfuls for luck, I grabbed at the throttle and opened it wide.
Cold Feet ?
Nothing seemed to happen, until slowly and painfully, wheezing all the way, inch by inch, foot by foot, we crawled out of the gutter until at last, after what seemed an age, we rattled over the brow of the hill with George clinging precariously to the front of the cab and praying for the moment when he could remove his broiling feet from the scalding bath that surrounded him.
' The remainder of our journey was, in the main, uneventful, A steady procession at approximately 3 m.p.h. brought us to Manchester in the late evening. I think I should, however. mention one little incident that happened in the Cliviger Gorge.
The abnormal coal consumption during our struggle out of Burnley had upset my plans. We could not possibly reach Todmorden coal sidings on the scrap of coal remaining in the bunker, and we found ourselves, at midday, marooned in the depth of the Cliviger Gorge.
Completely baffled for once, I followed George's example and
started to eat my dinner. There was still enough pressure in the boiler to brew our tea from the blow-down cock, and I put my half-boiled duck egg in the kit of tea and waited 2 minutes for the boiling process to be completed. I was deep in thought as I ate my peeled egg and, finding no inspiration in George's vacant face, half-obliterated by bread and cheese, I turned and raised my face to the hills.
High up on the side of the gorge could be seen the workings of an open-face coal seam with little trucks on rails descending to within several yards of the road; little trucks containing gleaming black lumps of precious coal!
Official Attention suppose the more bitter of my Tory friends would say that I showed a bad Socialist streak in my make-up that day. I know I did, not hesitate tor one moment. As the last lump had been heaved into the bunker, however, and we were seated once more in the cab wiping the coal dust off our hands and faces, a policeman's helmet appeared at the side of the cab.
Shades of Strangeways crossed my guilty mind, This was the end. I am certain I saw a triumphant leer on the constable's ruddy face. He spoke slowly and deliberately.
" Dusta know tha's getten a 'ole in one of thy sacks o' flour an' it's all runnin out?"