Free Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1952 by Wild Dogs of Drowning Creek (v1.1) Page A

Cohill to put the final touches on a small shed,
just below the newly installed water wheel. The shed had a foundation of
stones, and its peaked roof was sheathed with stout cypress shingles left over
from the work on the house. The whole structure was no larger than a big
packing case, but neatly and strongly made.
                 “So
that’s where the electric plant will live,” said Jebs, trotting down to look.
                 “We’ve
got it inside now,” replied Driscoll, “and here’s the belt, ready to run from
pulley to plant.” He twiddled heavy-duty wires protruding from a small hole in
the shed’s wall. “And here are what will light us up
like a Christmas tree.”
                 Jebs
and Randy helped string the wires to the house. Inside, Sam and Jebs secured
the ends to a wiring system that was already connected to fixtures.
                 “Now
all we need is water to get things running,” announced Jebs. “Let’s go outside
and holler for the rain to come down.”
                 “You
won’t have to holler very loud,” said Sam.
                 Just
as he spoke, there came the brisk patter of drops on the roof.
     

           CHAPTER EIGHT
     
                 RANDY
HUNTS ALONE
     
                 The
rain fell heavily all evening. Sam Cohill directed a relaxation of sentry duty,
saying that no dogs, wild or otherwise, would willingly hunt in such a
downpour. At night, the drumming of the storm on the roof and windows lulled
everyone into a deep sleep.
                 Sam’s
guess was right. Not even the vigilant Rebel sensed anything like stealthy
menace outside in the rush of rain. By morning, the torrent had slackened to a
shower. While they dressed, the shower slackened to a drizzle. As Sam Cohill summoned the boys to breakfast, the last
drops fell. The drained clouds shredded apart, and sunlight came through.
                “Give a hand with this
dish-washing,” urged Driscoll, elbow-deep in a pan of steaming hot water.
“Let’s get out and see what’s happening.”
                 “At
least we got our roof on in time,” said Randy, glancing up at the dry rafters
and sheathing.
                 The
dishes done, all three boys hurried into the soggy yard. Jebs, first in the
open, stopped suddenly just beyond the doorway and flung up his hand in a
signal for quiet.
                 “Hark
at that!” he said.
                 Randy
and Driscoll listened. “Something’s roaring,” commented Randy. “It sounds like
a big wind.”
                 “Or
like Niagara
Falls ,”
suggested Sam Cohill , lounging to the doorway like a mighty
statue that had stepped down from its pedestal.
                 “ Falls— that’s it!” cried Jebs. “Come on, let’s take a look at our dam!”
                 And
he was off, like a sprinter at the starting gun. Swift Randy barely overhauled
him at the very stream’s edge.
                 The
night’s heavy rain had filled the stream and brought it to the very top of the
dam. Water gushed over the spillway and down the flume, and the water wheel
turned nimbly and smoothly in its solidly wedged hubs. Over and over turned the
wheel, the buckets in its outer rim scooping themselves full from the descending rush of water and emptying as they trundled around and
down, then rising for more.
                 “How
do you stop that thing to moor on the belt to the generator?” asked Randy.
                 “Easily
enough,” said Sam, stalking up from behind.
                 He
bent down like a living derrick and fitted a gate of planks, rather like a big
lid for a chest, into the rear of the flume. The spouting rush of water ceased,
the wheel’s turning subsided, and Sam braked it to a
halt with a quick snatch of his strong hand.