TESTS
“I suppose now we’ll all get blown up, or poisoned, or something,” Bill said to Tony, after telling of the eclipse of Luigi Malatesta.
“Oh, no; the Malatesta are foemen worthy of our steel, to agree by an English poet; is it not?”
“‘Foeman worthy of a steal,’ I guess you mean,” laughed Gus.
“Yes, that’s more like it. I wouldn’t trust that pig-faced villain across a ten-acre lot with a ten-cent piece!” declared Bill.
“The soul of honor doesn’t dwell in a husky guy who’d strike a cripple,” said Gus. “And I bet a cow he’s going to stir up more trouble around here before he quits maneuvering.”
Tony made no reply, but stood for a long time, gazing at the floor. Presently only the sound of tools and machines was heard in the shop.
It is not probable that Luigi told of the precise outcome of his clash with Bill and Gus, though he may have said enough to influence sophomore sentiment against Bill’s standing in the school. At any rate, the feeling grew in strength and spread until it became a subject of comment among freshmen and seniors who were inclined to sympathize with the brainy and keen-witted lame boy. At least he had many friends, both high and low, and most of the teachers admired him openly.
So far the sentiment had been rather more doubtful and erratic than determined. There had been nothing to warrant the assumption that Bill thought himself more intelligent than the sophomores, or members of his own class. His radio knowledge was somewhat a thing apart and in that he shared with the less obtrusive Gus.
And then the lightning struck, suddenly and hard. Once each week an outsider from the engineering department of some big industrial plant, or large university, lectured to the entire student body of the Marshallton Tech in the assembly-room, and there were some of these talkers who got much pleasure out of it. Not only was it interesting to hold forth to a lot of eager, responsive boys on subjects that elicited their curiosity, as the building of great dams and bridges, the tunneling under mountains, the erection of mighty machines, but it was also diverting to hear their various comments which also led to a comparative estimate of their understanding.
Davidson, chief mechanical engineer of a great mill building corporation, was especially interested in the personal equation concerning the students, particularly after Bill Brown bad asked him a lot of questions, some of which he had replied to rather lamely. Even more as a matter of getting back at this young investigator who sat with a crutch held before him and regarded these replies with a smile than for the desire to measure minds, Davidson gathered a few catch problems that were stumpers, and upon his third visit, after talking awhile he switched off on the subject of problems, short cuts to solutions and then put a question, looking hard at Bill, as though uttering a challenge.
“Now, how would you go about it,” he shot at his audience, “if you were asked to measure the cubic contents of an electric light bulb?”
A number of smiles greeted the question; these may have been from lads mostly in the advanced courses who knew the trick. The lecturer asked for hands to be raised by those who thought they could do it, and noting with satisfaction that the crippled boy was not among the number who responded, he began hearing them, one at a time.
“Measure it outside and allow for the thickness of the glass,” said one fellow.
“But how about the carbon inside?” asked Davidson.
“Break the glass and measure the loop,” called out a soph.
“How many of you would go at it in that way?”
A number of hands went up, some rather reluctantly, as though their owners scented a trick.
Davidson still eyed the cripple. “How would you do it?” he asked.
Bill shook his head and said, “It is that old trick of Edison’s and it’s dead easy. I guess a good many of our fellows know about it. You simply punch a hole in the bulb, fill it with water, pour it back and measure the water.”
“Yes; that’s right. It is really the only sure way,” said the man, his manner showing disappointment.
“Oh, no; it isn’t, begging your pardon. Oh, no, not the only way,” said Bill.
“Well, now, how else——”
“Put water in a graduated glass, stick the bulb in up to the plaster seal and note the increase. Then break the glass and the carbon and put that in separately, deducting the last amount from the first.”
Davidson scratched his head. “Yes; that would do it, of course, too, but——”
“But you said the other was the only way,” insisted Bill.
“Oh, well, the only quick and sure way. Of course, there are other methods.”
“I’m sorry to have to disagree with you, but my method is just as sure and quicker.”
“It might do—it might do! You seem to be ready with short cuts in mechanics. How would you quickly divide a board seventeen and three-eighths inches wide into five equal parts? Can anyone here do it?”
“That’s easy,” said Bill.
“Well, then, how about this one? If a pint cup——”
“Your question about dividing the board is too interesting to pass over so hastily,” interrupted Professor Search. “If you will pardon me, I would suggest that Brown go to the board and demonstrate it.”
“Will you let Grier do it? He knows that old trick, and he is handier with the chalk than I.”
Gus went forward, took a two-foot rule from his pocket and laying off two parallel lines seventeen and three-eighths inches apart, laid the rule diagonally across them so that the space would measure twenty inches. Then he ticked off at the figures four, eight, twelve and sixteen. Laying the rule straight across from an outer line to the first tick he turned and announced:
“Each space is practically three and fifteen-thirty-seconds inches.”
This brought forth something like applause, along with many very audible remarks, such as: “Pretty cute.” “Handy.” “Where’d he get it?” “Can’t fool either of ’em, can you?” “Those fellows are practical, that’s sure.”
Mr. Davidson smiled sort of absently. He had to give approval, but dropped the question rather abruptly, going back to his last problem.
“Now, see if you can tell me this: I have a half-pint cup even full of water, the liquid exactly level with the edge of the glass. About how many one-inch brads must I drop into the cup before the water overflows? Water, you understand—not oil, nor molasses. This is an old experiment and it concerns a well-known physical law. If anyone has seen it done he will kindly remain silent. Now, who will make a guess as to the number of nails?”
Every brow was wrinkled, except those of a few conclusion jumpers of whom there must be some in every crowd. One of these latter fellows shouted at once: “About a half dozen and it’ll slop over!”
“It’ll take only one or two,” said another.
“Not more than a dozen, anyway.”
But the others, mostly lads capable of real mental exercise, were all cudgeling their brains. It was a subject which had much to be taken into consideration. Presently one senior spoke up:
“It ought to take more than an ounce of them.”
“Nearly as much, anyway.”
“More. That’ll fool you mightily.”
“It looks as though a few brads would do it, but it will take a lot.”
“And why?” asked Mr. Davidson. “Come, what do you say about this?” He again appealed to Bill, turning then also to Gus.
“Well, sir, I think I can see that it will take nearly all of that box of brads, perhaps a hundred. It is a matter of cohesion and even water possesses that, so that to overflow, it will have to rise a good deal above the rim. The area of the glass plus the rise that will be required for the overflow will be, in solid contents, easily as much as that box of loosely filled brads; if they were melted down they wouldn’t be greater than the water area. It is a good deal like the loading of a boat: the displacement is a uniform, compact mass; the load is a jumble with more air space than material. And it is like the floating of a heavy iron pot.”
For answer the lecturer turned and drew a half-pint of water in a glass, brought from his pocket a box of brads and began dropping, one at a time and counting, them into the water. There was profound silence. As the number increased, reaching above two score of the small nails, there began to be heard comments here and there.
“Zowie! Who’d a thunk it?”
“Better just dump ’em all in and start over.”
“Don’t reckon those nails are soaking the water up; eh?”
“If it were molasses you could fill it half full of brads before it would slop over.”
“Say, look, he’s up to sixty! Would you believe that?”
“Hey there, Fatty, you guessed one nail; didn’t you——”
“Sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy; looks to me like a spill pretty soon.”
“It’ll drown a lot of people.”
Mr. Davidson stopped dropping the nails into the tumbler and held up his hand.
“There it goes, boys—the first drop over! Eighty-two brads. You can see who guessed best. The cohesion of the liquid explains it, as our young friend here has said. I’m glad you have one thinker among you. Now I want to tell you something about the installation of machinery by individual motors driven by a central generator, as compared to the drive from a mill long countershaft and pulleys.” And he proceeded with his talk.
Yes, the lightning had struck. From this moment the respect shown to Bill, and to Gus also, by those who had no desire to do otherwise was really almost overdone, his classmates being generally proud of him, and the teachers and seniors pleased to have him a member of the school. But the sophs mostly grew more inclined to consider both boys a menace to their peace of mind.