We did not find on our pilgrimage a turbine suitable for us, but we did find the brilliant foliage of the hills and mountains, the quiet patience of the roads, and the beauty of the small towns of New England.
A few weeks later our fast trip in upper New England paid off, for we heard by mail of a turbine that seemed might be just right for our purposes. Chuck Stanley gave us the loan of his truck and George and I, fortified by a packed lunch, hot coffee, and sandwiches, started out at 4:00 A. M. one Sunday morning for Livermore Falls, Maine.
There, we found on the side of a hill an old turbine weighing about two ton, and after poking about this monster we decided we could use it.
The task of loading this beast upon the truck seemed formidable, so we finally located a mountaineer who possessed an oversized auto wrecker, and backing our truck against a strategic hump on the side of the hill we proceeded to load the turbine on the truck. The wrecker hooked onto the turbine, but the turbine proved too much for it, so much so that it turned it over on its side.
A goodly crowd had by this time gathered to watch the operation, and enlisting the aid of some husky boys, we finally managed to push the wrecker back on its four wheels.
Friend George, in his unruffled manner, soon had the turbine on the truck, and we fell to the task of shoring it up with chunks of wood, plank and chalks. We could vividly imagine what would happen if this baby got away from us going down some mountain, so we took a long time in lashing it securely to the truck.
Of course, George could not let the day go by without shouting,
“Harold, where is the shingle?”
“Didn’t bring one,” I replied.
Then followed an impassioned speech by friend George from the tailboard of the truck to the assembled populace, extolling the virtues of shingles and decrying the negligence of the author in not bringing at least one shingle to Maine.