“I know, but there’s not much chance of that,” Tom sighed. “If old Si Perkins couldn’t catch him napping, I’m afraid we can’t.”
“Never say die, Tom,” Dick said, gaily. “A day like this makes you feel equal to anything.”
“So say I,” Bert added, heartily. “Say, do you see that mill in front of us? Well, that belongs to Herr Hoffmeyer, and it’s one of the classiest little mills I ever saw.”
“It sure is working some, but where do they get the power?” Dick asked.
“Why, there’s a dam right back of the mill. You can’t see it from here, but when we get a little nearer I’ll point it out to you. See,” he added, as they neared the mill, “isn’t that a great arrangement. Alongside the mill there is a narrow, deep sluice. In this is arranged a large paddle wheel and, as the water rushes through, it acts on the paddles and turns the wheel. By a system of cogs the power is then transmitted to the grinding stone.”
“That sure is fine,” said Tom. “I don’t know that I have ever had a chance to see a working mill at such close range. Just look how the water rushes through that sluice. I wouldn’t like to get in the way.”
“Nor I,” said Dick. “The current must be very strong the other side of the dam.”
“You bet your life it is. If anybody should get caught in it, I wouldn’t give that,” snapping his fingers, “for his chance of life.”
At this moment a bald-headed, red-faced man appeared at the door of the mill. He regarded the boys with a broad smile on his face as he carefully dusted his hands on his white apron.
“Goot morning, young shentlemens,” he said, affably. “Fine morning, fine morning, fine morning,” and after each repetition of this sentiment he shook his head vigorously and his smile became broader.