SHORTLY after I left college, my father died, leaving me, his only son, so well-nigh penniless that I was very glad, indeed, to accept the position which Mr. Eller, an old friend of the family, offered me in his vineyard.
My benefactor’s home was in southern California, a region where the people’s livelihood depends upon grapes and wine-making.
One day, not long after my arrival, the big windmill, which supplied the whole winery with water, got out of order and refused to pump. Mr. Eller examined it carefully, but was unable to learn where the difficulty lay. He came down from the tank much disturbed, for water was a great necessity in that dry country.
“Harry,” he said to me, “you’re something of a mechanic, aren’t you?”
“I did pay a little attention to the study at one time,” I answered, modestly.
“Well, I wish you would try what you can do in the way of fixing that windmill.”
I promised that I would, and Mr. Eller left me.
After supper that night I secured a hammer and a chisel and started for the windmill. I had need to make haste if I expected to accomplish anything that evening, for the days were shortening and already darkness was falling.
The windmill stood some two or three hundred yards from the house directly behind the wine cellar. It was about seventy-five feet high—from the base to the top of the wheel—but in that deceptive twilight it looked like some giant finger reaching to the sky.
I stuck my tools in my coat pocket and began to climb the long ladder which stretched to the top of the tank. From thence it would be easy to reach and manipulate the wheel.