"That old guy's here again," announced Stan Hicks,
the Model Garage grease monkey. "I sold him two a coupons' worth of gas and
a quart of oil, and he says he wants to talk to you."
"What old guy?" Gus demanded.
"I dunno his name," Stan said. "What I mean is - I
know it, but I can't remember it. Riggs", no, it ain't Riggs. Briggs?
No, that ain't it either. Let's see now - it ain't - "
"It ain't Gunzenhoffer, and it ain't Murphy," Gus
mocked. "For the love of Mike, kid, stop telling me what the man's name
ain't. I asked you what it is!"
"Well, I'm trying to remember it, ain't I?" Stan
answered in an injured voice. "It's the old geezer who brought his car in
here last summer to have the brakes fixed after he'd pretty near bumped a
truck in the bustle. Let's see, now. His name - "
"Let it slide," Gus told him. "His name is
Griggs. I'll go see what he wants right now."
C. Watson Griggs, long our community's leading
citizen, was standing stiffly prim and proper beside the open door of his
12-year-old sedan. Except that he had substituted a square-crowned derby
for his stiff straw and that he wore a velvet, collared topcoat over his
decorous formal suit, he looked exactly as he looked when Gus saw him last
during the summer. But the well-kept spruceness that had been George
Hamby's reward for ceaseless watchfulness and effort was noticeably absent
now that Hamby was in the Army and Mr. Griggs, as he lost no opportunity to
say, was doing his bit by driving himself.
Seeing Gus approach, he gave him a stately but
friendly greeting.
"Morning, Mr. Griggs," Gus responded cheerily.
"Haven't seen you for a long time.
What do you hear from Hamby - and how's the car
running?"
"Hamby," Mr. Griggs said, "has given me cause for
pride. He has his foot on the first rung of the ladder of military
advancement. He wrote me that he had been promoted to the rank of corporal.
"As for my car, although I have observed all the
instructions given me by Hamby when he answered the call to the colors. His
performance has become far from satisfactory. When I allow the motor to run
for a short time with the clutch, disengaged - idling, I believe, is
the proper technical term - it usually stops, causing me severe
embarrassment in traffic. When I drive at low speed the action is jerky and
the vibration unpleasant. On the few occasions when I have exceeded
momentarily the wartime speed limit of 35 miles an hour, the motor has - er
- sputtered in a most disconcerting manner. These manifestations have
become increasingly evident of late. To what, Mr. Wilson, do you attribute
this - er - progressive deterioration?"
It took a desperate effort, but Gus kept his face
straight. His eyes rested on the old car's speedometer, and he saw that
61,307 miles were checked on it.
"Well," he said diplomatically, "your car isn't
new, you know. But it always has had good care, and the chances are that
the trouble is the result of some minor misadjustment. I'll have to do some
checking before I can tell you what it is."
Mr. Griggs consulted a thick gold watch. "The
reason for my being in town today," he said, "is the monthly meeting of the
directors of the First National. I must be at the bank at 10 o'clock. I
propose, Mr. Wilson, to leave my car with you in the hope that you will be
able to remedy the trouble and have the car delivered to me at the bank by
three o'clock this afternoon."
"I'll do my best," Gus promised. He watched Mr.
Griggs make his dignified way across the street to the bus stop. Then Gus
climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine. It idled unevenly
and bucked a couple of times as he drove into the shop.
"It might be the carburetor," he told himself, "but
more likely it's the ignition. Should be easy to find."
He got out and raised the hood. Once back in the
summer he had overhauled the engine. Now it wasn't in quite the apple-pie
condition in which Hamby always had kept it, but it wasn't dirty. Mr.
Griggs obviously had been doing his inexpert best to keep the car up.
Gus started his checking by doing what he always
does first in these days of subnormal gasoline when he is dealing with a
missing engine - he examined the spark plugs. He was agreeably surprised to
find that they weren't fouled or even badly sooted, and evidence that they
had been cleaned recently raised his estimation of Mr. Griggs' mechanical
endeavors although he had to grin at the thought of the leading citizen with
his stiff-cuffed shirt sleeves rolled up and his hands black with carbon.
Closer inspection showed that the points were neither burned nor corroded
and that none of the plugs had cracks in the porcelain.
Then Gus checked the wiring. There were no
excessive voltage drops - which barred a broken wire or loose connection as
the cause of the missing. He tested the coil and condenser, and found both
in good condition.
"Must be the carburetor after all," he thought.
After making certain that there was no obstruction in the fuel line, he
checked the carburetor. It was moderately clean, the float worked properly,
the jets weren't clogged and the intake gasket was tight.
Gus realized that Mr. Griggs had slipped him a
brain twister, and he decided a road test was needed to throw light on a
murky automotive problem. But two miles up the highway and back added
nothing to the information that Griggs had given him - that the engine was
rough in idling and missed occasionally at high speeds.
Back in the shop, Gus went over the wiring again.
Then he scratched his head, lighted his pipe, and did some hard thinking.
After a moment he lifted off the distributor cap and measured the point
setting with a feeler gauge. He found the points set at .020." Consulting
the record he keeps of every engine on which he does an overhaul job, he
found the correct point setting for the engine was .018."
"You're slipping, old boy!" he told himself. "If
Stan hadn't thought of the point setting on a job like this you'd have
called him a dumbbell, and then you go and forget to check it yourself!"
He set the points at .018," and drove out for
another road test.
The engine was rough and still had a high-speed
miss.
Gus was talking to himself as he drove back to the
shop. When he got there he checked the points again.
The setting was .010!"
He squinted at the gauge, and shook his head in
bewilderment. "First time I ever pulled that boner!" he told himself. "I
must be getting careless." He set the points for .Ol8" very carefully, and
rechecked them to make certain he had made no mistake. "That'll do it," he
thought, and drove out to prove it.
The engine performed just as badly as it had on the
previous tests.
Back in the shop, Gus did some more hard thinking.
It got him nowhere, as he rechecked the points once more. They were set for
.026"!
Five minutes later Joe Clark came into the shop and
found his usually cheerful partner with a hand over his eyes. "Hey!" he
said. "What's the matter with you?"
"My eyes have gone bad on me," Gus told him
somberly. "I'll have to go downtown and get 'em examined. Have to wear
specs, I guess."
"So what?" Joe grunted unsympathetically. "I've
had to wear 'em all my life."
"That's different," Gus said with equal lack of
sympathy. "I've always had eyes like a hawk's. Why the devil should they
go back on me now? It's a tough break!"
"Just old age," Joe told him, grinning widely.
"How do you know there's anything the matter with your eyes? Do they hurt
you?"
"No, they don't hurt," Gus said. "But I know
they're shot. Why, I've just set the points in this distributor incorrectly
- twice! That's proof enough... Hey, Stan!" The grease monkey came over to
him. "Check these points for me, will you?"
The car was in gear - Gus had been pushing it back
and forth to turn the engine so the points would open on the high point of
the cam. When Gus handed him the feeler gauge, Stan leaned against the
fender as he examined it. His weight made the car roll a bit, and Gus had
to push it to open the points again.
Stan checked them carefully. "They're set for
.010" "he reported.
"What!" Gus roared. "you're crazy - or I am!"
Suddenly a wide grin split his face. "I'm the one who's crazy," he said.
"Let's have that gauge!"
He checked the points and got the same .010"
reading that Stan had. Then he pushed the car until the points opened on
another cam lobe and checked again. This time the reading was .018".
Gus began to laugh. "What are you so darned happy
about all of a sudden?" Joe demanded. "Half a minute ago you were glooming
because your eyes were shot, and now you're as happy as if your rich uncle
had put in his will."
Eyes?" Gus chuckled. "You needn't worry about my
eyes. They're as good as they ever were and that's plenty good! It's the
old bean that has slowed down, Joe. You'd better watch out or it'll happen
to you, too. I've noticed symptoms!"
Joe told him he was nuts, and went back into the
front office.
"Hey, boss, what's this all about?" Stan asked.
"How can points be set at .010" and set at .018" at the same time? I don't
get it."
"I didn't get it, either not for quite a while,"
Gus said. "And not getting it gave me the scare of my life. Can you
imagine me going around wearing specs?"
Stan grinned at the idea. "But how about those
screwy point settings boss?" he insisted. "What's the answer?"
"The answer to a worn cam that allows a setting of
.018" on one cam lobe while on another it is .010." When I set the points
open on the worn lobe to .018" - which is correct for this particular engine
- the less worn lobe opened the points to .026".
Naturally, that made the engine buck when it idled,
and made it miss at high speeds. We'll install a new cam, and C. Watson
Griggs won't have any more trouble - until next time."
"Yeah - I get it now." Stan said. But what made
the cam wear out of true like that?"
"Use," Gus told him. "This old bus has over 60,000
miles on its clock." He did some figuring on the back of an envelope.
"That means that the points have opened and closed something like 20 million
times. When you have that much wear, any tiny imperfection in the metal or
its hardening can build up to trouble. Another cam, made in the same way,
at the same time and lasted three times as long. This one didn't. Nothing
lasts forever."
"That's right, boss - not even eyes!" Stan said -
and ducked the oily rag that Gus tossed at him.
END
