January1961
GUS TAMES A TOUGH BIRD
byMartinBunn
Buckingandsnorting,aThunderbirdrolleduptheapronoftheModelGarage,stalled,andslidbackatrifle. StanHicks,Gus’sassistant,hurrieduptoit. “Oh,it’sMr.Kenquist,”hesaid. “Seeyougotanothercar.”
Thelean,lantern-jaweddriverangledhimselfoutpastthewindshieldcorner. “Needanewfuelpumpquick. Gotone?”
“Yessir. Areyousureit’spumptrouble,though? Icouldcheck—“
“Notime. IknowwhatIwant.”
StanlookedappealinglyatGus,whohadcomeouttoreadthepumpregisters.
“Morning,Mr.Kenquist,”saidGus. “Doessoundasifgasisn’tgettingthrough,butwhynotletusmakesurebeforeyoupayforanewpump?”
“Giveyoufiveminutes,”agreedKenquistgrudgingly. “Nomore.”
Standisconnectedthepumplineatthecarburetor,heldacanunderit,andbrieflycrankedovertheengine. Ascanttrickleofgascameout. “Sureisn’tpumping,”hesaid. “Couldbeapluggedgasline.”
Kenquistsnorted. “Sooneryouputinafuelpump,soonerIcango.”
NeverthelessStanbegantoloosenthecouplingbetweenpumpandtank. Then,abruptly,itstopped. Notadropofgasappearedattheopencoupling. ThoughtfullyStanretightenedit.
“Well,whatnow?”askedKenquist. “Wouldyoutryyourengineagain.”
Blackeyebrowsscowling,Kenquistgotinthecarandturnedthestarteronbriefly—withoutresult. “ToldyouIneedanewpump.” “Tryabitlonger,”urgedStan. Angrily,Kenquistresumedcranking. Suddenlytheenginefiredup. Itransmoothly,butKenquistgotoutnomorepleasedthanbefore.
“Itranthismorning. Itrunsnow. That’snoproofitwillkeepgoing.”
“Don’tsupposeitwill,”returnedStan. “Let’ssee.” Heheldthethrottlerodatafastrun. Theenginefirsttookitwell,thenbegantorunrough.
“There!”criedKenquist. “Ifthatdoesn’tproveIneedanewfuelpump,whatdoesitprove?”
“Maybethatyouneedagascap,”remarkedStan. “Didyouchangeit?”
“Itfelloffonatrip,”saidKenquist,followingStantothebackofthecar. “OfcourseIgotanewone.”
QuietlyStanbegantotwistoffthetankcap. Asitcamefree,therewasawhooshofinrushingair.
“Theysoldyouanun-ventedcap,”explainedStan,“oneforacarthathasaseparateventtube. Thiscaphasnoholetoletairinasgasispumpedout. Whenthevacuuminsideisthesameasyourfuelpump’spull,yougetnogas.
“What! It’sactedupseveraltimes,buttheenginealwaysstartedagain.”
“Sure. Airslowlyleaksin. Youdriveawhile,andthenthevacuumbuildsup. WhenIdisconnectedthetanklineupfront,itdrewinair. Thenthepumpcoulddelivergasagain.”
“Hmmph. Gottherightcap?”askedKenquist. “I’lldemandarefundonthisone.” Grinningabitsmugly,StanreturnedtotheshopasKenquistdroveoff.
“Isn’thetheonewhowouldn’tchangehisengineoil?”askedGus.
“Yeah. Heswappedcarsbutnotdispositions. Sourasever. Allsettobuyafuelpump,butnotakindwordwhenIfixhimupforthepriceofagascap.”
“Ihearditall,”Gusadmitted. “Goodjob. Youdidn’tevenwastetime,asIwouldhave,doingtheonethingthatwasn’tnecessary.”
“What’sthatyou’dleavehavedone?”
“Checkedthegasgaugefirst,”answeredGuswithagrin. “Tomakesuretherewasgastopump.”
DarknesslayonthesuburbancountrysideasGusdrovebackfromaroadcalllateafternoon. Roundingacurve,hecameonapairoftaillightsstoppedahead. Besidethematallmanwavedanurgentsignal. Comingtoahalt,Gusrecognizedboththesportssedananditsgauntowner. “Troubleagain,Mr.Kenquist?”
“ToldyouryoungsmartaleckIneededanewfuelpump,”snappedtheblack-browedman. “Itusedtostartupagaininawhileafteritquit. Nowitwon’tevendothat.”
“GladIhappenedalong,”saidGus,peeringatthedash. “Gotplentyofgas,Isee. Isthisgaugereliable?”
“Absolutely. Besides,Ifilledupjustthismorning. Haven’tgonefarenoughtoburnatankful.”
“Justletmegetatroublelightandwe’llseewhatcanbedone.” “Noyoudon’t,”snappedKenquist. “Gotadinnerengagement—businessdinner. Notimetofoolaround. Youtowmeback,keepthecarovernight. Seeyouinthemorning.” “Ifthat’showyouwantit,”agreedGus. “ButImightbeabletofixitrighthere—saveyouatowcharge.”
Lanternjawset,Kenquistshookhishead. Gusbackedthewreckerintopositionforthetow,andhauledtheThunderbirdin. ButneitherhenorStangotaroundtocheckingitthen.
“Plentyofgasonthegauge,”Stanreportedthenextmorning. “Butnonepumpsthrough. Sureisnoairblocknow. Nothing’spluggedeither. Iputaironthetankline,andcouldhearitwhistlewaybackinthetank.”
“That’sinteresting,”saidGus. “Becauseitoughttogurgle.” Stanlookedathim,thenburstintoalaugh. “Oh,no! Youmeanthegaugeisstuckandoldbeetle-browssimplyranoutofgas?”
“That’snotpossible,”saidafrigidvoice. MorningsunlightthrewKenquist’slongshadowontheshopfloor. “Ifilledthetankanddroveonly150miles.”
“Supposeweputinonegallonandtrytheengine?”suggestedGus.
“Goahead,”grumbledKenquist. “Theninstallanewfuelpump.”
Fromacan,Stanpouredonegallonintothetank. Aftermoderatecranking,theenginetookholdwithadeeproar.
“Doesn’tseemlikeabadfuelpump,”remarkedGus. “It’syourgasgauge.”
“Fillthetank,”orderedthelantern-jawedman. “Itholds20gallons,butyouwon’tgetin10.”
ObedientlyStanranthecartoapumpandstartedfuelflowingin. Kenquistwatchedthepumpmeter. Tengallonspouredin. WithaninwardgrinStanopenedthehosevalvefarther.
Suddenlygassurgedupandoutofthefillerneck,splatteringhimbeforehecouldshutitoff. Thetankwasbrimfull. WithoutawordKenquistreturnedtotheshop.
“Shetook101/2gallons,Boss,”reportedStanaminutelater. “Fullup.”
Gusfrowned. “Butthatmodeldoeshavea20-gallontank—andtheairdidn’tgurgle. You’dbetterputitonthelift.”
LipspursedKenquiststoodbyasStanraisedthecar. Guswalkedunderitwithalight. Thetankshowednotraceofleakage. Butonesideofitwascavedin.
Stanwhistled. “Lookslikeoneofthosesideshowboyswhocansuckinhisstomach.”
CautiouslyKenquistduckedunderthelift. “Whatisit?”
Gusflashedthelightonthecollapsedtank. “Withthatunventedcap,thefuelpumpcreatedquiteavacuuminthetank. Thatletoutsideairpressureshoveinthiswall,andthat’swhythetankholdsonly11gallon.”
“Notenough. Goingtobeanuisanceonlongtrips,”saidKenquist.
“Maybewecanpullitout,”musedGus.
“ShallIhookanairhosetoit,Boss?”askedStan.
“There’satoolmightdoitfaster,”musedGus. “Gogetit,Stan. It’sinthestoreroom.”
Stanwasmomentarilypuzzled. Thenhisfacelitup. “Oh,thatone!”
Kenquistretreatedintofrowningsilence. InamomentStanwasbackwithacommon“plumber’shelper”—abigrubbersuctioncuponastick.
Wipingthetankclean,Gusappliedasmearofgreasearoundthesuctioncups,seateditfirmlyinthecenterofthetank,andgaveitasharppull. Withaloudclickthedentsnappedout.
“There’syour20gallonsback,”saidGus,wipingthegreaseoff. “Thatdentisprobablywhatjammedyourtankfloat. Ithinkyourgasgaugewilltellthetruthfromnowon.”
Kenquist’slipsquiveredinaghostofasmile. “Hardthingtogetat—the truth-isn’tit,Mr.Wilson?”hegrunted. “Wouldhavebeeneasierforyoutosellmeanewfuelpump…Butitwouldn’thavesolvedmyproblem.”
“Notonlythat,”Gusgrinned. “ButnowI’vegotafull-sizetanktofillupwhenyoustopinforgas. I’drathersell20gallonsthan10,anyday.”
END