Doosan Forklift EPC [11.

2012] Full

Doosan Forklift EPC [11.2012] Full

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Doosan Forklift EPC [11.2012] Full Language : English Type: Parts catalogue for
Doosan (Daewoo) forklifts Version : 11-2012 CD/DVD : 1 CD Win : Windows XP,
Windows 7 Date : 11-2012 Model List: ELECTRIC POWERED TRUCKS 1 Ton
B13/15/18/20T2(SB1041) PARTS BOOK(FB/FC/FD/D7) B13/16R5(SB1088)
PARTS BOOK(KZ/L1/L2/L3) B13/18T (SB1001) PARTS BOOK(91/92/93)
B13/18T2(SB1025) PARTS BOOK(CF/CG/CH/D4/D5/D6) B15/18S (A161640)
PARTS BOOK(87/88) B15/18S2 (SB1030) PARTS BOOK(EC/ED) B15/18S5
(SB1086) PARTS BOOK(NR/NS) B15/20T5(36V/AC MOTOR)(SB1065) PARTS
BOOK(H4/H5/H6) B16/18X(SB1022) PARTS BOOK(DQ/DR/DS)
B16/20X5(SB1067) PARTS BOOK(GX/GY/GZ/H1/H2/H3) B18/20T5(48V/AC.SE
MOTOR)(SB1066) PARTS BOOK(H7/H8/H9/HA/HB/HC) BC15/18S5 (SB1087)
PARTS BOOK(JM/JN/JP/JQ/JR/JS) BC15/20SC (SB1060) PARTS BOOK(F8/FA)
BC15/20T (SB1004) PARTS BOOK(BL/BM/BN) 2-3 Ton B20/30S (D270465)
PARTS BOOK(41/42/43/44/45/46) B20/30S2 (SB1003) PARTS
BOOK(B8/B9/BA/BB/BC/BD) B20/30S3 (SB1044) PARTS BOOK(F5/F6/F7)
B20/30S5 (SB1081) PARTS BOOK(M4/M5/M6/M7) B22/30X (SB1040) PARTS
BOOK(EE/EF/EG/GV) B25/35X5 (SB1080) PARTS BOOK(JH/JJ/JK/JL) BC20/30S
(D270467) PARTS BOOK(27/28/29/30/31/32) BC20/30S2 (D290559) PARTS
BOOK(CJ/CK/CL/CM/CN/CP/CQ) BC20/30S5(SB1082) PARTS
BOOK(L7/L8/L9/LA/LB/LY/LZ/M1/M2/LC/LD/LE) 3.5-4.5 Ton B40/45X5 (SB1085)
PARTS BOOK(NY/NZ/PA) BR Series BR10/18J (D650024) PARTS
BOOK(60/61/63/64) BR10/18S (D650027) PARTS BOOK(B4/B5/B6/B7)
BR14/16JW (D650029) PARTS BOOK(C7/C8) BR15/18S2 (SB1036) PARTS

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BOOK(EJ/EK/EL/EM/EN) BR15/18S5 (SB1115) PARTS BOOK(R1/R2/R3)
BR20/25S5 (SB1118) PARTS BOOK(R4/R5) BR20S2(SB1028) PARTS
BOOK(EA/EB) ENGINE POWERED TRUCKS 1-1.8 Ton D15/18S (D600988)
PARTS BOOK(76) D15/18S(SB1019) PARTS BOOK(C4) D15/18S2 (SB1024)
PARTS BOOK(DU/DV) D15/18S2(SB1069)(F.C.U) PARTS BOOK(JD/JE)
D15/18S2(TIREII)(SB1058) PARTS BOOK(FL/FM) D15/18S5(SB1089) PARTS
BOOK(NL/NM) G15/18S (D601189) PARTS BOOK(75/A6) G15/18S (D610109)
PARTS BOOK(C2/C3) G15/18S2 (SB1018) PARTS BOOK(DF/DG/DH/DJ/G4/G5)
G15/18S2 (SB1070)(F.C.U) PARTS BOOK(J5/J6/J7/J8/JB/JC)
G15/18S5(SB1090) PARTS BOOK(NE/NF/NG/NH/NP/NQ/NJ/NK) GC15/18S2
(SB1011) PARTS BOOK(CZ/D1) GC15/18S2 (SB1059) PARTS BOOK(G6)
GC15/18S5(SB1091) PARTS BOOK(PI) GC15/20C (A251511) PARTS
BOOK(BR/BS/BT) 10-15 Ton D100/120 (A141520) PARTS BOOK(83/84/F1/F2)
D110/130S5(SB1083/Tier3) PARTS BOOK(LL/LN)
D110/130S5(SB1105/Tier2)PARTS BOOK(P2/P3) D150 (A142307) PARTS
BOOK(86/F3) D160S5(SB1084/Tier3) PARTS BOOK(LQ) D160S5(SB1106/Tier2)
PARTS BOOK(P4) 2.0-3.3 Ton D20/25-2 (D139177) PARTS BOOK(13/14)
D20/30A3 (SB1032) PARTS BOOK(E5) D20/30G(SB1110/Yanmar
E/G-Tier3)PARTS BOOK(QM/QN) D20/30G(YSB3003/Cumnins E/G Tier2)PARTS
BOOK(K2/K3) D20/30S2 (D139178) PARTS BOOK(15/16) D20/30S3
(A211796/DB33 E/G) PARTS BOOK(90) D20/30S3(A2300)(SB1047)PARTS
BOOK(FH) D20/30S3(B33)(SB1056)PARTS BOOK(FK/GP)
D20/30S3(B33)(SB1072)(F.C.U)PARTS BOOK(KL/KM)
D20/30S3(SB1071/DB3.3)(F.C.U)PARTS BOOK(KE/KF)
D20/30S5(SB1092/Cumnins B3.3)PARTS BOOK(LR/LS/LT)
D20/30S5(SB1104/Yammar Tier2)PARTS BOOK(Q3/Q4/Q5)
D20/30S5(SB1109/Yammar Tier3)PARTS BOOK(QC/QD/QE) G20/30E3
(SB1008) PARTS BOOK(CW/CX/G9/GA) G20/30E3(SB1008E07) PARTS
BOOK(CW/CX/DX) G20/30E3(SB1073)(F.C.U) PARTS BOOK(KG/KH/KN/KP)
G20/30E5 (SB1093)PARTS BOOK(MB/MC/MD/ME/MF/MG/MH/MI/MJ/MK)
G20/30G(YSB1108)PARTS BOOK(QF/QG/QH/QJ) G20/30G(YSB1121)PARTS
BOOK(QY/QZ) G20/30P3 (SB1012)(G430/G430E) PARTS
BOOK(D2/GT/GB/GQ/GC/GR) G20/30P3 (SB1012E07) PARTS BOOK(D2/DZ)
G20/30P3 (SB1074)(F.C.U) PARTS BOOK(KJ/KK/KQ/KR/KS/KT) G20/30P5
(SB1095)PARTS BOOK(ML/MM/MN/MO/MP/MQ/MR/MS/MT) G20/30S2
(D139175) PARTS BOOK(09/10/11/12) G20/30S3 (A211798) PARTS
BOOK(97/99) GC20/30E3 (SB1009) PARTS BOOK(CU/CV/DY) GC20/30E3
(SB1062) PARTS BOOK(FP/FQ) GC20/30E3 (SB1075)(F.C.U) PARTS
BOOK(JY/JZ) GC20/30E5 (SB1094)PARTS BOOK(MV/MU) GC20/30P3 (SB1013)
PARTS BOOK(DM/E1) GC20/30P3 (SB1063)(430E) PARTS BOOK(FR)
GC20/30P3 (SB1076)(F.C.U) PARTS BOOK(K1) GC20/30P5 (SB1096)PARTS
BOOK(MW) GC20/30S2 (D139172) PARTS BOOK(03/04/05/06) GC20/30S3
(A211800) PARTS BOOK(94/95) 3.5-4.5 Ton D35/45S (D150864) PARTS
BOOK(21/BP) D35/45S2(SB1053)PARTS BOOK(FZ/G1)
D35/45S2(SB1078)(F.C.U)PARTS BOOK(K6/K7) D35/45S2.D40/50SC2
(A231526) PARTS BOOK(C9/E8) D35/45S2.D40/50SC2 (SB1077)(F.C.U) PARTS
BOOK(K4/K5) D35/45S5(SB1097) PARTS BOOK(N2/N4/N3/N5)
D35/45S5(SB1111) PARTS BOOK(RS/RT/RU/RV) G35/45S (A231095) PARTS
BOOK(B1/BQ) G35/45S2.G40/50SC2 (SB1010) PARTS BOOK(CB/E9/G2/G3)
G35/45S2.G40/50SC2(SB1079)(F.C.U) PARTS BOOK(K8/K9/KA/KB3)
G35/45S5(SB1098) PARTS BOOK(N6/N7/N8/N9/NA/NB/NC/ND)
GC35/45S5(SB1099) PARTS BOOK(P5/P6) 5-8 Ton D50/70 (D170122) PARTS
BOOK(23) D50/70/80S2(3ST)(SB1054) PARTS BOOK(FV/FX/GS)
D50/70A2(SB1015) PARTS BOOK(DP) D50/70G(YSB1120) PARTS BOOK(PR)
D50/70S (A130013) PARTS BOOK(C1) D50/70S2 (A130012) PARTS
BOOK(BH/EH) D50/70S2(2T/M)(SB1055) PARTS BOOK(GE/GF)
D50/70S5(2SPEED)(SB1100) PARTS BOOK(PD/PC)
Doosan Forklift EPC [11.2012] Full

D50/70S5(3SPEED)(SB1101) PARTS BOOK(PB/P9) D70S5(SB1112/D439E

Tier3)PARTS BOOK(RW) D70S5(SB1113/D439E Tier3)PARTS BOOK(RZ)
D80/90S5(SB1102) PARTS BOOK(PA) D80/90S5(SB1114/D439E Tier3)PARTS
BOOK(S1) G50/70S2(SB1043) PARTS BOOK(ER/FY/GG/GH)
G50/70S5(SB1103) PARTS BOOK(PF/PE/PH/PG)
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 ABOUT BEETLES
There was a whitewashed cottage called Lewside beside the
moorland road, and at a window which commanded a view of that
road sat a girl with what appeared to be a glory round her face—it
was nothing but soft red hair—a girl of seventeen, called Boodles, or
anything else sufficiently idiotic; and this girl was learning doggerel
and singing—
"'The West wind always brings wet weather,
The East wind wet and cold together;
The South wind surely brings us rain,
The North wind blows it back again.'
"And that means it's always raining, which is a lie. And as I'm saying
it I'm a liar," laughed Boodles.
It was raining then. Only a Dartmoor shower; the sort of downright
rain which makes holes in granite and plays Wagner-like music upon
roofs of corrugated iron.
"There's a bunny. Let me see. That's two buns, one man and a boy,
a cart and two horses, three wild ponies, and two jolly little sheep
with horns and black faces—all been along the road this afternoon,"
said Boodles. "Now the next verse—
'If the sun in red should set.
The next day surely will be wet;
If the sun should set in grey.
The next will be a rainy day.'
"That's all. We can't go on lying for ever. I wish," said Boodles, "I
wish I hadn't got so many freckles on my nose, and I wish my hair
wasn't red, and thirdly and lastly, I wish—I wish my teeth weren't
going to ache next week. I know they will, because I've been eating
jam pudding, and they always ache after jam pudding; three days
after, always three days—the beasts! Now what shall I sing about?
Why can't people invent something for small girls to do upon a rainy
day? I wish a battle was being fought on the moor. It would be fun.
I could sit here and watch all day; and I would cut off bits of my hair
and throw them to the victorious generals. What a sell for me if they
wouldn't pick them up! I expect they would, though, for father says
I'm a boodle girl, and that means beautiful, though it's not true, and
I wish it was. Another lie and another wish! And when I'm dressed
nicely I am boodle-oodle, and that means more beautiful. And when
the sun is shining on my hair I am boodle-oodliest, and that means
very beautiful. I suppose it's rather nonsense, but it's the way we
live here. We may be silly so long as we are good. The next song
shall be patriotic. We will bang a drum and wave a flag; and sing
with a good courage—
'It was the way of good Queen Bess,
Who ruled as well as mortal can,
When she was stugged, and the country in a mess,
She would send for a Devon man.'
"Well now, that's the truth. Miss Boodles. The principal county in
England is Devonshire, and the principal town is Tavistock, and the
principal river is the Tavy, and the principal rain is upon Dartmoor,
and the principal girl has red hair and freckles on her nose, and
she's only seventeen. And the dearest old man in Devon is just
coming along the passage, and now he's at the door, and here he is.
Father," she laughed, "why do people ask idiotic questions, like I'm
doing now?"
"Because they are the easiest," said Abel Cain Weevil, in his gentle
manner and bleat-like voice.
"I was sitting here one day, and Mary Tavy came along," went on
Boodles. "She said: 'Aw, my dear, be ye sot by the window?' And I
said: 'No, Mary, I'm standing on my head.' She looked so frightened.
The poor thing thought I was mad."
"Boodles, you're a wicked maid," said Weevil fondly. "You make fun
of everything. Some day you will get your ears pulled."
The two were not related, except by affection, although they passed
as father and daughter. Boodles had come from the pixies. She had
been left one night in the porch of Lewside Cottage, wrapped up in a
wisp of fern, without clothing of any kind, and round her neck was a
label inscribed: "Take me in, or I shall be drowned to-morrow."
Weevil had taken her in, and when the baby smiled at him his
eccentric old soul laughed back. He entered into partnership at once
with the baby-girl, and she had been a blessing to him. He knew
that she had been left in his porch as a last resource; if he had not
taken her in she would have been drowned the next day. It was all
very pretty to imagine that Boodles had come from the pixies. The
truth was nobody wanted her; the unmarried mother could not keep
the child, Weevil was believed to be a tender-hearted old fool, so the
baby was wrapped in fern and left in his porch; and the tenant of
Lewside Cottage lived up to his reputation. Boodles knew her history.
She sat at the cottage window every day, watching every one who
passed; and sometimes she would murmur: "I wonder if my mother
went by to-day." She had once or twice inserted an unpleasant
adjective, but then she had no cause to love her unknown parents.
Much of her love was given to Abel Cain Weevil; and all of it went
out to some one else.
The old man was one of those mysteries who crop up in desolate
places. Nobody knew where he came from, what he had been, or
what he was doing in the region watered by the Tavy. He was poor
and harmless. He kept out of every one's way. "Quite mad," said St.
Peter. "An honest madman," answered St. Mary. "He had at least the
decency to recognise that child, for of course she is his daughter."
St. Peter had his doubts. He did not like to think too highly of old
Weevil. That was against his principles. He suggested that Weevil
intended to make some base use of the girl, and St. Mary agreed.
They could generally agree upon such matters.
Weevil was quite right to keep out of the world. He was handicapped
in every way. There was his name to begin with. He had no
objection to Abel, but he saw no necessity in the redundant Cain. It
had been given him, however, and he could not escape from it.
Every one called him Abel Cain Weevil. The children shouted it after
him. As for the name Weevil, it was objectionable, but no worse
than many another. It was not improper like some surnames.
"An insect, my dear," he explained to Boodles. "A dirty little beetle
which lives upon grain."
"I'm a weevil too," said she. "So I'm a dirty little beetle."
The old man wouldn't allow that. Boodles belonged to the angels,
and he told her so with foolish expressions; but she shook her
glorious red head at him and declared that beetles and angels had
nothing in common. She admitted, however, that she belonged to a
delightful order of beetles, and that on the whole she preferred
chocolates to grain. The silly old man reminded her that she
belonged to the boodle-oodle order of beetles, and so far she was
the only specimen of that choice family which had been discovered.
A man is eccentric in this world if he does anything which his
neighbours cannot understand. He may go out in the garden and cut
a cabbage-leaf. That is a sane action. But if he spreads jam on the
cabbage-leaf, and eats the same publicly, he is called a madman.
Nothing is easier than to be thought eccentric. You have only to
behave unlike other people. Stand in the middle of a crowded street
and gaze vacantly into the air. Every one will call you eccentric at
once, just because you are gazing in the air and they are not. Weevil
was mad because he was unlike his neighbours. The adoption of
Boodles was not a sane action; even if she were his daughter it was
equally insane to acknowledge her with such shameless publicity. A
sane person would have allowed Boodles to share the fate of many
illegitimate children.
They were happy these two, papa Weevil and his Boodles. They had
no servant. The girl kept house and cooked. The old man washed up
and scrubbed. Boodles knew how to make, not only a shilling, but
even the necessary penny go all the way. She was a treasure, good
enough for any man; there were no dark spots upon her heart. If
she had been made away with one of the best little souls created
would have gone back into limbo.
No storm disturbed Lewside Cottage, except Dartmoor gales, and as
for religion they were sun-worshippers; like most people who come
out in fine raiment and glory in the sun, and when it is wet hide
indoors, talk of the sun, think of the sun, long for the sun, until he
appears and they can hurry out to worship. The savage calls the sun
his god in so many words; and the human nature which is in the
savage is in the primitive folk of open and desolate places also; it is
present in the most civilised of beings, but only those who live on a
high moor through the winter know what a day of sunshine means.
The sun has places dedicated to him upon Dartmoor. There is Bel Tor
and there is Belstone. A tradition of the Phoenician occupation still
exists, handed down from the remote time when the sun was
directly worshipped. The commoners still believe that good luck will
attend the man who shall see the rising sun reflected on the rock-
basin of Bellivor. An altar to the sun stood once upon that lonely tor.
Weevil worshipped the sun quietly. Boodles offered incense with
enthusiasm. She deserved her name when the sun shone upon her
radiant head and made a glory round it. When the greater gorse was
in flower, and Boodles walked through it hatless, wearing her green
frock, she might have been the spirit of the prickly shrub; and like it
her head was in bloom all the year round.
"Have we got anything for supper, Boodle-oodle?" asked the silly old
male beetle.
"Ees, lots," said the small golden one.
It was not unpleasant to hear Boodles say "ees." She split the word
up and made a kind of anthem out of it. The first sound was very
soft, a mere whisper, and spoken with closed lips. The rest she sang,
getting higher as the final syllable was reached—there were more
syllables in the word than letters—then descending at the drawn-out
sibilant, and finishing in a whisper with closed lips.
"Oh, I forgot," she cried. "No eggs!"
They looked at each other with serious faces. In that simple
household small things were tragedies. There were no eggs. It was a
matter for serious reflection.
"Butter?" queried the old man nervously. "Milk? Cheese? Bread?"
"Heaps, piles, gallons. The kitchen is full of cheese, and you can't
move for bread, and the milk is running over and dripping upon
everything like a milky day," said penitent Boodles. "I have been
saying to myself: 'Eggs, eggs! Yolks, shells, whites—eggs!' I made
puns that I shouldn't forget. I egged myself on. I walked delicately,
and said: 'I'm treading on eggs.' I kept on scolding myself, and
saying: 'Teach your grandmother to suck eggs.' I reminded myself I
mustn't put all my eggs in one basket. Then I went and sat in the
window, forgot all about them, and now I'm a bad egg."
"Boodles, what shall we do?" said the chief beetle.
"I think you ought to torture me in some way," suggested the
forgetful one. "Drag me through the furze. Beat me with nettles.
Torture would do me a lot of good, I expect, only not too much,
because I'm only a baby."
That was her usual defence. Whatever happened she was only a
baby. She was never likely to grow up.
"Don't jest. It is too serious. If I don't have two eggs for my supper I
shall have no sleep. I shall be ill to-morrow."
"I'll give you two poached kisses," promised Boodles.
"I cannot exist on spiritual food alone. I must have my eggs. Custom
has made it necessary."
"I'll make you all sorts of nice things," she declared.
But the eccentric old beetle could not be pacified. He had eggs upon
the mind. The produce of the domestic fowl had become an
obsession. He explained that if the house had been well stocked with
eggs he might have gone without. He would have known they were
there to fall back upon if desire should seize him during the silent
watches of the night. But the knowledge that the larder was
destitute of eggs increased his desire. He would have no peace until
the deficiency was made good.
"Well," said Boodles resignedly, "it's my fault, so I'll suffer for it. I
don't want to hear you screaming for eggs all night. I'll go and get
wet for your salvation. I expect Mary can let me have some."
Weevil was himself again. He trotted off for the child's boots. He
always put her boots on, and took them off when she came in.
Boodles was a little sun-goddess, and as such she accepted
adoration. It was part of the tribute due to the sun-like head. When
the boots were on—each ankle having previously been worshipped
as a part of the tribute—she assumed a jacket, packed her hair
under a fluffy green hat, stabbed it on four times with long pins,
picked up her walking-stick; and was off, Weevil gazing after her
adoringly until she passed out of sight. "There goes the pride o'
Devon," murmured the silly old man as the green hat vanished.
The sight of Boodles took the weather's breath away. It forgot to go
on raining; and the sun was so anxious to shine upon her hair that
he pushed the clouds off him, as a late slumberer tosses away his
blankets, and came out to work a little before evening. It became
quite pleasant as Boodles went beside Tavy Cleave.
Peter was not visible, but Mary was. She was plodding about in her
huge boots with an eye upon her geese, especially upon the chief of
the flock. Old Sal, who, as usual, was anxious to seek pastures new.
When Boodles came up Mary smiled. She was very fond of the child.
Boodles seemed to have been made out of such entirely different
materials from the odds and ends which had gone towards her own
construction. The little girl's soft flesh was as unlike Mary's tough
leather as the white bark of the birch is unlike the rugged bark of
the oak.
"Well, Mary, how are you?" said Boodles.
"I be purty fine, my dear, purty middling fine. Peter be purty fine tu.
And how be yew, my dear, and how be the old gentleman? Purty fine
yew be, I reckon."
"We are splendid," said Boodles. "How is the old goose, Mary?"
"Du'ye mean Old Sal, my dear? There he be trampesing 'bout
Dartmoor as though 'twas his'n. Aw, he be purty fine, sure 'nuff."
"She must be very old," said Boodles.
"Aw ees, he be old. He be a cruel old artful toad, my dear," said
Mary.
"How old is she?"
"Well, my dear, he be older than yew. He be twenty-two come next
Michaelmas, I'm thinking."
"You will never kill her?" said Boodles. "You couldn't, after having her
for so long. You won't kill her, will you, Mary?"
"Goosies was made to kill. Us keeps 'en whiles they be useful, and
then us kills 'en," said Mary.
"But twenty-two years old!" cried Boodles. "She would be much too
tough to eat."
"Aw, my dear life," chuckled Mary. "He wouldn't be tough. I would
kill 'en, and draw 'en, and rub a little salt in his belly, and hang 'en
up for a fortnight, and he would et butiful, my dear."
Boodles laughed delightfully, and said she thought no amount of salt
or hanging, to say nothing of sage and onions, could ever make the
venerable Sal palatable.
"Peter wun't let 'en be killed. Peter loves Old Sal," Mary went on. "He
laid sixteen eggs last year, and he'm the best mother on Dartmoor.
Aw ees, my dear. He be a cruel fine mother, and Peter ses he shan't
die till he've a mind to."
Then Boodles got to business and asked Mary for eggs, not those of
Old Sal, but the produce of the hen-house. Mary said she would go
and search. As it was dirty in that region Boodles declined to go with
her. "Please to go inside. There be only Gran'vaither. Go and have a
look at 'en, my dear," said Mary, who always referred to Grandfather
as if he had been a living soul. "Hit 'en in the belly, and make 'en
strike at ye."
Boodles went into Hut Circle Number One, which was Peter's
residence, and stood in the presence of Grandfather. Obeying Mary's
instructions, she hit him "in the belly." The old sinner made weird
noises when thus disturbed. He appeared to resent the treatment,
as most old gentlemen would have done. He refused to strike, but
he rattled himself, and wheezed, and made sounds suggestive of
expectoration. Grandfather was a savage like Peter. He was a rough
uneducated sort of clock, and he had no passion for Boodles.
Pendoggat would have been the man for him. Grandfather would
have shaken hands with Pendoggat had it been possible. His own
quivering hands were stretched across his lying face, announcing
quarter-past nine when it was really five o'clock. Grandfather was a
true man of Devon. He had no sense of time.
Boodles had nothing but contertipt for the old fellow. Having
assaulted him she opened his case. Evidently Grandfather had been
drinking. His interior smelt strongly of cider. There were splashes of
it everywhere; rank cider distilled from the lees; in one spot moisture
was pronounced, suggesting that Grandfather had recently been
indulging. Apparently he liked his liquor strong. Grandfather was a
picker-up of unconsidered trifles also. He was full of pins; all kinds of
pins, bent and straight. Item, Grandfather had a little money of his
own; several battered coppers, some green coins which had no
doubt been dug up outside, or discovered upon the "deads" beside
one of the neighbouring wheals, and there was a real fourpenny-bit
with a hole through it. Fastened to the back of the case behind the
pendulum was a scrap of sheepskin as hard as wood, and upon it
some hand had painfully drawn what appeared to be an elementary
exercise in geometry. Boodles frowned and wondered what it all
meant.
"Here be the eggs, my dear. Twenty for a shillun to yew, and ten to
a foreigner," said Mary, standing in the door, making an apron out of
her ragged skirt, and blissfully unconscious that she was exposing
the sack-like bloomers which were her only underwear.
"Twenty-one, Mary. There's always one thrown in for luck and me,"
pleaded Boodles.
"Aw ees. One for yew, my dear," Mary assented.
That was the way Boodles got full value for her money.
"My dear life! What have yew been a-doing of?" cried Mary with
alarm, when she noticed Grandfather's open case. "Aw, my dear,
yew didn't ought to meddle wi' he. Grandfather gets cruel tedious if
he be meddled with."
"I was only looking at his insides," said Boodles. "He's a regular old
rag-bag. What are all these things for—pins, coins, coppers? And
he's splashed all over with cider. No wonder he won't keep time."
"Shet 'en up, my dear. Shet 'en up," said superstitious Mary. "Aw, my
dear, don't ye ever meddle wi' religion. If Peter was to see ye he'd
be took wi' shivers. Let Gran'vaither bide, du'ye. Ain't ye got a pin to
give 'en? My dear life, I'll fetch ye one. Gran'vaither got tedious wi'
volks wance, Peter ses, and killed mun; ees, my dear, killed mun
dead as door nails; ees, fie 'a did, killed mun stark."
Boodles only laughed, like the wicked maid that she was. She
couldn't be bothered with the niceties of religion.
Peter and Mary were only savages. According to their creed pixies
dwelt in Grandfather's bosom; and it was necessary to retain the
good-will of the little people, and render the sting of their possible
malevolence harmless, by presenting votive offerings and inscribing
spells. The rank cider had been provided for midnight orgies, and,
lest the pixies should become troublesome when under the influence
of liquor, the charm upon the sheepskin had been introduced, like a
stringent police-notice, compelling them to keep the peace.
"It's all nonsense, you know," said Boodles, as she took the eggs,
with the sun flaming across her hair. "The pixies are all dead. I went
to the funeral of the last one."
Mary shook her head. She did not jest on serious matters. The
friendship of the pixies was as much to her as the lack of eggs had
been to Weevil.
"Anyhow," went on wicked Boodles, "I should put rat-poison in there
if they worried me."
"Us have been bit and scratched by 'em in bed," Mary declared.
"Peter and me have been bit cruel. Us could see the marks of their
teeth."
"Did you ever catch one?" asked Boodles tragically.
"Catch mun! Aw, my dear life! Us can't catch mun."
"You could, if you were quick—before they hopped," laughed
Boodles.

CHAPTER V
 ABOUT THOMASINE
Thomasine sat in the kitchen of Town Rising, sewing. It was a dreary
place, and she was alone and surrounded with stone. The kitchen
walls were stone; so was the floor. The window looked out upon the
court, and that was paved with stone. Beyond was the barn wall,
made of blocks of cold granite. Above peeped the top of a tor, and
that was granite too. Damp stone everywhere. It was the Stone Age
back again. And Thomasine, buried among it all, was making herself
a frivolous petticoat for Tavistock Goose Fair.
Among undistinguished young persons Thomasine was pre-eminent.
She was only Farmer Chegwidden's "help"; that is to say, general
servant. Undistinguished young persons will do anything that is
menial under the title of "help," which as a servant they would
shrink from. To the lower classes there is much in a name.
Thomasine knew nothing. She was just a work-a-day girl, eating her
meals, sleeping; knowing there was something called a character
which for some inexplicable reason it was necessary to keep;
dreaming of a home of her own some day, but not having the sense
to realise that it would mean a probably drunken husband on a few
shillings a week, and a new gift from the gods to feed each year;
comprehending the delights of fairs, general holidays, and evenings
out; perceiving that it was pleasant to have her waist squeezed and
her mouth kissed; understanding also the charm in being courted in
a ditch with the temperature below freezing-point. That was nearly
all Thomasine knew. Plenty of animals know more. Her conversation
consisted chiefly in "ees" and "no."
It is not pleasant to see a pretty face, glorious complexion, well-
made body, without mind, intellect, or soul worth mentioning; but it
is a common sight. It is not pleasant to speak to that face, and
watch its vacancy increase. A dog would understand at once; but
that human face remains dull. A good many strange thoughts
suggest themselves on fair-days and holidays in and about the
Stannary Towns. There are plenty of pretty faces, glorious
complexions, and well-made bodies surrounded with clothing which
the old Puritans would have denounced as immoral; but not a mind,
not an intellect above potato-peeling, in the lot. They come into the
towns like so many birds of passage; at nightfall they go out,
shrieking, many of them, for lack of intelligent speech, and return to
potato-peeling. The warmth of the next holiday brings them out
again, in the same clothes, knowing just as much as they did before
—how to shriek—then the pots and potatoes claim them again. All
those girls have undeveloped minds. They don't know it, not having
been told, so their minds remain unformed all their lives. The flower-
like faces fade quickly, because there is nothing to keep the bloom
on. The mind does not get beyond the budding stage. It is never
attended to, so it rots off without ever opening. Sometimes one of
these girls discovers she has something besides her body and her
complexion; or somebody superior to herself impresses the fact
upon her; and she uses her knowledge, cultivates her mind, and
with luck rises out of the rut. She discovers that her horizon is not
limited by pots and potato-peel. Beyond it all, for her, there is
something called intelligence. Such girls are few. Most of them have
their eyes opened, not their minds, and then they discover they are
naked, and want to go away and hide themselves.
Thomasine's soul was about the size and weight of a grain of
mustard seed. She was a good maid, and her parents had no cause
to be sorry she had been born. She had come into the world by way
of lawful wedlock, which was something to be proud of in her part of
the country, and was living a decent life in respectable employment.
She sat in the stone kitchen, and built up her flimsy petticoat, with
as much expression on her face as one might reasonably expect to
find upon the face of a cow. She could not think. She knew that she
was warm and comfortable; but knowledge is not thought. She knew
all about her last evening's courting; but she could not have
constructed any little romance which differed from that courting. In
a manner she had something to think about; namely, what had
actually happened. She could not think about what had not
happened, or what under different circumstances might have
happened. That would have meant using her mind; and she didn't
know she had one. Yet Thomasine came of a fairly clever family. Her
grandfather had used his mind largely, and had succeeded in
building up, not a large, but a very comfortable, business. He had
emigrated, however; and it is well known that there is nothing like a
change of scene for teaching a man to know himself. He had gone to
Birmingham and started an idol-factory. It was a quaint sort of
business, but a profitable one. He made idols for the Burmese
market. He had stocked a large number of Buddhist temples, and
the business was an increasing one. Orders for idols reached him
from many remote places, and his goods always gave satisfaction.
The placid features of many a squatting Gautama in dim Eastern
temples had been moulded from the vacant faces of Devonshire
farm-maids. He was a most religious man, attending chapel twice
each Sunday, besides teaching in the Sunday-school. He didn't
believe in allowing religion to interfere with business, which was no
doubt quite discreet of him. He always said that a man should keep
his business perfectly distinct from everything else. He had long ago
dropped his Devonshire relations. Respectable idol-makers cannot
mingle with common country-folk. Thomasine's parents possessed a
framed photograph of one of the earlier idols, which they exhibited
in their living-room as a family heirloom, although their minister had
asked them as a personal favour to destroy it, because it seemed to
him to savour of superstition. The minister thought it was intended
for the Virgin Mary, but the good people denied it with some
warmth, explaining that they were good Christians, and would never
disgrace their cottage in that Popish fashion.
Innocent of idols, Thomasine went on sewing in her stone kitchen
amid the granite. She had finished putting a frill along the hem of
her petticoat; now she put one higher up in regions which would be
invisible however much the wind might blow, though she did not
know why, because she could not think. It was a waste of material;
nobody would see it; but she felt that a fair petticoat ought to be
adorned as lavishly as possible. She did not often glance up. There
was nothing to be seen in the court except the usual fowls. It was
rarely an incident occurred worth remembering. Sometimes one stag
attacked another, and Thomasine would be attracted to the window
to watch the contest. That made a little excitement in her life, but
the fight would soon be over. It was all show and bluster; very much
like the sparring of two farm hands. "You'm a liar." "So be yew." "Aw
well, so be yew." And so on, with ever-increasing accent upon the
"yew." Not many people crossed the court. There was no right of
way there, but Farmer Chegwidden had no objection to neighbours
passing through.
Whether Thomasine was pretty could hardly be stated definitely. It
must remain a matter of opinion whether any face can be beautiful
which is entirely lacking in expression, has no mind behind the
tongue, and no speaking brain at the back of the eyes. Many, no
doubt, would have thought her perfection. She was plump and full of
blood; it seemed ready to burst through her skin. She was
somewhat grossly built; too wide at the thighs, big-handed, and
large-footed, with not much waist, and a clumsy stoop from the
shoulders. She waddled in her walk like most Devonshire farm-
maids. Her complexion was perfect; so was her health. She had a
lust-provoking face; big sleepy eyes; cheeks absolutely scarlet;
pouting lips swollen with blood, almost the colour of an over-ripe
peach. It was more like paint than natural colouring. It was too
strong. She had too much blood. She was part of the exaggeration
of Dartmoor, which exaggerates everything; adding fierceness to
fierceness, colour to colour, strength to strength; just as its rain is
fiercer than that of the valleys, and its wind mightier. Thomasine was
of the Tavy family, but not of the romantic branch. Not of the folklore
side like Boodles, but of the Ger Tor family, the strong mountain
branch which knows nothing and cannot think for itself, and only
feels the river wearing it away, and the frost rotting it, and the wind
beating it. The pity was that Thomasine did not know she had a
mind, which was already fading for want of use. She knew only how
to peel potatoes and make herself wanton underwear. Although
twenty-two years of age she was still a maid.
There were steps upon the stones, and Thomasine looked up. She
saw nobody, but sounds came through the open window, a shuffling
against the wall of the house, and the stumbling of clumsy boots.
Then there was a knock.
There was nothing outside, except miserable objects such as Brightly
with an empty and battered basket and starving Ju with her empty
and battered stomach and her tongue hanging out. They were still
trying to do business, instead of going away to some lonely part of
the moor and dying decently. It was extraordinary how Brightly and
Ju clung to life, which wasn't of much use to them, and how
steadfastly they applied themselves to a sordid business which was
very far less remunerative than sound and honest occupations such
as idol-making. Brightly looked smaller than ever. He had forgotten
all about his last meal. His face was pinched; it was about the size of
a two-year-old baby's. He looked like an eel in man's clothing.
"Any rabbit-skins, miss?" he asked.
"No," said Thomasine.
Brightly crept a little nearer. "Will ye give us a bite o' bread? Us be
cruel hungry, and times be hard. Tramped all day yesterday, and got
my cloam tored, and lost my rabbit-skins and duppence. Give me
and little dog a bite, miss. Du'ye, miss."
"If master was to know I'd catch it," said Thomasine.
"Varmer Chegwidden would give I a bite. I knows he would," said
Brightly.
Chegwidden would certainly have given him a bite had he been
present, or rather his sheep-dog would. Chegwidden was a member
of the Board of Guardians in his sober moments, and it was his duty
to suppress such creatures as Brightly.
"I mun go on," said the weary little wretch, when he saw that
Thomasine was about to shut the door. "I mun tramp on. I wish yew
could ha' given us a bite, miss, for us be going to Tavistock, and I
don't know if us can. Me and little dog be cruel mazed."
"Bide there a bit," said Thomasine.
There was nobody in the house, except Mrs. Chegwidden, who was
among her pickle jars and had never to be taken into consideration.
Chegwidden had gone to Lydford. The girl had a good heart, and
she didn't like to see things starving. Even the fowls had to be fed
when they were hungry, and probably Brightly was nearly as good as
the fowls. She returned to the door with bread and meat, and a
lump of cheese wrapped in a piece of newspaper. She flung Ju a
bone as big as herself and with more meat upon it, and before the
fit of charity had exhausted itself she brought out a jug of cider,
which Brightly consumed on the premises and increased in girth
perceptibly.
"Get off," said Thomasine. "If I'm caught they'll give me the door."
Brightly was not well skilled in expressing gratitude because he had
so little practice. He was generally apologising for his existence. He
tried to be effusive, but was only grotesque. Thomasine almost
thought he was trying to make love to her, and she drew back with
her strained sensual smile.
"I wun't forget. Not if I lives to be two hundred and one, I wun't,"
cried Brightly. "Ju ses her wun't forget neither. Us will get to
Tavistock now, and us can start in business again to-morrow. Ye've
been cruel kind to me, miss. God love ye and bless ye vor't, is what I
ses. God send ye a good husband vor't, is what I ses tu."
"You'm welcome," said Thomasine.
Brightly beamed in a fantastic manner through his spectacles. Ju
wagged what Nature had intended to be a tail, and staggered out of
the court with her load of savoury meat. Then the door was closed,
and Thomasine went back to her petticoat.
The girl could not exactly think about Brightly, but she was able to
remember what had happened. A starving creature supposed to be a
man, accompanied by a famished beast that tried to be a dog—both
shocking examples of bad work, for Nature jerry-builds worse than
the most dishonest of men—had presented themselves at the door
of her kitchen, and she had fed them. She had obeyed the primitive
instinct which compels the one who has food to give to those who
have none. There was nothing splendid about it, because she did not
want the food. Yet her master would not have fed Brightly. He would
have flung the food into the pig-sty rather than have given it to the
Seal. So it was possible after all that she had performed a generous
action which was worthy of reward.
It must not be supposed that Thomasine thought all that out for
herself. She knew nothing about generous actions. She had listened
to plenty of sermons in the chapel, but without understanding
anything except that it would be her duty some time to enter hell,
which, according to the preacher's account, was a place rather like
the top of Dartmoor, only hotter, and there was never any frost or
snow. Will Pugsley, with whom she was walking out just then, had
summed up the whole matter in one phrase of gloomy philosophy:
"Us has a cruel hard time on't here, and then us goes down under."
That seemed to be the answer to the riddle of the soul's existence:
"having a cruel hard time, and then going down under."
Thomasine had never read a book in her life. They did not come her
way. Town Rising had none, except the big Bible—which for half-a-
century had performed its duty of supporting a china shepherdess
wreathing with earthenware daisies the neck of a red and white cow
—a manual upon manure, and a ready reckoner. No penny novelette,
dealing with such matters of everyday occurrence as the wooing of
servant-girls by earls, had ever found its way into her hands, and
such fictions would not have interested her, simply because they
would have conveyed no meaning. A pretty petticoat and a fair-day;
these were matters she could appreciate, because they touched her
sympathies and she could understand them. They were some of the
things which made up the joy of life. There was so much that was
"cruel hard"; but there were pleasures, such as fine raiment and fair-
days, to be enjoyed before she went "down under."
Thomasine was able to form mental pictures of scenes that were
familiar. She could see the tor above the barn. It was easy to see
also the long village on the side of the moor. She knew it all so well.
She could see Ebenezer, the chapel where she heard sermons about
hell. Pendoggat was sometimes the preacher, and he always insisted
strongly upon the extremely high temperature of "down under."
Thomasine very nearly thought. She almost associated the preacher
with the place which was the subject of his discourse. That would
have been a very considerable mental flight had she succeeded. It
came to nothing, however. She went on remembering, not thinking.
Pendoggat had tried to look at her in chapel. He could not look at
any one with his eyes, but he had set his face towards her as though
he believed she was in greater need than others of his warnings. He
had walked close beside her out of chapel, and had remarked that it
was a fine evening. Thomasine remembered she had been pleased,
because he had drawn her attention towards a fact which she had
not previously observed, namely, that it was a fine evening.
Pendoggat was a man, not a creeping thing like Brightly, not a lump
of animated whisky-moistened clay like Farmer Chegwidden. No one
could make people uncomfortable like him. Eli Pezzack was a poor
creature in comparison, although Thomasine didn't make the
comparison because she couldn't. Pezzack could not make people
feel they were already in torment. The minister frequently referred
to another place which was called "up over." He reminded his
listeners that they might attain to a place of milk and honey where
the temperature was normal; and that was the reason why he was
not much of a success as a minister. He seemed indeed to desire to
deprive his congregations of their legitimate place of torment. What
was the use of talking about "up over," which could not concern his
listeners, when they might so easily be stimulated with details
concerning the inevitable "down under"? Pezzack was a weak man.
He refused to face his destiny, and he tried to prevent his
congregations from facing theirs.
Thomasine looked at the clock. It was time to lift the peat from the
hearth and put on the coal. Chegwidden would soon be back from
Lydford and want his supper. She admired the petticoat, rolled it up,
and put it away in her work-basket.
"Dear life!" she murmured. "Here be master, and nothing done."
A horseman was in the court, and crossing it. The window was open.
The rider was not Chegwidden. It was the master of Helmen Barton,
his head down as usual, his eyes apparently fixed between his
horse's ears; his head was inclined a little towards the house.
Thomasine stood back and watched.
A piece of gorse in full bloom came through the window, fell upon
the stone floor, and bounded like a small beast. It jumped about on
the smooth cement, and glided on its spines until it reached the
dresser, and there remained motionless, with its stem, which had
been bared of prickles, directed upwards towards the girl like a
pointing finger. Pendoggat had gone on. His horse had not stopped,
nor had the rider appeared to glance into the kitchen. Obviously
there was some connection between Pendoggat, that piece of gorse,
and herself, only Thomasine could not work it out. She picked it up.
She could not have such a thing littering her tidy kitchen. The sprig
was a smother of blossom, and she could see its tiny spears among
the blooms, their points so keen that they were as invisible as the
edge of a razor. She brought the blooms suddenly to her nose, and
immediately one of the tiny spears pierced the skin and her strong
blood burst through.
"Scat the vuzz," said Thomasine.
Iron-shod hoofs rattled again upon the stones, and the light of the
window became darkened. Pendoggat had changed his mind and
was back again. He tumbled from the saddle and stood there