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Show with the water. I lost faith in puddling. One reason was that each night Mother and I had a terrific task to get me cleaned up. And after the cheers and laughter died away and watchers ignored me I was left pretty much alone, one muddy urchin sloshing around in a grim expanse that seemed to expand with each day of failure. Fourier would perhaps have explained the oozing away of my zest in puddling thus: I didn't possess a Youth Corps of companion4} puddlers to aid me. We replaced one failure of a pump with a new centrifugal device for which fantastic results were promised. It was also disappointing. There may have been a local reason. I recall one evening when Father could not be at the Experiment Farm because of post office business. I invited Lance Cline to go across the track to see the publicized pump. We surprised Bill Medder, a lad of our age, apparently attempting sabotage. He had come from the west side of the valley with his parents, who had stayed at the store to shop. I caught him cramming the outlet pipe of the pump with stones. These could obstruct the flow of water and even damage the rotor, the critical part of the mechanism. When I accused him /fi'tenc/ed of trying to cripple an operation^for the good of all, he defied me with an air of a person indignant at injustice. Infuriated I ran at him. Lance interposed. He could see only a dispute between two equals. We should settle it according to his ideas governing an "affair of honor." He appointed himself referee. The rules he blended from notions gleaned from Stevenson's Black Arrow, stories of the prize ring, and the dueling code. He held us apart until he persuaded us to accept his terms. With his |