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Updated: June 19, 2025
The boiler is Merryweather's water tube type, and raises steam rapidly, while the fittings include feed pump, injector, safety valve, steam blast and an arrangement for feeding the boiler from the main pump in case of necessity. We are indebted to The London Engineer for the engraving and description.
Jonathan an' Reuben Merryweather's gal drove up from Applegate. Ah, sech a sight as she was all in shot silk that rustled when you looked at it an' as pretty as a pictur." "So they've come back?" asked Abel, almost in a whisper. "Yes, they've come back, an' a sad comin' it was for her, as I could see in her face. 'What are you wearin' yo' Sunday best for, Mr. Doolittle? asked Mr.
All manner of vehicles, guns, and other impedimenta of war were in evidence, and everyone was surprised to see some of Merryweather's fire engines, which were probably required for pumping purposes. On the 29th the Battalion left Méricourt for what was known as "The Happy Valley," outside Bray. During the march the soldiers saw a mile or two away an enormous column of smoke ascend.
Your father has often spoken to me of it, almost with regret, saying that it would be much better if he had a little more will of his own and a little spice more of temper. Still, it is most unfortunate that he hasn't returned. Of course, he may have met some friend in the town and gone home with him, or he may have stayed at Mr. Merryweather's."
Merryweather's calm voice; and no one would have guessed the anguish of suspense in which he waited for the reply. But it came in a chorus: "Miranda!" "Bell!" "Gertrude!" "Will!" "Kitty!" "Thank God!" said Miles Merryweather. "That was a close call. Boys, are you all right?" He stepped to the window as he spoke. "All right, father!"
"He is probably still at the Rymers', or has accompanied Harry to Mrs Merryweather's," said Mrs Moreton to her husband; still, as night drew on, she became somewhat anxious. Her anxiety increased when a servant came with a message from Mrs Merryweather to inquire why Mr Harry did not come home. Mr Moreton himself now became even more anxious than his wife.
A picture of toilworn age, of the inevitable end of all mortal labour, he had sat for hours in the faint sunshine, smiling with his sunken, babyish mouth at the brood of white turkeys that crowded about the well. "Well, she's Reuben Merryweather's granddaughter, suh," replied Solomon in the place of the elder.
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