PW118MR-8 Shop Manual
WEBM008801
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DescriptionContents:00 Index And ForewordTable Of ContentsForeword And General InformationShop Manual01 SpecificationContentsSpecificationsShop Manual10 Structure And FunctionContentsEngine And Cooling SystemPower TrainHydraulic SystemWork EquipmentShop Manual20 Standard Value TableContentsStandard Value Table30 Testing And AdjustingContentsTesting And Adjusting40 TroubleshootingContentsFailure Code Table And Fuse LocationsGeneral Information On TroubleshootingTroubleshooting By Failure
CodeTroubleshooting By Failure Code Steering ControllerTroubleshooting Of Electrical SystemTroubleshooting Of Hydraulic And Mechanical System (H-Mode)Troubleshooting Of Engine (S-Mode)50 Disassembly And AssemblyContentsHow To Read This ManualCoating Materials ListEngine And Cooling SystemPower TrainUndercarriage And FrameHydraulic SystemWork EquipmentCab And Its AttachmentElectrical System90 Diagrams And DrawingsContentsHydraulic DiagramElectrical Diagram
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He had become quite deft at his trade of shoemaking, and worked rapidly, but he could make very little money; all that was left, however, after the King ofSpades had been paid for his supposed good offices he sent to Giovanna.
"Upon my word," said the ex-marshal, "you are a goose. Spend it on yourself. They ought to be sending you money."
"But they are so poor."
"Poor! Not they; haven't they got the sun? What more do they want?" said the other. "If you would only eat and drink more it would be a real charity. You are nothing but a stick, my dear fellow. Look at me! I'm getting fat. My bacon may be all rind, but, all the same, I'm getting fat."
He was, in fact, as round as a ball, but his flesh hung down in yellow, flabby rolls. Costantino, on the other hand, had fallen away, his eyes were big and cavernous, and his hands transparent.
The sun! he thought to himself bitterly. Yes, they have indeed got that; but what good is the sun even, when one has nothing to eat, and is suffering every kind of privation? He was, no doubt, a great simpleton, but as he thought of these things, he sometimes cried like a child. Yet all the time he never gave up hope. The years passed by; day followed day slowly, regularly, uneventfully, like drops of water in a grotto, dripping from stone to stone. Almost every convict in the prison, especially those whose terms were not very long, hoped for a remission, and kept close count of the days already elapsed and of those yet to come. Their accuracy was amazing; they never made a mistake of so much as a single day. Some even carried their calculations so far as to count the hours. Costantino thought it all very foolish; one might die in the mean time, or regain his liberty! It was all in the hands of God. Yet, all the same, he too counted on being freed before the appointed hour; only in his case the appointed hour was so desperately, so hopelessly far away!
This realisation was heavy upon him on that morning when he awoke and fingered the warm paper of Giovanna's last letter.
Getting up, he sighed heavily, and began to dress himself. The man on his right stopped snoring, opened one sleepy eye, regarded Costantino dully, then closed it again. "Feeling badly?" he asked, as Costantino sighed again. "Oh, yes! Your child is ill. Why don't you tell the Director?"
"Why should I tell the Director? He would clap me into a cell for receiving the letter, and that would be the whole of it."
"Except paneepollastra" (bread and water), said an ironical voice. There was a general laugh, and Costantino, realising bitterly the utter indifference of all those men among whom he was destined to pass his days, felt as though he were wandering alone in a burning desert, gasping for air and water.
He went to his work longing impatiently for the exercise hour, when he would be able to talk over his troubles with the King ofSpades. The great, fat, yellow man whom he despised so in his heart, was, nevertheless, indispensable to him; his sole comfort, in fact. He alone in that place understood him, was sorry for him, and listened to him. He was paid for it all, to be sure, but what did that signify? He was necessary in the same way to a great many of the convicts, but to none, probably, as much as to Costantino, who already, with a somewhat selfish regret, was dreading the time when, his term expired, the KingofSpadeswould finally depart.
On this particular day a new inmate made his appearance in the workroom. He was a Northerner; long and sinuous, with a grey, wrinkled face, and small, pale eyes. It was not easy to tell his age, but the men laughed when he announced himself as twenty-two. He began at once to complain of the heat and of the sickening smell of fish that filled the room. Ah, he was no cobbler; no, indeed! He was the only son of a wealthy wholesale shoe-dealer,—a gentleman, in fact. And thereupon he recounted his unfortunate history. He had, it appeared, been so unlucky as to kill a rival in love; there had been provocation and he had ripped him open in the back,—simply that! The woman who was the real cause of the crime had consumption, and now she was dying from grief,—dying, simply that! Moreover, there was a child in the question, a son of the prisoner's by the sick woman. If she died,