Considerable space has been given in the magazines and newspapers this
winter to official and expert directions on How to Run Your Furnace
and Save Coal--as if the two things were compatible. Some had
accompanying diagrams of a furnace in its normal state, showing the
exact position of the arteries and vitals, with arrows pointing in
interesting directions, indicating the theoretical course of the heat.
I have given some time to studying these charts, and have come to the
conclusion that when the authors of such articles and I speak the word
"furnace," we mean entirely different things. They are referring to
some idealized, sublimated creation; perhaps the "furnace" which
existed originally in the mind of Horace W. Furnace, the inventor;
while, on the other hand, I am referring to the thing that is in my
cellar. No wonder that I can't understand their diagrams.
For my own satisfaction, therefore, I have drawn up a few regulations
which I can understand, and have thrown them together most informally
for whatever they may be worth. Any one else who has checked up the
official furnace instructions with Life as it really is and has found
something wrong somewhere may go as far as he likes with the results
of my researches. I give them to the world.
Saving coal is, just now, the chief concern of most householders, for
we are now entering that portion of the solstice when it is beginning
to be necessary to walk some distance into the bin after the coal.
When first the list of official admonitions were issued, early in the
season, it was hard to believe that they ever would be needed. The bin
was so full that it resembled a drug-store window piled high with
salted peanuts. (As a matter of actual fact, there is probably nothing
that coal looks _less_ like than salted peanuts, but the effect of
tremendous quantity was the same.) Adventurous pieces were fairly
popping out of confinement and rolling over the cellar. It seemed as
if there were enough coal there to give the _Leviathan_ a good run for
her money and perhaps take her out as far as Bedloe Island. A fig for
coal-saving devices!
But now the season is well on, and the bad news is only too apparent.
The householder, as he finds himself walking farther and farther into
the bin after the next shovelful, realizes that soon will come the
time when it will be necessary to scrape the leavings into a corner,
up against the side of the bin, and to coal his fire, piece by piece,
between his finger and thumb, while waiting for the dealer to deliver
that next load, "right away, probably to-day, to-morrow at the
latest."
It is therefore essential that we turn constructive thought to the
subject of coal conservation. I would suggest, in the first place, an
exact aim in shoveling coal into the fire box.
By this I mean the cultivation of an exact aim in shoveling coal into
the fire box. In my own case (if I may be permitted to inject the
personal element into this article for one second), I know that it
often happens that, when I have a large shovelful of coal in readiness
for the fire, and the door to the fire box open as wide as it will go,
there may be, nevertheless, the variation of perhaps an eighth of an
inch between the point where the shovel should have ended the arc in
its forward swing and the point at which it actually stops. In less
technical phraseology, I sometimes tick the edge of the shovel against
the threshold of the fire box, instead of shooting it over as should
be done. Now, as I usually take a rather long, low swing, with
considerable power behind it (if I do say so), the sudden contact of
the shovel with the threshold results in a forceful projection of the
many pieces of coal (and whatever else it is that comes with the coal
for good measure) into all corners of the cellar. I have seen coal fly
from my shovel under such circumstances with such velocity as to land
among the preserves at the other end of the cellar and in the opposite
direction from which I was facing.
[Illustration: "In less technical language, I sometimes tick the edge
of the shovel against the threshold of the fire box."]
Now, this is obviously a waste of coal. It would be impossible to
stoop all about the cellar picking up the vagrant pieces that had
flown away, even if the blow of the shovel against the furnace had
not temporarily paralyzed your hand and caused you to devote your
entire attention to the coining of new and descriptive word pictures.
I would suggest, for this trouble, the taking of a "stance" in front
of the fire box, with perhaps chalk markings for guidance of the feet
at just the right distance away. Then a series of preparatory swings,
as in driving off in golf, first with the empty shovel, then with a
gradually increasing amount of coal. The only danger in this would be
that you might bring the handle of the shovel back against an ash can
or something behind you and thus spill about as much coal as before.
But there, there--if you are going to borrow trouble like that, you
might as well give up right now.
Another mishap of a somewhat similar nature occurs when a shovelful of
ashes from under the grate is hit against the projecting shaker,
causing the ashes to scatter over the floor and the shoes. This is a
very discouraging thing to have happen, for, as the ashes are quite
apt to contain at least three or four pieces of unburnt coal, it means
that those pieces are as good as lost unless you have time to hunt
them up. It also means shining the shoes again.
I find that an efficacious preventive for this is to take the shaker
off when it is not in use and stand it in the corner. There the worst
thing that it can do is to fall over against your shins when you are
rummaging around for the furnace-bath-brush among the rest of the
truck that hangs on the wall.
And, by the way, there are at least two pieces of long-handled
equipment hanging on my cellar wall (items in the estate of the former
tenant, who must have been a fancier of some sort) whose use I have
never been able to figure out. I have tried them on various parts of
the furnace at one time or another, but, as there is not much of
anything that one on the outside of a furnace can do but _poke_, it
seems rather silly to have half a dozen niblick-pokers and
midiron-pokers with which to do it. One of these, resembling in shape
a bridge, such as is used on all occasions by novices at pool, I
experimented with one night and got it so tightly caught in back of
the grate somewhere that I had to let the fire go out and take the
dead coals out, piece by piece, through the door in order to get at
the captive instrument and release it. And, of course, all this
experimenting wasted coal.
The shaker is, however, an important factor in keeping the furnace
going, for it is practically the only recourse in dislodging clinkers
which have become stuck in the grate--that is, unless you can kick
the furnace hard enough to shake them down. I have, in moments when, I
am afraid, I was not quite myself, kicked the furnace with
considerable force, but I never could see that it had any effect on
the clinker. This, however, is no sign that it can't be done. I would
be the first one to wish a man well who did it.
But, ordinarily, the shaker is the accepted agent for teaching the
clinker its place. And, in the fancy assorted coal in vogue this
season (one-third coal, one-third slate, and one-third rock candy)
clinkers are running the combustible matter a slightly better than
even race. This problem is, therefore, one which must be faced.
I find that a great deal of satisfaction, if not tangible results, can
be derived from personifying the furnace and the recalcitrant clinker,
and endowing them with human attributes, such as fear, chagrin, and
susceptibility to physical and mental pain. In this fanciful manner
the thing can be talked to as if it were a person, in this way lending
a zest to the proceedings which would be entirely lacking in a contest
with an inanimate object.
Thus, when it is discovered that the grate is stuck, you can say,
_sotto voce_:
"Ho, ho! you *********! So that's your game, is it?"
(I would not attempt to dictate the particular epithets. Each man
knows so much better than any one else just what gives him the most
comfort in this respect that it would be presumptuous to lay down any
formula. Personally, I have a wonderful set of remarks and proper
names which I picked up one summer from a lobster man in Maine, which
for soul-satisfying blasphemy are absolutely unbeatable. I will be
glad to furnish this set to any one sending a stamped, self-addressed
envelope.)
You then seize the shaker with both hands and give it a vicious yank,
muttering between your teeth:
"We'll see, my fine fellow! We'll see!"
This is usually very effective in weakening the morale of the clinker,
for it then realizes right at the start that it is pitted against a
man who is not to be trifled with.
This should be followed by several short and powerful yanks,
punctuated on the catch of each stroke with a muttered: "You
*********!"
If you are short of wind, the force of this ejaculation may diminish
as the yanks increase in number, in which case it will be well to rest
for a few seconds.
At this point a little strategy may be brought to bear. You can turn
away, as if you were defeated, perhaps saying loudly, so that the
clinker can hear: "Ho-hum! Well, I guess I'll call it a day," and
pretend to start upstairs.
Then, quick as a wink, you should turn and leap back at the shaker,
and, before the thing can recover from its surprise, give it a yank
which will either rip it from its moorings or cause your own vertebræ
to change places with a sharp click. It is a fifty-fifty chance.
[Illustration: "Quick as a wink you should turn and leap back at the
shaker."]
But great caution should be observed before trying these heroic
measures to make sure that the pins which hold the shaker in place are
secure. A loosened pin will stand just so much shaking, and then it
will unostentatiously work its way out and look around for something
else to do. This always causes an awkward situation, for the yank next
following the walkout of the pin, far from accomplishing its purpose
of dispossessing the clinker, will precipitate you over backward among
the ash cans with a viciousness in which it is impossible not to
detect something personal.
Immediately following such a little upset to one's plans, it is
perhaps the natural impulse to arise in somewhat of a pet and to set
about exacting punitive indemnities. This does not pay in the end. If
you hit any exposed portion of the furnace with the shaker the chances
are that you will break it, which, while undoubtedly very painful to
the furnace at the time, would eventually necessitate costly repairs.
And, if you throw coal at it, you waste coal. This, if you remember,
is an article on how to save coal.
Another helpful point is to prevent the fire from going out. This may
be accomplished in one way that I am sure of. That is, by taking a
book, or a ouija board, or some other indoor entertainment downstairs
and sitting two feet away from the furnace all day, being relieved by
your wife at night (or, needless to say, vice versa). I have never
known this method of keeping the fire alive to fail, except when the
watcher dropped off to sleep for ten or fifteen minutes. This is
plenty of time for a raging fire to pass quietly away, and I can prove
it.
Of course this treatment cuts in on your social life, but I know of
nothing else that is infallible. I know of nothing else that can
render impossible that depressing foreboding given expression by your
wife when she says: "Have you looked at the fire lately? It's getting
chilly here," followed by the apprehensive trip downstairs, eagerly
listening for some signs of caloric life from within the
asbestos-covered tomb; the fearful pause before opening the door,
hoping against hope that the next move will disclose a ruddy glow
which can easily be nursed back to health, but feeling, in the
intuitive depths of your soul, that you might just as well begin
crumpling up last Sunday's paper to ignite, for the Grim Reaper has
passed this way.
And then the cautious pull at the door, opening it inch by inch, until
the bitter truth is disclosed--a yawning cavern of blackness with the
dull, gray outlines of consumed coals in the foreground, a dismal
double-play: ashes to ashes.
These little thoughts on furnace tending and coal conservation are not
meant to be taken as in any sense final. Some one else may have found
the exact converse to be true; in which case he would do well to make
a scientific account of it as I have done. It helps to buy coal.