The fourth pipe rim stud broke free with the same violent, ringing crack as the first three, spraying dried rust into the puddle of kerosene at Bram’s knees.
Bram spun the nut off the leftover threads with his blistered fingers, let it drop into Tavi’s iron tin with a loud clatter. Then he sat back on his heels in the river silt. His gray shirt was soaked with sweat and black coal grease. His forearms shook from the strain of four repeated clockwork surges against the long-handled socket wrench.
Beside him, Len lowered the ash sounding pole, letting the bronze tip rest in the mud. His right shoulder burned from the prolonged, steady pressure he had held against the back of the wrench, and beneath his wool coat, his bandaged left forearm radiated a steady, throbbing heat that made his breath short. But the studs were clear. The four threaded steel bolts projected naked and stripped from the outer edge of the pump casing.
“Stand clear of the drop,” Bram warned, picking up a flat iron cold chisel and a three-pound lead-faced mallet.
He set the beveled edge of the chisel against the seam between the cast-iron pump housing and the circular check cover. He struck the head of the chisel two sharp blows with the mallet.
