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Martin Scrivener([email protected])
Phillip Carmical ([email protected])
Advanced Electrical and
Electronics Materials
Processes and Applications
Co-published by John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Hoboken, New Jersey, and Scrivener Publishing LLC, Salem,
Massachusetts.
Published simultaneously in Canada.
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ISBN 978-1-118-99835-9
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Dedicated to
my respected mother BELA,
father (Late) Ram Nath,
Godfather (Late) Lakhan Lal,
father-in-law (Late) Kishori Lal,
brother-in-law and sister: Jawahar and Savitri,
nephew (Late) Jayant (Babul)
and
all forefathers and foremothers
whose
blessings have always been a boon in my life
Contents
Preface xxxv
Acknowledgement xxxvii
About the Authors xxxix
Abbreviations xli
vii
viii Contents
Numerical Questions 66
Objective Questions 69
A CLEAN SHAVE
BY GRACE MAC GOWAN COOKE
Author of “Mistress Joy,” “The Machinations of Ocoee Gallantine,” etc., etc.
T HERE was a storm brewing. The sun had gone down in splendor
over Big Bald; heat lightnings laced the primrose of its afterglow.
Now the air trembled to a presage of thunder; the world panted
for its outburst of elemental rage.
The camp-meeting was in a brush arbor; the dry leaves on the
boughs with which it was roofed rustled faintly when breathings of
the coming tempest whispered across the highlands. The
congregation, seated on backless puncheon benches, seemed to
crouch beneath the uncertain illumination of a few torches and
lanterns. Protracted meetings in the mountains are always held in
midsummer, when the crops are laid by, so that perhaps the rising
generation comes to associate their souls’ salvation and hot,
breathless nights like this. Fleeing from the wrath to come no doubt
gets hopelessly mixed in some minds with running for adequate
shelter from the sudden passionate thunder-storms of the season.
There were six exhorters at work, swaying on their feet, shouting,
two of them singing, the mourners’ bench partly filled, a promising
tremor of excitement abroad in that portion of the congregation which
had not yet come forward or risen for prayer—and the shower was
almost upon them.
Vesta Turrentine, who always came up from the riverside store
kept by her widower father at Turrentine’s Landing to stay with her
Aunt Miranda during protracted meetings, had withdrawn to the end
of a bench, where she sat with bowed head, watchful, agonizedly
alert, letting her attitude pass for that of a penitent, hoping to be
undisturbed. She was a slim, finely built young creature, already past
the mere adolescence at which the mountain girl is apt to seek a
mate. As she sat, chin on hand, dark eyes staring straight forward,
her salient profile, a delicate feminine replica of old Jabe Turrentine’s
own eagle outlines, relieved against the lights of the meeting, a man
who crawled through the bushes found her very good to look upon.
So absorbed was he in staring at her that he did not notice another
man, deeper in shadow, who stared at him. Careless of observation,
certain that the meeting was fully occupied with itself, Ross Adene,
the first man, crept forward to the girl’s knee, touched it, laid his
yellow head against it with a murmured greeting.
Drawn by F. E. Schoonover Half-tone plate engraved by H. C. Merrill
“HE WORKED WITH THE AIR OF A MAN WHO HAS COME AT LAST TO SOME
DECISION, TURNED TO REACH FOR THE TOWEL—AND LOOKED INTO THE
MUZZLE OF HIS OWN GUN, WITH HIS DAUGHTER’S RESOLUTE EYES
BEHIND IT” (SEE PAGE 69)
“Ross?” The whisper was strangled by terror; her hand went
down against his hair, spread protectingly to conceal its shine.
“Who did you reckon it was?” whispered the young fellow.
“Anybody else hangin’ round hidin’ to get sight of ye and a chance to
speak with ye?”
“Didn’t you get my word?” Vesta breathed. “Pappy’s on the
mounting—unless’n the storm’s turned him back.”
“I reckon it has,” Ross answered, settling himself comfortably in
the deep shadow beside her. “It’s shore goin’ to be a big one.”
As he spoke there was an instant’s breathless hush of the voices
in the meeting, a dying down of the lights. It was followed by a white
flash so blinding, so all-enveloping, that in it one could see nothing.
Close after came a crash which seemed to rend earth and menace
heaven. The young fellow leaped to his feet, regardless of all
concealment, pulling the girl up beside him, flinging an arm about
her. After that lightning-flash the torches and lanterns seemed
darkness. Women were screaming, mothers calling to their children,
men shouting hoarsely, and running toward plunging teams hitched
in the grove.
It would have seemed that in such confusion even the rashest
intruder might go unchallenged, unrecognized, yet Vesta pushed her
companion from her and into the shadow again before she looked
around for her people. Her Aunt Miranda was puffing ponderously
down the aisle toward a shrieking infant which had awakened from
its nap on a back bench.
“Aunt ’Randy,” Vesta called, “I’m goin’ home with—somebody. I’m
all right. I’ll be thar afore ye.”
She could see Mrs. Minter’s lips shape themselves to some
words which her vigorously nodded head suggested were those of
assent. She dipped into the dark; Ross swept his sweetheart up on a
capable arm, and they set off running down the wood path which led
across the fields to the Minter place.
The noises of the meeting behind them diminished as they ran.
Other people were hurrying through the forest, calling, assuring
themselves of the whereabouts and safety of members of their
parties. Here and there lanterns or torches flickered.
“Hadn’t we better go through the bushes?” panted the girl.
“Somebody’s apt to see ye—an’ then—”
“No,” returned Adene, half lifting her along; “nobody’ll take notice
in a storm like this; an’ if they should, I’m about tired of dodgin’. We
got to marry sometime, girl. How about then? Yer pappy’ll know then,
won’t he?”
Thereafter they ran in silence. Twice the lightning illuminated their
way, diminishing peals of thunder following. It was after the second
of these that a shot rang out, startling Vesta so that she clung to
Ross’s arm and screamed. The young fellow made the usual dry
comment of the mountain-born, “They’s a man standin’ somewhars
right now with an empty gun in his hand.” Then they fled breathlessly
under the cover of a projecting ledge in the small bluff among the
bushes which had been Adene’s objective point. The heavens
opened, and the floods descended.
There is something cozy and delightful about standing sheltered
and dry, while the whole world falls down in rain, the elements
themselves seeking all in vain to reach and destroy you. Vesta put
out a hand to let the great drops strike on it, pushing back her hair
and lifting her face to the keen, sweet coolness of the downpour.
“Don’t you love it?” she asked again and again. “Hit ’minds me of
playin’ when I was a child, and just goin’ crazy hollerin’ ‘Rain flag’
when hit come down this a-way.”
“You an’ me used to play that together,” Ross reminded her. “That
was in the days before your dad took up the feud again.”
At this the girl turned and clutched him.
“Oh, Ross, I sent ye word not to come to-night,” she said, “but I
wanted to see ye an’ warn ye, too. Pappy’s actin’ quare. He’s bound
I shall marry.”
“Well, so ’m I,” assented Ross, half humorously. “Him an’ me
won’t fall out over that.”
“Don’t make a joke of it,” said Vesta. “Hit’s as much as your life’s
worth, an’ you know it. Hit’s as much as your life’s worth to be here
to-night. We ort never to meet again.”
She added the concluding words in a lower tone not intended,
perhaps, for her lover’s ears.
“Has he picked out a man for ye?” The young fellow returned to
what she had first said.
“U-m—h-m,” assented Vesta, reluctantly.
“Who?”
“Sam Beath.” She spoke very low.
“Sam Beath.” The young fellow repeated her words louder. “That
feller that come up from the Far Cove neighborhood to stay in the
store?”
“Pappy don’t like him—for me—so very well,” Vesta faltered, “but
he’s kin to kin of ourn, an’—you know, he’ll keep up the feud. Pappy
says I’m gittin’ awful old; an’—”
“If what he wants is to see his gal married, you an’ me’ll wed to-
morrow night after meetin’,” Ross declared.
Vesta laid hold of the lapels of his coat. She even slipped an arm
about his neck in entreaty, a tremendous demonstration for a
mountain girl, who feels that she must always be in the shy, reluctant
attitude of one who is besought, whose scruples are overcome.
“Ross, I know ye don’t mean it, honey, but, oh, for any sakes!
walk careful! Three years you an’ me has been promised to each
other, a-meetin’ wherever we could, me scared to death for ye all the
time; but pappy ain’t never found it out. Ross, give me yo’ word that
you’ll be careful.”
A fleeting glow showed Adene his sweetheart’s pale, entreating
face, and then came darkness and the steady drumming of the rain
on the leaves.
“You an’ me are a-goin’ to be married to-morrow night after
meetin’ at Brush Arbor,” he repeated doggedly. And Vesta, used to
the men of her world, with whom action follows the word swiftly, if it
does not precede, began to cry, leaning weakly against his shoulder.
“Ross, I’ll run away with ye, I’ll go anywhars you say. I’ll work my
fingers to the bone for you. I’ll never look on the face of my kin again
—for your sake.”
In her pleading she raised her voice until it was almost a cry. The
storm had died down; the lisp of falling water scarcely blurred the
sound of their words.
“Not for my sake you won’t,” returned her lover, sturdily, putting a
strong arm about her, bending to cup her cheek in his hand. “Why, I
like your daddy fine. I picked him out for a father-in-law same’s I
picked you out for a wife. I ain’t never had any dad of my own to look
to. Yourn suits me. I’ll make friends with him.”
“And why ain’t you got no father?” inquired Vesta, tragically.
“’Ca’se my uncle shot him down when you was a baby in your
mother’s lap—and there all the trouble began.”
“Hit’s a long time ago,” said Ross, philosophically. “I ain’t bearin’
any grudge till yet. I reckon if your uncle hadn’t ’a’ got my father, my
father’d ’a’ got him. I aim to marry ye, here in Brush Arbor meetin’,
an’ make friends with your daddy an’ put an end to the feud.”
As a spectacular conclusion to the storm, and apparently to
Ross’s speech as well, there blazed through the woods a sudden
greenish-white radiance of lightning. It flickered on the wet leaves,
giving them a phosphorescent glow; it lit with an infernal illumination
a face peering between those leaves, looking squarely into Adene’s
own—a dark face, full of the strong beauty of age and courage, vivid
yet with the zest of life. The young fellow’s hand went up to cover
Vesta’s eyes, to press her head in against his breast.
“What is it?” she breathed.
“You said you was scared of lightning,” Ross answered close to
her ear, as the thunder reverberated through a darkened, wet world.
Evidently she had not seen. Certainly he would not tell her. As
the detonations died down, he stood rigid, waiting for the bolt of
death, weighing with instant clearness the chance of whether old
Jabe would kill only him, or slay as well the daughter who had
proved treacherous.
Nothing came. A light wind sprang up and set drops pattering
down from the boughs. The storm-clouds were rent, torn, scattered,
rolling sullenly away to the north. A few drowned stars began to
make the sky lighter.
All at once, as he waited for the death that came not, Ross
remembered the shot they had heard as they ran through the woods.
That was Jabe Turrentine’s gun. Turrentine had been the man
standing with an empty weapon, without another cartridge to reload.
When he was certain of this, Adene felt momentarily safe. The old
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