567 / puttering about “her majesty” with an oil can

putterings 566 < 567 > 568 index

and the old machine goes flopping and clanking on
Tim was puttering about “her majesty” with an oil can.

Timothy O’Brien’s Bear Story

(Awarded first prize in the Tychoberahn Story Contest. This contest, the first of its kind in the high school, was open to all students, except those connected with the Tychoberahn, and two prizes — a first prize of $2.50 and a second prize of a ’09 Tychoberahn, were offered.)

aside —
story by Ray C. Tuttle; paragraphs numbered to assist in correcting OCR text; punctuation and Eire-ishness as found.

There are many old and dilapidated buildings in the region of Stony Creek, but the oldest and most dilapidated of all is a saw mill, built some time back in the pioneer days, upon the bank of Stony Creek itself. It is constructed of native stones, which, because of their inability to roll, have accumulated a thick layer of moss, so that the exterior appearance of the mill much resembles that of some ancient castle.
Stony Creek has long ceased to be a creek, and for many years the power has been supplied by an engine and boiler, of unknown make and uncertain temperament. These, too, have become as old and dilapidated as their surroundings. Occasionally the mill is shut down for lack of work; more often the machinery refuses to work, and a stop is made to tie up the loose ends.
Thus far, however, through the ingenuity of the engineer, each of these crises has been safely passed, and the old machine goes flopping and clanking on for another uncertain period. Indeed, it is only through the resourcefulness of Timothy O’Brien, the engineer, that the mill is able to exist at all. The way in which he has darned and stitched that old machinery together would fill the mind of a first class mechanic with awe — but it works, which is the main thing.
The old mill is the rendezvous for the loafers of the neighborhood, but it is the person of Timothy O’Brien and not the mill which is the attraction. Tim is an Irishman , and is proud of it. He is famous throughout his little world for his stories, the supply of which seems inexhaustible. Should you ever visit the old mill, you will find Tim in the small, dark, dirt-floored basement, which is joint engine and boiler room, and perhaps, if he is not too busy urging the obstinate relic to do its work, you may induce him to tell you “the story of the bear.”
It was one day last fall that I first heard it. For the greater part of the afternoon I had been sitting on Timothy’s favorite nail keg by the boiler waiting for some propitious moment when his tongue might loosen. Tim was puttering about “her majesty” with an oil can.
“She’s behavin’ pretty fair today,” he said at last.
“Yes,” I said, expectantly.
“A dale better’n common, the aggervatin’ ould baste,” he continued.
“Weren’t you ever afraid she’d get the better of you?” I asked.
“Wanst, and only wanst,” he replied, “an’ thot was a long time ago.”
[81]
“Tell me about it,” I said, eagerly.
“Well,” he began, “it happined jist afther I came over from the ould country, an’ got mesilf into iverlastin’ aginy be assumin’ charge iv this outfit. The trouble began wan day whin the foreman iv the mill lit it out thot he’d seen a ba’r snoopin’ ’round his place. Av coorse ivry wan iv the mill hands wanted to go ba’r huntin’ immejut, an’ the foreman seen thot he’d niver git any more work done till he lit’ em go, so he sez, ‘Half iv yez can go the fir-rust day, an’ the rist iv yez can go the nixt day. Thin the mill won’t have to shut down. Bein’ as how I saw the bar, I'll be wan to go the first day; the rist iv yez can draw lots.’
“So they drawed lots, an’ the wans that was goin’ the first day rizurrected all the guns they iver had, an’ the wans thot was goin’ the sicond day spint their toime hopin’ they wudn’t go off. As for mesilf, I wasn’t int’rested in ba’rs an’ didn’t care whether he was kilt the fir-rust day or the sicond.
“It was about noon iv the day thot the fir-rust batch wint ba’r-huntin’ thot I sat down on thot same nail-keg to eat me lunch. The ould girl, manin’ the ingine, had kipt me jumpin’ all the morning’, she being the same dayceitful, ram’shus ould hypocrit thot she is now. Jist as I comminced atin’ I heard somethin’ sniffin’ behind me, loike some ould cow had got a whiff iv me dinner. I looked around an’ saw somethin’ pakin’ in the windy.
“‘Come in, bossy,’ I sez, ‘an’ have some bacon.’ Av coorse I was only foolin’, but , begobs, the ould baste must have thot I mint it, for she jumped clane thru the windy into the basemint. ‘Well,’ I sez, ‘yere no cow, any-wan cud see thot, but what are yez?’ Ividently she thot I was insultin’ her, for she shtood up on her hind-legs an’ begin bellerin’.
“Thin it came acrost me all at wance about the ba’r-hunt. I hadn’t niver seen a ba'r, but I had heard thot walkin’ on their hind-legs was the fav’rite occypation iv thim craychure, so I concluded thot this was wan iv thim.
“‘So yure a ba’r,’ I sez. She samed to think this was an apoligy, for she quit bellerin’, an’ began wobblin’ over towards me bacon.
“‘Howld on,’ I sez, pickin’ up the coal-shovel, ‘you don’t own this bacon yit. Take thot instid,’ an’ I brought me weapon down har-rud on the ind iv her nose. She didn’t seem to moind it in the laste an’ the nixt minit she had swallered all me dinner an’ was lookin’ around for somethin’ more amusin’.
Whin she saw me, she samed to raymimber all at wance about thot coal-hovel bizniss, an’ the nixt thing I knew I was runnin’ around the basemint at the top iv me shpeed, the ba’r follerin’. I cud see now why ba’r huntin’ was such an interestin’ shport. The engine-room wa’n’t layed out for a race-track, but considerin’ our inconvaniences we made splindid toime. Plinty iv people in Noo York wud have paid a hundred dollars to see such [82] a blood-curdlin’ performance, but I cudn’t be pastin’ bills over the counthry jist thin.
Round an’ round we wint, fallin’ over ivrything we cud, till finally me inimy burnt herself on a stame-poipe an’ shtopped a minit to cuff it. It gave me a chanst. I opined the door thot leads out into the mill-yard an’ slipped thru jist as the ba’r piled hersilf up aginst the inside, an’ jarred down the iron bar thot locks it into place.
“‘There,’ I sez. But I sid it too soon. I had forgotten the ingine. There she was, locked up with a craychure who was quoite her aqual in onixpictedniss. I thot iv the ragin’ foire I had made under the boiler an’ how much water there ought to be in her, but wasn’t. An’ the more I thot about it, the more I wished I was back in there, but the more I thot about the ba’r the gladder I was to be out iv there.
“Finally I got up enough courage to look in the basemint windy. There was the ould ingine wheezin’ an’ groanin’ in aginy for more ile, — but there was the ba’r, too, growlin’ an’ sniffin’ ixpictantly. Ivry wance in a while the ingine wud give a pertikerly aginizin’ wheeze, an’ I wud start climbin’ down to tind her, but jist thin the ba’r wud give a pertikerly ixpictant sniff, an’ I wud pull me leg out a dale quicker’n I put it in.
“Purty soon the pertikerly aginizin’ wheeze, an’ the pertikerly ixpictant sniffs became so num’rous an’ frayquint thot I saw thot the ind wud soon come, onliss the ba’r was disposed of mighty quick. Thin I thot iv the mill-hands, thim thot was so ravin’ anx’shus for a ba’r-hunt. I ran as fast as I cud into the mill, where the machanery was floppin’ along at a forty-mile clip.
“‘Byes,’ I yells,’ ‘come out an’ ba’r-hunt all ye want to. There’s wan waitin’ for yez.’ Well, whin thim fellers heard ‘ba’r’ they all come pilin’ out hid-first.
“‘Where’bouts,’ sez ivrywan.
“‘There’s an ixtry wan in the basemint thot yez kin have,’ I sez. Coorse they all piked for the windy, an’ whin they saw the ba’r they began dancin’ around an’ jabberin’' loike they was a fem’nine sewin’-circle.
“‘Hurry up,’ sez I, ‘and’ kill thot ba’r,’ cause I need the basemint mesilf.’
“‘Tim,’ sez wan iv thim, ‘this is a sure good joke on the boss. Whin he comes home ‘thout havin’ ——— ’
“‘Whin he comes home,’ I sez, ‘he’ll have nothin’ to come home to, ’less you git that ba’r kilt pretty suddint. Thot ingine won’t run along alone foriver.’
“‘Come on, let’s kill him,’ sez wan.
“‘How?’ sez another, ‘the boss has got all the guns.’
“‘We’ll git crow-bars an’ make a rush thru the door,’ sez some wan ilse.
“‘No ye wont,’ I sez, ‘’cause the ba’r’s took the praycaution iv lockin’ it. '
[83]
“‘Thru the windy, thin,’ sez wan.
“‘Who’ll go first?’ I sez, ‘an’ be made into sausage before he gits to the bottom ?’
“‘Thin how shall we do it?’ sez another.
“The safety-valve had begun to whistle, an’ I knew thot it wasn’t doin’ it for fun. ‘Byes,’ I sez, ‘there’s only wan way, an’ thot’s for somewan to slide down the coal-shute an’ git the door opin’ before the ba’r sees him. Thin we kin all rush in an’ make an ind to her.’
“‘Who’s goin’ down the coal-shute? Not me,’ sez wan.
“‘Nor me,’ sez another. ‘Tim, it’s your place; you got us into this.’
“‘Yis, yis,’ sez ivrybody, ‘Tim’s the mon.’
“‘Oh, yis,’ I sez, ‘ye’re tur’ble willin’ to have me go down there an’ git clawed opin loike an oyster.’ But I seen thot nobody else wud go, an’ there wa’n’t any toime to argy about it, for the ould girl was scramin’ her loife out.
“‘Alright,’ I sez, ‘I’m no pack iv cowards loike the rist iv yez. Will ye come whin I opin the door?’
“‘We will,’ they sez.
“‘Thin git ye’re crowbars,’ sez I, uncoverin’ the shute as soft as I cud.
“The shute was a long poipe slantin’ down into the coal-bin. It was too big for me an’ I had to ixpand mesilf loike a bull-frog an’ sprid me arms so thot I wudn’t slide too fast. Afther I had got down in a ways I cud see thot I had made a mistake in startin’ hid-first. I cudn’t regilate me speed. Finally, whin I was about half-way down, I looked ahid, an’ there at the ind was the ba’r, her mouth formin’ a continooation iv the coal-shute. I sprid me arms an’ took a dape breath, till I nearly filled the poipe, an’ stopped slidin’.
“‘Oh, hivin save me,’ I yelled, but that lit out me wind an’ I comminced slidin’ agin. I took another full breath an stopped, but I cudn’t hold it foriver, an’ ivry toime I took a noo wan I slid nearer the end iv the shute, an’ the ind iv me loife, too, I was thinkin’. Thin jist as the ba’r clawed me hat off I heard somewan jump in the windy an’ unbar the door, an’ the nixt minit about twinty min was pilin’ over each other to git the first whack at the ba’r. I slid the rist iv the way into the coal-bin, an’ ran for the boiler. There she was, jist loike an ould grass-hopper — for Hivin knows which way ather wan will jump nixt — I pulled the foire quick an’ lit her cool down, an’ thin I looked for the ba’r. Jist as I turned around I heard a gun go off. There was the boss, standin’ by the dead ba’r.
“‘Byes,’ he sez, puttin’ his foot on the ba’r’s hid to cover up the place where a crowbar had hit her, ‘byes, I tracked this ba’r right into this here basmint an’ shot it. This ba’r-hunt is over. Ye kin come around tomorrow an’ help me with the skinnin’.

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Ray C. Tuttle, “Timothy O’Brien’s Bear Story,” in Tychoberahn 9 (Class [of] 1909, Madison High School, Wisconsin]) : 80-83 (80) : link

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Ray C. Tuttle (1890-1989)
his photograph and apothegm at p 45 : link

Tuttle would later be Program officer, Forest Products Laboratory at the University of Wisconsin. And, he continued to write.

“Craftsman, Spare That Tree,” (presented at Third Annual Convention, Minnesota Federation of Architectural and Engineering Societies, Duluth, February 1, 1924), in that organization’s Bulletin (May 1924) : 16-19 : link

aside —
from a search for “puttering” plus “flopping,” prompted by the discussion of flopping in Irving Goh, his Living On After Failure (2025) — who gets to flop, who can afford to flop... questions that also apply to so many of the instances of “puttering” encountered in this project.

27 October 2025