The Detroit Electric Scheme Read Online Free PDF Page B

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    â€œJoe called in sick today. I thought he had a stronger constitution than that.” Elwood laughed and began peeling off his gloves. “Oh, I meant to ask you last night. Did you hear Ford’s putting a magnetized rear axle on the new Tin Lizzies?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYeah, so you don’t lose all the parts that fall off.” He cackled and waved me to the opposite corner of the room. “Feast your eyes on these.” He pointed at two stacks of Edison batteries on his special charging bench. “Best I’ve tested yet.”
    I had to smile seeing the Edison nickel-steel batteries—a row of narrow steel boxes—tucked into wool blankets atop the bench, their battery connectors hooked to a pair of red and black cables hanging down from the charging board.
    Elwood and his crew built Detroit Electric’s lead-acid batteries, so it was in his best interest to dislike Thomas Edison’s latest invention, but he was probably more excited than anyone else. To most people these boxes would have been ugly or utilitarian at best, but Elwood gazed at them through the shimmering mist of love. “These beauties will put us in high gear,” he said.
    â€œAnd it’s about time.”
    â€œYou ain’t just a-whistling ‘Dixie’ there,” Elwood said. “What’s it been, ten years since Edison started promising he’d have them ready any day?”
    â€œHopefully it’ll be worth the wait.”
    â€œIt will. An electric that’ll go a hundred-plus miles between charges? They’ll sell themselves.” Elwood put a hand on my shoulder. Even though he was only a few years older than me and I was the son of the company’s founder, he was the authority, with a breezy self-confidence that was contagious. “Two hundred and two miles tomorrow—minimum. And be here at five, no later. As soon as Dr. Miller arrives, we’ll get you on the road.”
    A large white bandage was taped across the bottom of his forearm. I took hold of his wrist and raised his arm so I could see it. “What’d you do?”
    He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the acid tank. “Going too fast, you know me. Got me a splash of sulfuric.”
    â€œMaybe that’ll get you to start paying attention.”
    He grinned and gave me a playful shove toward the door. “Get outta here. But don’t be late tomorrow.”
    â€œYeah, yeah. I’ll be here. You have the Edisons nice and toasty forme.” I limped down the stairway and out of the garage, heading toward Gratiot and the J.L. Hudson Department Store. My ankle was loosening up, and the rain had stopped, but I was exhausted. Even the sun peeking out above Windsor’s skyline failed to warm my spirits.
    Hudson’s had a huge selection of hats and caps, and also had the advantage of being an extremely busy store, so I thought it unlikely my purchase would be remembered. I bought a brown herringbone touring cap in the same style as the one I lost at the factory, just a shade or two darker. I couldn’t explain away the loss of the cap I wore most often, and hoped this would be a passable substitute.
    With my new cap tucked away in a bag, I hopped a streetcar back up Woodward. The trolley was packed, like it was every weekday morning. I had to fight for a spot hanging precariously off the back steps, which was as good as it usually got anyway.
    I got off at the stop near Peterboro and was heading up the walk to my building when Wesley McRae bounded out the door. He was turned out perfectly, as he always seemed to be, in a pair of striped blue trousers and a blue jacket with an ivory silk cravat and matching porkpie hat. A folder bursting with sheet music was tucked under his arm. Energy seemed to radiate from him. Though we were around the same age, I didn’t have one-tenth his vigor.
    â€œGood morning, William,” he called out.
    â€œMorning,” I