Mitsubishi Forklift FBC15 FBC20

FBC20FW FBC25 Service Manual EN

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Mitsubishi Forklift FBC15 FBC20 FBC20FW FBC25 Service Manual ENSize: 22.3
MBFormat: PDFLanguage: EnglishBrand: MitsubishiType of Machine: ForkliftType
of Document: Service ManualModel:Mitsubishi FBC15 ForkliftMitsubishi FBC20
ForkliftMitsubishi FBC20FW ForkliftMitsubishi FBC25 ForkliftDate: 2010Serial
Number:FBC15 AFB1-50401FBC20 AFB2-00203 AFB2A-00011 (FW)FBC25
AFB2-50353 AFB2A-50005 (FW)FBC30 AFB3-00067 AFB3A-00011 (FW)Part
Number:99719-7110099719-74100Content:99719-71100-00 EV100: General
Information99719-71100-01 EV100: Description of Circuits99719-71100-02
EV100: Troubleshooting Instructions99719-71100-03 EV100: Assembly and
Adjustment99719-71100-04 EV100: Motors99719-71100-05 EV100:
Wiring99719-71100-05a EV100: Wiring Schematic99719-74100-00 Chassis and
Mast: Foreword99719-74100-01 Chassis and Mast: General
Information99719-74100-02 Chassis and Mast: Reduction Differential and Front
Axle99719-74100-03 Chassis and Mast: Rear Axle99719-74100-04 Chassis and
Mast: Brake System99719-74100-05 Chassis and Mast: Steering
System99719-74100-06 Chassis and Mast: Hydraulic System99719-74100-07
Chassis and Mast: Mast and Forks99719-74100-08 Chassis and Mast:
Troubleshooting99719-74100-09 Chassis and Mast: Service Data99719-74100-10
Chassis and Mast: Inspection GuideMast Tilting Angles Mast Tilting
AnglesMitsubishi Pub List Publication List (Service, Operator, & Parts
Manuals)REF-18-0001M How To Determine Correct Mast Rails Lift Cylinders And
Mast HosingREF-18-0002M How To Locate Fluid CapacitiesREF-18-0002M How
To Locate Fluid Capacities (Spanish)REF-18-0003M How To Use A Pick
ListREF-18-0003M How To Use A Pick List (Spanish)
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 Rags, not having to change his clothes, had remained with
Charles, and was enjoying a friendly hand on his head while he sat
alert waiting for what was to happen next. When Dan appeared
things would move, he knew, and he meant to be in them. He
wasn't going to trust any verbal promises. He was going with them if
he had to do it on the sly.
Charles arose and received the bountiful supper graciously.
When Mrs. Butterworth saw the manner of the stranger who sat on
her front settle she was ashamed to be handing him a plate outside,
as if he were a tramp. "Dan'l said you wouldn't come in," she said
hospitably, "and I couldn't bear not to give you a bite to eat. You
should 'a' happened 'long sooner, while supper was hot. We all
thought a lot o' Miss Montgomery. Was you her brother, perhaps?"
 While she had prepared the lunch, she had questioned within
herself what sort of "friend" this might be with whom Dan was going
to visit the teacher. If Dan wanted to "make up" to Teacher, why did
he not go alone?
Charles perceived that Daniel had not explained to his mother,
and, keeping his own counsel, returned pleasantly:
 "Oh, no, not her brother," and he began to tell Mrs. Butterworth
how glad he was to have her son's company on his visit to New
York. His manner was so reassuring that she decided he was all
right, and as Dan came down, his face shining from much soap, and
his hair plastered as smoothly as his rough curls would allow, she
said pleasantly:
"You'll see my boy don't get into bad company down in New
York, won't you? I'm worried, sort of, fer his pa said last night there
was cholera round."
Charles's face sobered in an instant.
 "We'll take good care of each other, Mrs. Butterworth; don't you
worry. I'm much obliged for your letting me have Daniel for
company, and I'll try to make him have a pleasant time."
The village people stared at Dan as he got into the stage with
the stranger. They wondered where he was going. One of the boys
made bold to slide up to the coach and ask him, but he got little
satisfaction.
"Just running down to New York for a few days," Dan answered
nonchalantly, as if it were a matter of every-day occurrence.
 Amid the envious stares of the boys, the coach drove away into
the evening, and Daniel sat silently beside his companion, wondering
at himself, his heart throbbing greatly that he might within a few
hours see the girl who had made such a difference in his life.
About midnight everybody but Charles and Daniel got out of the
coach. Comfortably ensconced, the two young men might have
slept, but Charles was too nervous and excited to sleep, and Daniel
was not far behind him.
"Daniel," said Charles, suddenly breaking the silence that had
fallen upon them, though each knew the other was not sleeping, "by
what name did she go? Your mother spoke of her as Miss
Montgomery. Was that the name she gave?"
 "Yes," said Daniel, wondering; "Mary Montgomery."
"It was her mother's name," said Charles reverently. Dawn had
talked to him of her mother on their wedding trip.
"Daniel, there is something more that perhaps I ought to tell
you. Did she tell you that she and I are married?"
 "No," said Dan. His voice was shaking as he tried to take in the
thought. It was as if he were expecting an unbearable pain in a
nerve that had already throbbed its life out and was at rest. He was
surprised to find how natural it seemed. Then he stammered out:
"I guess I must have known, though. She said she belonged to
you, and so nobody else could take care of her."
"Thank you for telling me that," said Charles. He laid his hand
warmly on Dan's. The boy liked his touch. Rags, who was sleeping at
their feet, nestled closer to them both with a sleepy whine. He was
content now that he was really on his way.
 "I guess," said Dan chokingly—"I guess I better tell you the
whole, because I like you, and you're the right kind. You seem like
what she ought to have, and I'm glad it's you—but—it was kind of
hard, because, you see, I'd have liked to take care of her myself. I
didn't know about you till she told me, and though I knew, of
course, I wasn't much to look at beside her, I could have done a lot
for her, and I mean to go to college yet, any way, just to show her.
You see, I guess it ain't right to go along with you to see her, and
not tell you what I said to her. I told her I loved her! And it was true,
too. I'd have died for her if it was necessary. If that makes any
difference to you, Rags and I'll get out and walk back now. I thought
I ought to tell you. I couldn't help loving her, could I, when she did
so much for me? And, you see, I never knew about you."
It was a long speech for the silent Dan to make, but Charles's
warm hand-grasp through it all helped wonderfully, as well as Dan's
growing liking for Dawn's husband.
"Bless you, Daniel!" said Charles, throwing his arm about his
companion's shoulders, as he used to do with his chums in college.
"You just sit right still where you are. It was noble and honest of you
to tell me that. I believe in my heart I like you all the better for it.
We are brothers, you see, for I love her that way, too, and it gives
me a lot of comfort to know you can understand me. But, old fellow
—I don't quite know how to say it—I'm deeply sorry that your love
has brought you only pain, and I feel all the more warmly toward
you that you tried to help her when you knew she belonged to some
one else. I never can thank you enough."
 "I couldn't have helped it," said Dan gruffly. "If anybody loved
her, they'd have to take care of her, if it killed 'em."
"Dan, old fellow, I love you," said Charles impulsively. "You can't
know what this is to me, that you took care of her when I couldn't.
I'll love you always, and I shall never forget what you've done for
me. Now, begin at the beginning and tell me all you know about her,
won't you? I'm hungry to hear."
And Dan found himself telling the whole story of how Dawn had
conquered him, the ringleader of mischief in the school, made him
her slave, and helped him up to a plane where higher ambitions and
nobler standards had changed his whole idea of life.
 As he listened to the homely, boyish phrases and read between
the lines the pathos of Dawn's struggles, Charles found tears
standing in his eyes to think his little girl-wife had been through so
much all by herself, without him near to help and comfort. Would he
ever, ever, be able to make up to her for it?
He expressed this thought clumsily to Dan, and the boy, all
eager now with sympathy, and loving Charles as loyally as Dawn,
said royally:
"I calculate one sight of your face'll make her forget it all.
Leastways, that's the way it looks to me."
 They talked at intervals all night. Charles drew from Daniel his
ambition to get an education and be worthy to be the friend of such
a teacher as he had had. The boy said it shyly, and then added,
"And you too, if you'll let me," and there in the early breaking of the
morning light the two young men made a solemn compact of
friendship through life. When the sun shone forth and touched the
hills, glinting the Hudson in the distance, Daniel sat up and looked
about him with a new interest in life, and a happier feeling in his
heart than he had had since Dawn went away.
Three days they spent in New York, searching for Dawn. The
paper that had wrapped Dan's book they took to the post-office first,
and by careful inquiry were able to discover in what quarter of the
city the package was mailed, though, of course, this was very slight
information, as she might have been far from her living place when
she mailed it. They also discovered the store where the books were
bought, for Charles had had the forethought to send Daniel back for
them before they started. The clerk who had sold them to her
remembered her, and described her as beautiful, with black curls
inside a white bonnet, and a dark silk frock. He said she had sad
eyes, and looked thin and pale. This troubled Charles more than he
was willing to admit to Dan.
Having narrowed their clue to this most indefinite point, they
held a consultation and decided that the only thing to do was to
walk around that quarter of the city and see if they could get sight
of her. Or possibly Rags would get on a scent of her footsteps in
some spot less travelled than others. It was almost a hopeless
search, yet they started bravely on the hunt, and talked to Rags in a
way that would have made an ordinary dog beside himself.
 Charles had with him the gloves that Dawn had dropped on the
floor beside the bed when she fled from his home. He always carried
them with him in his breast-pocket. He took them out and let Rags
smell of them. Then Dan said:
"Rags, go find Teacher. Teacher! Rags! Go find Teacher!"
Rags sniffed and looked wistfully in their faces, then barked and
started on a sniffing tour all about them, his homely yellow-brown
face wearing a look of dog anxiety. He thought he comprehended
what they wanted, but was not sure. He had felt a great loss since
the teacher went away. Was it possible they expected him to find
her?
 During the three days, they haunted the streets of the city, both
day and evening, and Rags was quite worn out with sniffing. Once
or twice he thought he had found a trail, but it came to nothing, and
he scurried dejectedly on ahead, hoping his followers had not
noticed him bark. On the morning of the fourth day they turned into
a narrow street which was almost like a lane compared to other
streets. There were only tiny, gloomy houses, and noisy, foreign-
looking people stood in the doorways or conversed across the street.
It seemed a most unlikely neighborhood for their search, and
Charles was half of a mind to turn back and take another street, but
almost at the entrance to the street Rags had gone quite wild and
nosed his way rapidly down the uneven pavement until he stopped
beside a humble doorstep and went nosing about and yelping in
great delight. The door was closed, but he tried the steps, and even
sniffed under the crack, and then came bounding back to his
companions.
"What have you found, Rags, boy?" said Charles half-heartedly.
He did not believe they would find any trace of Dawn here.
"He thinks he's found her," said Dan convincingly. "He never
acts like that without a reason. Rags, find Teacher! Where is she,
Rags?"
 "Bow-wow!" answered Rags sharply, as much as to say, "Why
don't you open the door and find her yourself?"
An old woman came to the door, and looked sharply at the dog
on her clean step. Charles took off his hat.
"We are looking for a friend, madam, who is stopping in this
neighborhood somewhere, and we do not know her address. Our
dog thinks he has found a trace of her, but he is probably mistaken.
You don't happen to have noticed anywhere near here, a young
woman with dark eyes and dark, curling hair, lately come to the city
—not more than two months ago, perhaps?"
 "You wouldn't be meanin' pretty Mary Montgomery—bless her
heart!—would ye?" the old woman asked quizzically, surveying the
two.
But Rags had stayed not on the order of his going. He had
dashed past the old woman and up the stairs to the floor above.
"Och! Look at the little varmint!" said the old woman, forgetting
her question and dashing after the dog, thus missing the startled
look that came into the faces of both young men.
 But after a series of short, sharp barks, Rags returned as quickly
as he had gone, almost knocking the old lady down her rickety
stairs, in his delight, and bearing in his mouth a fragment of gray
cloth which he brought and laid triumphantly at his master's feet.
Dan stooped and picked it up almost reverently and smoothed
the frayed edges. It was a bit of Dawn's gray school-dress that she
had torn off where the facing was worn and had caught her foot as
she walked. Dan recognized the cloth at once. Charles had never
seen the gown, but he saw that the bit of cloth had some
significance to Dan. He rushed in after the old lady, who had now
descended the stairs wrathfully behind the dog.
"Tell me where this Miss Montgomery is, please," he said as
quietly as he could. He had followed so many clues and seen them
turn into nothing before his eyes, he scarcely could dare hope now.
His heart was beating wildly. Was he to see Dawn again at last?
 "Och! An' I wish I knew, the darlint!" said the garrulous old
woman. "She lift me yistherday marnin', an' it's thrue I miss the
sight o' her sweet smile an' her pretty ways. She was a young
wummun of quality, was she, an' I sez to me dauther, sez I, 'Kate,
mind the ways o' her, the pretty ways o' Mary Montgomery,' sez I,
'fer it's not soon ye'll see such a lady agin.'"
"Has she been here in your house, do you say?" asked Charles
anxiously. He felt he must keep very calm or he might lose the clue.
"Yis, sorr, that she was. She ockepied me back siccond floor, an'
a swater lady niver walked the earth, ef she was huntin' work fer her
pretty, saft hands to do, what she couldn't get nowhere, sorr, more's
the pity. Would yez like to coom up an' tak a luik at the rum? It's as
nate a rum as ye'll find in the sthreet, ef I do say so as shouldn't,
though a bit small fer two. But there's the frunt siccond floor'll be
vacant to-morry, at only a shillun more the wake."
 Daniel held up the fragment of cloth.
"It's the frock she wore to school," he said. He spoke hoarsely
and handled it as though it belonged to the dead. It seemed terrible
to him to have found where she had been, and not find her.
They followed the old woman upstairs, scarcely hearing her
dissertation, nor realizing that she took them for possible roomers.
 The room was neat, as the woman had said, but bare—so bare
and gloomy! Nothing but blank walls and chimneys to be seen from
the tiny window, where the sun streamed in unhindered across the
meagre bed and deal chair and table which were the only
furnishings. Charles's heart grew tender with pity, and his eyes filled
with tears, as he looked upon it all and realized that his wife had
slept there on that hard bed, and had for a time called that dreary
spot home. He glanced involuntarily out of the window, noting the
garbage in the back yards below, and the unpleasant odors that
arose, and remembered the warnings and precautions with which
the papers had been filled even before the cholera had come so
close to them. He shuddered to think what might have happened to
Dawn.
"But where has she gone?" he asked the old woman.
"Yes, that's what we want to know," said Dan.
 "Yes, where!" barked Rags behind the old woman's heels, which
made her jump and exclaim, "Och, the varmint!" until Dan called the
dog to his side.
"She's gone. Lift me, an' no rason at all at all, savin' thet she
couldn't find wark, an' her money most gahn. I sez to her as she
went out that dor, sez I, 'Yez betther go hum to yer friends ef yez kin
find 'em. It's bad times fer a pretty un like you, an' you with yer
hands that saft;' but she only smiled at me like a white rose, an' was
away, sayin' she'd see, and she thankin' me all the whilst fer the little
I'd been able to do fer her—me that's a widder an' meself to kape."
Nothing more could they get from the good woman, though
they tried both with money and questions. Dawn had been there for
two months, and had gone out every day hunting work. She had
come back every night weary and discouraged, but always with a
smile. At last she had come home with a newspaper, her face whiter
than usual, and, as the old widow had put it, said: "'Mrs. O'Donnell,
I'm away in the marn, fer I'm thinkin' it's best;' and away she goes."