CAT 390F TYE1-UP Excavator Hydraulic_Electrical System - Attachment

CAT 390F TYE1-UP Excavator

Hydraulic_Electrical System -
Attachment
To download the complete and correct content, please visit:

https://manualpost.com/download/cat-390f-tye1-up-excavator-hydraulic_electrical-
system-attachment/

CAT 390F TYE1-UP Excavator Hydraulic_Electrical System - Attachment Size:

15.4 MB Fomat: PDF Language: English Brand: CAT - Caterpillar Type of
machine: Hydraulic Excavator Type of document: Schematic - Hydraulic_Electrical
System Model: CAT 390F TYE1-UP Excavator Password:
wordwide-autosoftware-epc Content: \- 312E,312F,313F,316E,316F,318E,318F,3
20E,320F,323E,323F,325F,335F,336F,340F,349F,352F,374F and 390F Excavator
Air Conditioning Electrical System \- 390F Excavator Electrical System (Interactive)
\- 390F Excavator Hydraulic System - Attachment - Boom Lowering Control Valve
(Interactive) \- 390F Excavator Hydraulic System - Attachment - Combined
Function - Electronic Control (Interactive) \- 390F Excavator Hydraulic System -
Attachment - Stick Lowering Control Valve (Interactive) \- 390F Excavator
Hydraulic System - Universal Quick Coupler (Interactive) \- 390F Excavator
Hydraulic System (Interactive) \- 390F Excavator Hydraulic System (Medium
Pressure) (Interactive) \- 390F Excavator Hydraulic System (One Way Two Pump
With Electronic Control) (Interactive)
Download all on: manualpost.com.

Visit ManualPost.com to get correct and complete item

 [Unrelated content]
Another random document on
Internet:
 The wound in his shoulder, inflamed and throbbing after the
breakneck ride from the Court House to the Heath, had caused him
almost unendurable agony, against which he had at first resolutely
set his teeth. But now his whole body had become numb to every
physical sensation. Covered with mud and grime, his hair matted
against his damp forehead, the lines of pain and exhaustion strongly
marked round his quivering mouth, he seemed only to live through
his two senses: his sight and his hearing.
 The spirit was there though, indomitable, strong, the dogged
obstinacy of the man who has nothing more to lose. And with it all
the memory of the oath he had sworn to her.
All else was a blank.
 Hunted by men, and with a hound on his track, he had—
physically—become like the beasts of the Moor, alert to every sound,
keen only on eluding his pursuers, on putting off momentarily the
inevitable instant of capture and of death.
 Early in the day he had been forced to part from his faithful
companion. Jack o' Lantern was exhausted and might have proved
an additional source of danger. The gallant beast, accustomed to
every bush and every corner of the Heath, knew its way well to its
habitual home: the forge of John Stich. Jack Bathurst watched it out
of sight, content that it would look after itself, and that being
riderless it would be allowed to wend its way unmolested whither it
pleased, on the Moor.
And thus he had seen the long hours of this glorious September
afternoon drag on their weary course; he had seen the beautiful day
turn to late, glowing afternoon, then the sun gradually set in its
mantle of purple and gold, and finally the grey dusk throw its elusive
and mysterious veil over Tors and Moor. And he, like the hunted
beast, crept from gorse bush to scrub, hiding for his life, driven out
of one stronghold into another, gasping with thirst, panting with
fatigue, determined in spirit, but broken down in body at last.
 By instinct and temperament Jack Bathurst was essentially a
brave man. Physical fear was entirely alien to his nature: he had
never known it, never felt it. During the earlier part of the afternoon,
with a score of men at his heels, some soldiers, others but
indifferently-equipped louts, he had really enjoyed the game of hide-
and-seek on the Heath: to him, at first, it had been nothing more. It
was but a part of that wild, mad life he had chosen, the easily-
endured punishment for the breaking of conventional laws.
He knew every shrub and crag on this wild corner of the earth
which had become his home, and could have defied a small army,
when hidden in the natural strongholds known only to himself.
 But when he first heard the yelping of the bloodhound set upon
his track by the fiendish cunning of an avowed enemy, an icy horror
seemed to creep into his very marrow: a horror born of the feeling
of powerlessness, of the inevitableness of it all. His one thought now
was lest his hand, trembling and numb with fatigue, would refuse
him service when he would wish to turn the muzzle of his pistol
against his own temple, in time to evade actual capture.
The dog would not miss him. It was practically useless to hide:
flight alone, constant, ceaseless flight, might help him for a while,
but it was bound to end one way, and one way only: the scent of
blood would lead the cur on his track, and his pursuers would find
and seize him! bind him like a felon, and hang him! Aye! hang him
like a common thief!
 He had oft laughed and joked with John Stich about his ultimate
probable fate. He knew that his wild, unlawful career would come to
an end sooner or later, but he always carried pistols in his belt, and
had not even remotely dreamt of capture.
... Until now!
 But now he was tired, ill, half-paralysed with pain and
exhaustion. His trembling hand crept longingly round the heavy
silver handle of the precious weapon. Every natural instinct in him
clamoured for death, now, at this very moment before that yelping
cur drew nearer, before those shouts of triumph were raised over his
downfall.
Only ... after that ... what would happen? He would be asleep
and at peace ... but she? ... what would she think? ... that like a
coward he had deserted his post ... like a felon he had broken his
oath, whilst there was one single chance of fulfilling it ... that he had
left her at the mercy of that same enemy who had already devised
so much cruel treachery.
 And like a beast he crept back within his lair, and watched and
listened for that one chance of serving her before the end.
He had seen Sir Humphrey Challoner and Mittachip ambling up
the hillside. He tried not to lose sight of them, and, if possible, to
keep within earshot, but he was driven back by a posse of his
pursuers, close upon his heels, and now having succeeded in
reaching the road at last, he had the terrible chagrin of seeing that
he was too late; the two men were remounting their horses and
turning back towards Brassington.
 "Methinks we have outwitted that gallant highwayman after all,"
Sir Humphrey was saying with one of those boisterous outbursts of
merriment, which to Bathurst's sensitive ears had a ring of the
devil's own glee in it.
"What hellish mischief have those two reprobates been brewing,
I wonder?" he mused. "If those fellows at my heels hadn't cut me off
I might have known..."
 He crept nearer to the two men, but they set their horses at a
sharp trot down the road: Jack vainly strained his ears to hear their
talk.
For the last eight hours he had practically covered every corner
of the Heath, backwards and forwards, across boulders and through
morass; the hound had had some difficulty in finding and keeping
the trail, but now it seemed suddenly to have found it, the yelping
drew nearer, but the shouts had altogether ceased.
 What was to be done? God in heaven, what was to be done?
It was at this moment that the plaintive bleating of one or two
of the penned-up sheep suddenly aroused every instinct of vitality in
him.
 "The sheep!..." he murmured. "A receipt and tally for some
sheep!..."
Fresh excitement had in the space of a few seconds given him a
new lease of strength. He dragged himself up to his feet and walked
almost upright as far as the hut.
 There certainly was a flock of sheep in the pen: the dog was
watching close by the gate, but the shepherd was nowhere to be
seen.
"The sheep! ... A receipt and tally for some sheep! ... In Sir
Humphrey Challoner's coat pocket! ..."
 Oh! for one calm moment in which to think ... to think!
"The sheep!..." This one thought went on hammering in the
poor tired brain, like the tantalising, elusive whisper of a mischievous
sprite.
 And with it all there was scarce a second to be lost.
The hound, yelping and straining on the leash, was not half a
mile away; the next ten or perhaps fifteen minutes would see the
end of this awful man-hunt on the Moor. And yet there close by,
behind those clumps of gorse and the thickset hedge of bramble,
was the clearing, where just twenty-four hours ago he had danced
that mad rigadoon, with her almost in his arms.
 Instinctively, in the wild agony of this supreme moment, Beau
Brocade turned his steps thither. This clearing had but two
approaches, there where the tough branches of furze had once been
vigorously cut into. Last night he had led her through the one whilst
Jock Miggs sat beside the other, piping the quaint sad tune.
For one moment the hunted man seemed to live that mad,
merry hour again, and from out the darkness fairy fingers seemed to
beckon: and her face—just for one brief second—smiled at him out
of the gloom.
 Surely this was not to be the end! Something would happen,
something must happen to enable him to render her the great
service he had sworn to do.
Oh! if that yelping dog were not quite so close upon his track!
Within the next few minutes, seconds even, he would surely think of
something that would guide him towards that great goal: her
service. Oh! for just a brief respite in which to think! a way to evade
his captors for a short while—a means to hide! a disguise! anything.
 But for once the Moor—his happy home, his friend, his mother—
was silent, save for the sound of hunters on his trail, of his doom
drawing nearer and nearer, whilst he stood and remembered his
dream.
It was madness surely, or else a continuance of that fairy vision,
but now it seemed to him, as he stood just there, where yesterday
her foot had plied the dear old measure, that his ear suddenly
caught once more the sound of that self-same rigadoon.