Part 20 (2/2)
”First I thought it was the triphammer,” said Archer; ”then I thought it was the mixing valve; then I thought it was bronchitis on account of the noise it made, and after that I decided it was German measles. Blamed if I know what's the matter with it. It's got the pip, I guess. I was going to file a nick in the make-and-break business but they're too foxy to give me a file. Now I wish I had a hammer and I'd knock the whole blamed business to smithereens.”
”Have a heart,” laughed Tom. ”And keep still, I want to go asleep. We'll look at it in the morning.”
”Did I tell you how we made a hand grenade full of old tomatoes near Rheims?”
”No, but I want to go to sleep now,” said Tom.
”It landed plunk on a German officer's bun; Charlie Waite saw it from his plane.”
”Good night,” laughed Tom.
CHAPTER XXVI
HE HAS AN IDEA WHICH SUGGESTS ANOTHER
In the morning, after grub line-up, they lost no time in going to the pump. Here, at least, was something to occupy Tom's mind and afford Archer fresh material for banter.
”D'I tell you how I was kiddin' the n.i.g.g.e.rr we had in the life boat--when it was leakin'?”
”No,” said Tom, ready for anything.
”Told him to bore anotherr hole so the waterr could get out again. Did I tell you 'bout----”
”Here we are, let's take a look at the engine,” said Tom.
It was one of those one-cylinder kickers, about two horse power, and had an independent disposition.
”Know what I think would be the best thing for it?” said the chief engineer. ”Dynamite. D'I tell you 'bout the sharrk eatin' a bomb?”
”Is there any gas in the tank?” said Tom.
”Sure is, but I dunno what kind it is. Mebbe it's poison gas, for all _I_ know. There was a fellow in Ireland when we----”
Tom ignored him, and making a guess adjustment of the mixing valve, opened the gas and threw the wheel over. ”No batteries--magneto, huh?”
”Yes, but it don't magnete. I'd ruther have a couple o' batteries that would _bat_.”
A few crankings and the little engine started, missing frightfully.
”She'll stop in a minute,” said Archer, and so she did. ”We've all taken a crack at the carbureter and the timer,” he added, ”but nothin' doin'.
It's cussedness, _I_ say.”
Tom started it again, listening as it missed, went faster, slowed down, stopped. It was getting gas and getting air and the bearings did not bind. He tried it again. It ran lamely and stopped, but started all right again whenever he cranked it, provided he waited a minute or two between each trial.
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