Part 9 (1/2)

”If it's one I can understand, I would,” returned Jimmieboy. ”But I don't see the use of explanations that don't explain.”

”They aren't much good,” observed the Imp, touching another b.u.t.ton.

”This will make it clear, I think.”

”The Dictionary doesn't say it,” said another squeaking voice, in response to the touch of the Imp on the third b.u.t.ton; ”but a battery is a thing that looks like a row of jars full of preserves, but isn't, and when properly cared for and not allowed to freeze up, it makes electricity, which is a sort of red-hot invisible fluid that p.r.i.c.ks your hands when you touch it, and makes them feel as if they were asleep if you keep hold of it for any length of time, and which carries messages over wires, makes horse-cars go without horses, lights a room better than gas, and is so like lightning that no man who has tried both can tell the difference between them.”

Here the squeaking voice turned into a buzz again, and then stopped altogether.

”Now do you understand?” asked the Imp, anxiously.

”I think I do,” replied Jimmieboy. ”A battery is nothing but a lot of big gla.s.s jars in which 'lectricity is made, just as pie is made in a tin plate and custard is made in cups.”

”Exactly,” said the Imp. ”But, of course, electricity is a great deal more useful than pie or custard. The best custard in the world wouldn't move a horse-car, and I don't believe anybody ever saw a pie that could light up a room the way this is. It's a pretty wonderful thing, electricity is, but not particularly good eating, and sometimes I don't think it's as good for cooking as the good old-fas.h.i.+oned fire. I've had pie that was too hot, and I've had pie that was too electric, and between the two I think the too-hot pie was the pleasanter, though really nothing can make pie positively unpleasant.”

”So I have heard,” said Jimmieboy, with an approving nod. ”I haven't had any sperience with pie, you know. That and red pepper are two things I am not allowed to eat at dinner.”

”You wouldn't like to taste some of my electric custard, would you?”

asked the Imp, his sympathies aroused by Jimmieboy's statement that as yet he and pie were strangers.

”Indeed I would!” cried Jimmieboy, with a gleeful smile. ”I'd like it more than anything else!”

”Very well,” said the Imp, turning to the b.u.t.ton-board, and scratching his head as if perplexed for a moment. ”Let's see,” he added. ”What is custard made of?”

”Custard?” said Jimmieboy, who thought there never could be any question on that point. ”It's made of custard. I know, because I eat it all up when I get it, and there's nothing but custard in it from beginning to end.”

The Imp smiled. He knew better than that. ”You are right partially,” he said. ”But there aren't custard-mines or custard-trees or custard-wells in the world, so it has to be made of something. I guess I'll ask my cookery-book.”

Here he touched a pink b.u.t.ton in the left-hand upper corner of the board.

”Milk--sugar--and--egg,” came the squeaking voice. ”Three-quarters of a pint of milk, two table-spoonfuls of sugar, and one whole egg.”

”Don't you flavor it with anything?” asked the Imp, pressing the b.u.t.ton a second time.

”If you want to,” squeaked the voice. ”Vanilla, strawberry, huckleberry, sarsaparilla, or anything else, just as you want it.”

Jimmieboy's mouth watered. A strawberry custard! ”Dear me!” he thought.

”Wouldn't that be just the dish of dishes to live on all one's days!”

”Two teaspoonfuls of whatever flavor you want will be enough for one cup of custard,” said the squeaky voice, lapsing back immediately into the curious buzz.

”Thanks,” said the Imp, returning to the table and putting down the receipt on a piece of paper.

”You're welcome,” said the buzz.

”Now, Jimmieboy, we'll have two cup custards in two minutes,” said the Imp. ”What flavor will you have?”

”Strawberry cream, please,” said Jimmieboy, as if he were ordering soda-water.