Читать книгу King of the Air; Or, To Morocco on an Aeroplane - Herbert Strang - Страница 4

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Mr. John Greatorex was very wealthy, and very obstinate. He had made a large fortune as a manufacturer of chemicals, but disclaimed any knowledge of chemistry. He had dabbled a little in mechanics, and was convinced that he possessed an accurate practical knowledge of its applications. Consequently, when his new motor-car arrived, he saw no necessity to take a chauffeur with him on its trial spin. He was like a child with a new toy, jealous of participation.

“My dear,” said Mrs. Greatorex, as she handed him his motor goggles, “are you sure you will not take Timothy? What if it breaks down?”

“My love,” said Mr. Greatorex in his emphatic way, “I do not want Timothy. It will not break down. If it does, I flatter myself I am competent to make any necessary repairs. I shall be back at seven-thirty—in good time for dinner; and I hope and trust the soup will not be cold.”

He gave a preliminary honk! honk! looking round with a smile that plainly said, “There! you see that everything is in order!” Then he steered the car accurately down the drive to the road.

His house lying in the heart of the country, Mr. Greatorex did not fear to meet milestones in the shape of policemen with stop-watches, who would take his number and afterwards confront him in court. In a minute or two the car was whirling along the road at a rate which, it is to be feared, gravely exceeded the speed limit. All went merry as a marriage-bell, and Mr. Greatorex was at the height of exhilaration and satisfaction, when, just as he was mounting the acclivity of Five Oaks Bridge, without even a click in warning, the machine came to a dead stop. Mr. Greatorex put the engine out of gear, then tried to start it by turning the starting handle; but finding this of no avail he clapped on the brake, skipped out of the car, removed his goggles and his gloves, and set about making an examination.

On the other side of the bridge, sitting on the bank of the stream, was a boy, gazing with round eyes at a float that hung from a line attached to a long home-made rod of yew. He had heard the clatter of the motor-car as it came along the road; he was aware that the noise had suddenly ceased; but, being a lad of great concentration, he did not give a thought to what was happening out of sight at the further end of the bridge. He had come out for an afternoon’s fishing; two or three fat carp lay beside him on the bank; and noticing at this moment a slight movement of the float, he was soon oblivious of everything except the fish on his hook.

Half an hour passed. Three more fish had rewarded his patience; then, satisfied with his catch, the boy rose, methodically wound up his line, and, leaving reel, rod and basket on the bank, walked up on to the bridge, to investigate the meaning of sundry strange noises he had heard, vaguely, in the intervals between the bites.

As he gained the foot of the bridge, where a motor-car stood somewhat askew across the road, he caught sight of a pair of brown boots projecting from beneath the machine. Nothing but the boots was visible; but they moved, and it was clear that they shod the feet of some living person, for there came puffs and grunts and explosive monosyllables resembling those he had sometimes heard on the golf-links near his home.

The boy leant against the parapet, stuck his hands into his pockets, and watched. By and by there was an ejaculation of peculiar vehemence; the boots moved out into the road, followed by a pair of grey-trousered legs, a soiled and rumpled motor-coat, and a very red and dirty face; the boy took especial note of a black patch in the very centre of a shiny skull.

Puffing and blowing, Mr. Greatorex crawled from under his new car, and stood upon his feet—a rather disreputable-looking object—staring wrathfully at the offending car. He had not perceived the small spectator.

“Wish I had brought Timothy!” he muttered. “Confound the brute!”

He looked at his grimy hands, at his mud-stained clothes, up the road, down the road, and finally at the boy, who had at last made an impression on his retina.

“Hi, boy!” he said.

The boy approached with a shy smile. Mr. Greatorex scowled, conscious of his plight.

“Boy, tell me, and don’t grin, is there a smith anywhere in this neighbourhood?”

“In the village, sure, measter.”

“Where is the village?”

“About three miles away, over yonder.”

“God bless me! Three miles! Well, look here, boy, I’ll give you sixpence to run there and send the smith back—behind a horse, on a bicycle, anyhow—to mend this confounded machine. I’m twenty miles away from home, you understand, and I shall be late for dinner. I’ll make it a shilling if the smith is here within an hour.”

The boy looked up into the wrathful face and smiled again.

“Would ’ee like me to mend un for ’ee? ’Twould maybe save time.”

Mr. Greatorex stared.

“You mend it! ’Pon my word!”

And then he burst into a roar of laughter which carried away his ill-humour, for Mr. Greatorex was normally a very good-tempered person.

The situation was, in truth, amusing. The boy was a little fellow under four feet high. He had a round chubby face, not free from stains. He wore corduroy breeches much too large for him, big clumping boots, and a flannel shirt open at the neck. His blue eyes peeped up from beneath a large, soft, much-discoloured straw hat. And this little urchin had actually offered to mend a motor-car with which Mr. Greatorex, with all his knowledge of mechanism, had been struggling for half an hour in vain!

Mr. Greatorex laughed again.

“Come, cut along, youngster,” he said genially. “Let me see how fast you can run.”

“I’ll mend un if you give me leave. ’Twill save time,” persisted the boy.

Mr. Greatorex pulled out his watch. What a joke, he thought—this sprat of a boy offering to tackle his huge motor-car! It was only a little after five; there might still be time to fetch the smith, get the repairs made, and yet reach home by half-past seven. A little rest would not come amiss after his exertions. Why not let the youngster try his hand—for the fun of it?

“Well then, fire away, my young engineer. I’ve been at it half an hour, confound the thing!”

“What have ’ee done, measter?”

“Done? Everything! Examined the sparking plugs: they’re all right. Wires from battery: they’re all right. Battery itself, that’s all right. Plenty of petrol in the tank. Everything’s all right, hang it, and yet the thing won’t go!”

“Don’t you worrit, measter. Give me a lend of your tools.”

The boy’s cocksureness again amused Mr. Greatorex, who seated himself on the parapet of the bridge, and mopped his perspiring face, smiling pleasantly. Though past fifty he was still young at heart, and very ready to be amused. He took out a pipe, filled and lit it, and puffed away, with an expression of serene contentment on his rubicund dirty face.

The boy flung off his hat and disappeared. Metallic sounds came from the interior of the car.

“How are you getting on, boy?” asked Mr. Greatorex after some ten minutes.

There was no answer.

Five minutes passed.

“Find it rather too much for you, eh?” said Mr. Greatorex, looking more amused than ever.

Still there was no answer.

“Got everything you want?” he asked again.

But the boy made no reply; only the sound of knocking and screwing continued.

Mr. Greatorex laughed aloud.

“Come,” he said, getting up and standing with legs astraddle a foot or two from the car, “you mustn’t make too long a job of it, you know.” Then he chuckled.

Five minutes afterwards the boy crawled out. Mr. Greatorex laughed again as he surveyed the grimy little fellow. A great patch of black surrounded one eye, where he had rubbed his knuckles.

“All right now, measter,” said the boy.

“What! Come, my lad, you’ve had your turn; now run along and fetch the smith.”

“Bean’t no need. She’ll go now.”

Mr. Greatorex looked impressed, stepped to the front of the car, and turned the handle; to his amazement the engines started. He sprang into the car, threw the engines into gear, and was still more amazed when, releasing the clutch pedal, he found that the car moved.

“Better take off the brake, measter,” said the boy.

“Why, yes, certainly,” said Mr. Greatorex, with a preoccupied air, and the car mounted the incline, spun across the bridge, and ran easily down the road. Then Mr. Greatorex stopped it and turned round.

“Hi, boy!” he shouted. The boy picked up his hat, stuck it on his head, and approached.

“Look here, youngster,” said Mr. Greatorex, “the car is all right!”

“Told ’ee so, measter.”

Mr. Greatorex roared.

“You’re a wonderful little chap. Bless my soul, how did you do it?”

“I’ll show ’ee if you’ll get out.”

“No thank ’ee. I’ve already had half an hour at it, and I’m as black as a nigger. What was wrong?”

“A bit of grit was stuck in the petrol spray nozzle, so you couldn’t get no petrol into the carburetter.”

“Oh!” said Mr. Greatorex blankly. “What’s your name?”

“Tom Dorrell.”

“You don’t happen to be manager of a motor-works, I suppose?”

“No,” said the boy, unconscious of the genial sarcasm.

“Where d’you live?”

“In the village yonder,” said Tom, pointing ahead.

“Oh! Ah! Look here, my lad, why aren’t you at school?”

“Why, ‘cos ’tis holidays,” he replied with a grin. “Feyther didn’t want me, so I came out to fish.”

“Oh, indeed. And who’s your father?”

“He be the smith you wanted me to fetch; but there warn’t no need.”

“So it appears! I say, my lad, how old are you?”

“Twelve, and I’m in the sixth standard.”

“You are, are you? And how long have you been mending motor-cars?”

“Not so very long. I help feyther now and again; motor-cars are always breaking down, and he has mended a rare lot of ’em.”

“Ah! And how much would he have charged for mending this one?”

“About two shillings, I reckon; it wasn’t a very hard job.”

“Oh! Well, here’s two shillings for you. Don’t spend it all on sweets.”

“Not me,” said the boy with a grin. “I’m saving up, I am.”

“Indeed! What for?”

“Why, for heaps of things. I want a model of a four-coupled bogie tank engine, and a model of a turbine steamer, and a motor bicycle——”

“Steady, youngster. That’s rather a large order, isn’t it? You’ve got a fancy for mechanics, eh!”

“Mechanics! Not me! That’s what they teach in the seventh standard. I like engines, I do—machines that’ll go. I’m going to be an engineer some day—if I can; feyther says it costs a mint of money, and he hasn’t got much, and he says he don’t hold with flying too high, and I’d much better be a smith. But there’s nothing new in smith’s work: you just go on shoeing horses, and sticking fellies on wheels, and mending prams and motor-cars now and then. I want to do something new, I do.”

“Ah! What’s your father’s name?”

“Dorrell, same as mine.”

“Naturally. And what do you call your village?”

“Barton Abbas.”

“Well, Tom, here’s your two shillings. You’ve got a bank-book, I suppose.”

“Rather. I’ve got three pounds fourteen and ninepence; this makes sixteen and ninepence. I shall have another sixpence on Saturday for cleaning pa’son’s bicycle; that’ll make seventeen and threepence. Pa’son gives me sixpence a week.”

“You’re getting quite rich, you know. Well, Tom, thanks to you I shall get home in time for dinner.”

“I’m pretty hungry,” said Tom. “I guess it’s past my tea-time.”

“No doubt it is. Strawberry jam, eh?”

“No. Mother says that’s too dear. We have rhubarb and marrow, growed in the garden.”

“And very good stuff, too. By George! I haven’t had marrow jam for forty years.”

“You be pretty old then: older than feyther.”

“Well, d’you know, Tom, I am several years younger than I was two hours ago. Good-bye!”