King of the Air; Or, To Morocco on an Aeroplane — Themes and Context

ing 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?”

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

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

“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.”

“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?”

“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.”