you'd mind. You don't really—do you?" she added, for she had seen a not unkindly wink pass between the two.
"My trade's driving of a engine, not mending her—especially such a hout-size in engines as this here," said Bill. "An' 'ow are we a-goin' to get you back to your sorrowing friends and relations, and all be forgiven and forgotten?"
"If you'll put me down next time you stop," said Bobbie, firmly, though her heart beat fiercely against her arm as she clasped her hands, "and lend me the money for a third-class ticket, I'll pay you back—honor bright. I'm not a confidence trick like in the newspapers—really I'm not."
"You're a little lady, every inch," said Bill, relenting suddenly and completely. "We'll see you gets home safe. An' about this engine—Jim—ain't you got ne'er a pal as can use a soldering iron? Seems to me that's about all the little bounder wants doing to it."
"That's what Father said," Bobbie explained eagerly. "What's that for?"
She pointed to a little brass wheel that he had turned as he spoke.
"That's the injector."
"In—what?"
