in his pockets, and his face was all absorption, all reverential interest. And Charles B. King in those days could not help but be grateful as a dog to any creature who manifested interest in his machine. Besides, he was fond of boys.
"Hullo, Bub!" he said, and smiled—a confidence-creating smile. "Want to see her go?"
"You bet!" declared George with gusto, yet found himself backing off as the inventor laid his hand upon the seat, but there was something so utterly engaging in Mr. King's twinkling eye as he noticed this rearward movement, that the boy confessed his timidity openly. "I'm kind of 'fraid of her, I guess!" he laughed.
Mr. King laughed also. "So am I, Bub!" he declared. "You never know what kind of a stunt she is going to pull next. Hop into her and let's see what she does this time."
Though fearful, George was not lacking in decision. "I'll chance her," he said and swung into the seat on one side as Mr. King climbed in upon the other.
Gravely the inventor manipulated the steering apparatus to set his front wheels toward the driveway—gravely, as if starting this soulless mechanism were a doubtful, nay, even a dangerous operation. Next he manipulated a lever and toyed with some pedals, after which he waited—solemnly, apprehensively almost, for something to happen. Nothing did happen, whereat
