"She's red-'ot," said the child, and I believed him.

From the kettle arrangement in the bows came the sound of hot water
singing merrily, while from the spout steam issued hissing. The
tin trunk, in which lurks the clockwork, emitted dense volumes of
petrol-perfumed smoke from every chink. The child climbed across me
and, dropping overboard, opened the lid and crawled inside. I lit a
pipe and perused the current "_La Vie Parisienne_."

The clockwork roared and raged and exploded with the sharp detonations
of a machine-gun. Sounds of violent coughing and tinkering came from
the bowels of the trunk, telling that the child was still alive and
busy. Presently he emerged to breathe and wipe the oil off his nose.

"Cylinder missin'," he announced.

I was not in the least surprised. "Probably dropped off round that
last bend," said I. "Very nearly did myself. How many have we got
left?"

He gaped, muttered something incoherent and plunged back into the
trunk. The noise of coughing and tinkering redoubled. The smoke
enveloped us in an evil-smelling fog.

"Think she'll go now," said the child, emerging once more. He climbed
back over me, grasped the helm and jerked a lever. The car gave a
dreadful shudder, but there was no other movement.

"What's the matter now?" I asked after he had made another trip to