William turned away in disgust.
The pig, engrossed with his own selfish pursuit of new dermatological sensations, had been only momentarily disturbed by these events. He felt that something was lacking.
“If I could only get my back under something,” he complained. “I wonder if it’s safe to crawl under the thing?”
Reginald investigated, and was interested. “There’s a lot of little jiggers under there that look as though they’d just fit my back.”
He got down on his fore-knees and wriggled under the red thing, grunting, while the others still debated together on ways and means.
During luncheon Galatea’s mood had softened. She was no longer piqued at the Artist’s detailed accounts of the wonders of his new automobile. Arthur, in a moment of intelligence, had squeezed her hand under the table.
“In case of a break-down of any kind,” observed the Poet, “I suppose you carry all sorts of tools and materials for repairs?”
“I never give the matter a thought,” said the Artist. “She’s such a perfect piece of mechanism that she can’t break down.”
“But suppose you should run over a pig, or a cow, and—”
“Oh, in that case I dare say the tool box might come handy.”