"I know something about the anatomy of cows and pigs and hens," I said, "but I suppose a gasoline engine is somewhat different."
"Somewhat," said he.
He tinkered away industriously for a moment, and when I continued to stand there watching him, he inquired solemnly:
"A hen has no spark coil, has it?"
"No," I said, just as solemnly, "but neither can a gasoline engine cackle."
I shall never forget the sight of Nort as he slowly rose to a sitting position and looked me over—especially the smile of him and the gleam in his eyes. There was a dab of oil on his nose and smudges on his chin, but he took me in.
So this was the person who had appeared without a hat on our highly respectable streets, and got his shame heralded in the paper! I felt like saying to him:
"Well, you're a cheerful reprobate, I must say!"
You see, we are nearly all of us shocked by the cheerfulness of the wicked. We feel that those whom we have set aside as reprobates, or sinful spectacles, should by good right draw long faces and be appropriately miserable; and we never become quite accustomed to our own surprise at finding them happy or contented.
In short, I began to be interested in that reprobate, in spite of myself. I had come to town intending to have a talk with Anthy and the old Captain (who was at this moment at work at his desk), but instead I squatted down on the floor near Nort, and while he tinkered and puttered and whistled, we kept up a running conversation which we both found highly diverting.