She left the sentence unfinished, seized the lantern, brushed her way past the boatman without so much as a scornful glance, and dropped to her knees in the bottom of the cock-pit.
The floor was oily and dirty, but Miss Chalmers paid no attention to that. She devoted the next five minutes wholly to an examination of the engine. The boatman watched and smoked.
Item by item, she inventoried the one-cylinder pest. She peered into the oil-cups; she smeared her gloves on the cam that operated the timing-lever; she fussed with the tickler on the carbureter; she did a score of other things, while her audience watched in silence. After she got through with the engine she turned her attention to the batteries, tightening a wire connection here and there.
"Now, where's your socket-wrench?" she demanded.
"Socket-wrench?" repeated the boatman. "That's a new one on me. I don't remember—"
"Haven't you ever taken out the spark-plug?"
"Oh, you mean that funny thing that screws it out. Sure! I've got one somewhere."
He fumbled under a seat and drew out a box that contained a disorderly array of tools. Miss Chalmers dived a daintily gloved hand into it and brought forth what she sought.
"If you want me to do that—"
He did not finish the sentence, because she already had the spark-plug in her hand and was holding the points close to the light.