“My trade's driving of an engine, not mending her, especially such a hout-size in engines as this 'ere,” said Bill. “An' 'ow are we a-goin' to get you back to your sorrowing friends and relations, and all be forgiven and forgotten?”
“If you'll put me down next time you stop,” said Bobbie, firmly, though her heart beat fiercely against her arm as she clasped her hands, “and lend me the money for a third-class ticket, I'll pay you back—honour bright. I'm not a confidence trick like in the newspapers—really, I'm not.”
“You're a little lady, every inch,” said Bill, relenting suddenly and completely. “We'll see you gets home safe. An' about this engine—Jim—ain't you got ne'er a pal as can use a soldering iron? Seems to me that's about all the little bounder wants doing to it.”
“That's what Father said,” Bobbie explained eagerly. “What's that for?”
She pointed to a little brass wheel that he had turned as he spoke.
“That's the injector.”
“In—what?”
“Injector to fill up the boiler.”
“Oh,” said Bobbie, mentally registering the fact to tell the others; “that IS interesting.”
“This 'ere's the automatic brake,” Bill went on, flattered by her enthusiasm. “You just move this 'ere little handle—do it with one finger, you can—and the train jolly soon stops. That's what they call the Power of Science in the newspapers.”