“There, there, Hawkins,” I said soothingly, “if you say that Washy-washine is good for a trans-kitchen on a transcontinental tour, I'll take your word for it.”
“You don't have to!” cried the inventor wrathfully. “I'll demonstrate it. See here, you!”
This to a corpulent French gentleman in white, who had just flipped an omelette to a platter and sent it upon its way. “Come and give me a hand here. Just help turn this thing over.”
“Comme cela?” inquired the astonished cook, making pantomime with his hands.
“Exactly. That's right. Catch hold of the other side and don't let go until I tell you.”
The cook complied. Really, the Gasowashine seemed to turn more easily than might have been expected from its huge bulk.
A strain or two, a puffed command from Hawkins, an ominous sliding about of hidden dishes, and the machine lurched forward, poised a moment on its edge and turned quite gently, so that the wheels approached the floor.
“Now, easy! Easy!” cried Hawkins. “Don't let the wheels down until I tell you, and don't let go till I give the word. Now down! Down! Gently.”
The cook seemed to be feeling for a new grip.
“Here! What are you doing?” cried the inventor. “Don't touch any of those handles.”