Dad, oiling his old tub affectionately, answered never a word.
"She's full of soda, isn't she, father?" asked Georgie, standing by.
"Reckon she is, son."
"Full of water, I suppose?"
"Try to keep her that way, son."
"Sal-soda, isn't it, Dad?"
"Now I can't say. As to that—I can't say."
"We'll call her Sal Soda, Georgie," suggested Foley.
"No," interposed Georgie; "stop a bit. I have it. Not Sal Soda, at all—make it Soda-Water Sal."
Then they laughed uproariously; and in the teeth of Dad Sinclair's protests—for he objected at once and vigorously—the queer name stuck to the engine, and sticks yet.