Joe scratched his head.
“Don’t you see now?” cried Gwyn.
“Beginning to: not quite,” said Joe, still in the same confused way. Then, with a start, he gave his leg a hearty slap. “Why, of course,” he cried, “I see it all clearly enough now. You step on and go down, and then step on and go up, and then you step on—and step on. Oh, I say, how is it the thing does work after all?”
“Why you—” began Gwyn, roaring with laughter the while, but Joe interrupted him.
“No, no; I’ve got it all right now. I see clearly enough. But it is puzzling. What an obstinate old block you were, Ydoll.”
“Eh? Oh, come, I like that,” cried Gwyn. “Why you—” Then seeing the mirthful look on his companion’s face he clapped him on the shoulder. “You did stick to it, though, that it wouldn’t go, and no mistake.”
“Well, I couldn’t see it anyhow. It was a regular puzzle,” said Joe, frankly. “But I say, Tom Dinass, what made you call these man-engines melancholy things?”
“’Cause of the mischief they doos, sir. I do hope you won’t have one here.”
“Why? What mischief do they do?” cried Gwyn.
“Kills the poor lads sometimes. Lad doesn’t step on or off at the right time, and he gets chopped between the step and the platform. It’s awful then. ’Bliged to be so very careful.”