“That is nearly all,” said the latter, thoughtfully, and looking straight before him, as if he could see the motive-power he mentally designed.
“But how are you going to get the thing to work?”
“Kitchen-boiler,” cried Macey.
Gilmore made “an offer” at him with his fist, but Macey dodged again.
“Oh, one might move it by working a lever with one’s hands.”
“Then you might just as well row,” said Gilmore.
“Well, then, by treadles, with one’s feet.”
“Oh—oh—oh!” roared Macey. “Don’t! don’t! Who’s going to be put on the tread-mill when he wants to have a ride in a boat? Why, I—”
“Pst! Syme!” whispered Gilmore, as a step was heard. Then the door opened, and Distin came in, looking languid and indifferent.
“Morning,” cried Gilmore. “Better?”