“Yes!” he said.
“Ladders and buckets,” continued Mr Willows.
“Right, and form a double line. I say,” he whispered; “here’s treachery.”
“I fear so; I fear so,” said Willows, in the same tone. “It’s revenge, and the engine has been purposely left out of gear. No,” he cried, as if in agony, his words having given him intense pain; “I won’t believe a man could be so base.”
There was the scuffling rush of feet just then, and the object of his thoughts, wild and weird-looking from his dwarfish aspect, glistening head, and staring eyes, dashed up.
“Here, fools! Idiots! Are you going to let the poor old mill burn down?”
“Hurrah!” shouted Will; “here’s Boil O! Here, old fellow, what is there wrong? I can’t get the thing to go.”
“Stand aside!” cried the man, fiercely; and the next moment he was down on his knees, rapidly examining the connections, valve, piston, and rod. “Yah!” he roared, savagely. “The pins are left out here.”
Clang went a box, as he threw up a lid in the front, snatched out a screw hammer and a copper pin, and then, tap, tap, tap, some half-dozen sharply given blows were heard, the hammer was thrown with a crash back into the box, and the man’s hoarse, harsh voice rose in an angry roar.
“Now, then, put your backs into it! Pump!”