“It won’t?” stooping to examine.
“No, it won’t. See?”
“Yes. What do you suppose ails it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t you understand your own machinery, Fitz Mee of Goblinland?” teasingly.
“Yes, I do—when a certain boy from Yankeeland hasn’t meddled with it,” crossly.
“Oh!”
“Yes.”
“You think I hurt your old machine?”
“I know you did—in some way.”