The engine did not appear to be more damaged than the driver by the explosion, and on looking at it, the boys were surprised to see that its boiler was shaped like a porridge-pot, with an immense porridge-stick stirring it by steam. There was a tender behind, which kept the engine up; for, as the driver said, in answer to one of the boys, “We keeps ’im coaled to keep ’im ot. My hengine begins to ’eat up when ’ee’s swallered two tons. In fact it’s with this coal ’ere that ’is bile is riz.”[2]
“And what have you got in the pot?” asked Ranulf.
JUGGED ’ARE.
The driver, who had just taken another pull at the oil-can, so long and full that the fireman had to beg him to leave some for the wheels, replied, “Don’t ye ax souperfluous questions.” But the fireman, picking up a big spoon like a warming-pan, plunged it into the pot, and held it down to Ranulf, saying, “There, you’ll find that ’ere souperfine stuff.”
“It ain’t ’are soup at all,” said the driver; “what are yer talkin’ about?”
“That’s just as well,” said Norval, “because one can’t live on air, of course.”
“I dunno that,” said the driver; “jugged ’are’s wery good stuff for dinner.”
“Oh, but,” said Jaques, gravely, “if we got nothing but a jug of air for dinner we would be just full of wind.”