Findlayson scratched his forehead.
“I don’t see—” he began.
“There is no reason why you should. You’re not feeling well,” interrupted the Donkey Engine, “but it’s a good riddle—eh?”
“Quite so,” said Findlayson.
“It’s long, anyhow,” said the Screw.
“Which we can’t say for to-day’s run—only 867 miles?” suggested the Donkey Engine, interrogatively.
“It’s long enough,” growled the Screw.
“It certainly is, if it is reckoned in minutes,” retorted the Donkey Engine. “I never knew such a long day.”
And so they continued in an honest and technical effort to restore Findlayson. But he wouldn’t laugh, and finally the Screw and the Centrifugal Bilge Pump and the Stringers and the other well-meaning Technicalities rose up to leave. Day was approaching, and all were needed at their various posts.
“Good-night—or good-morning, Findlayson,” said the Donkey Engine. “We’ve had a very pleasant night. I am only sorry, however, we cannot make you laugh.”