I got him in, with his head down and his tail between his legs. To all intents he was going to a funeral. I turned quickly away, for I could not stand the scorn and dumb reproach of his eyes. Right then I would have quit and gone back, but I didn't want to hurt my friend's feelings.
"Jump in, jump in, let's be going," he shouted, in his nervous, business way. "Oh, just a minute! There—you're on the ground. Say, here, take this and give that starting crank a turn. I'm not very expert myself," he went on, "and I sometimes forget; but you're on the ground—there—right there!"
I gave her a whirl, several of them. I whirled her like blue blazes. I kept on whirling, while her owner grasped the wheel and his eyes danced nervously, as he expected her to flash into the throb that said steam was on.
But she didn't fire, and I kept cranking.
"Faster, Jack, harder!" he cried.
I whirled and whirled. I began to get warm. The sweat began to pour off.
"Say," I said, gasping for breath, "this beats turning a grindstone. What the devil—"
"Why, I canth—thee," he lisped, "turnth again—quick—a tharp, sthnappy onth!"
I turned her again, quick, sharp and snappy. The thing pulled heavy and felt like an unoiled grindstone, just out of the store. My arms ached, the sweat poured off, and my back was nearly broken.
I gave her a final desperate twist, and—there she was! Dead as a log wagon.