Touching a polished slide-valve here.
Or there, a shaft of the running-gear,
Which done, he turned in a boyish mood
To a group of children who, gaping, stood
At the side of the track, too wonder-bound
To move a limb or to make a sound.
Into their midst Garcia sprung
And a chubby lad to his shoulder swung,
Who, laughing, clutched at his corded neck
Like a sailor tossed on a rocking deck.