They kept waiting, but George was very nervous because nothing seemed to happen. He growled to himself more than a few times; but none of the other boys paid any attention to that; because they knew George pretty well, and had run up against his little failings many a time.
George had no use for “slow-pokes.” He expected to see Rome built in a day, and strange to say, while he met with lots of trouble on account of this very desire for haste, it did not seem to effect any permanent cure in his disposition; for as soon as the unpleasant result had worn off, he was the same old George again,—Hurricane George, they used to call him at home.
“There, looks like he’s about got it fixed now,” announced Josh, presently.
“Oh! thank goodness!” said the skipper of the Wireless with a sigh of gratification that welled up from his very heart. “Now perhaps there’ll be something doing.”
“He’s getting out a match,” Josh went on.
“You mean he’s hunting all through his pockets for one,” corrected Jack.
That gave George another spell of the blues.
“Chances are he won’t have a blessed match about him,” he observed, despairingly. “And I’ve got half a notion right now to crawl out there, and do the business for Fritz.”
“No need,” remarked Josh, “he’s found one!”