Or, all a-sheen,
A brigantine
Running free by trade-wind sped,
How could Fulton have dared to dream
Of steam?”
“That’s rather nice,” Tim said as Jack finished the little verse, “and it’s just the way I feel. Wouldn’t it have been fine if there wasn’t any machinery and we could all have gone on living in the woods, in leopard skins—I rather fancy myself in a leopard skin—”
“You are just the person to make the most fuss if your train happens to be the least bit late,” Frances broke in on him.
“And sail around all summer in a fast little yacht,” Tim went on, with a grin at Frances.
“Then about the first of October eat enough to last you until spring and crawl into your little cave and sleep till warm weather.”