"You made fun of her poetry," High-Pockets pointed out. With a certain amount of pleasure he reflected that His Honor could hardly allege contempt, under the circumstances.
But his honor looked at High-Pockets with a new light in his eyes. "You may have saved my life," he said thoughtfully.
Arturius Wickware looked desperate. "It can't squirt," he said. "The plunger pin isn't in."
High-Pockets pointed to the metal on the floor. "It did," he said.
Arturius looked at No. 7 dourly and shut off the motor. "Please take No. 8," he begged High-Pockets. It was the first time he had said "please" in thirty years.
High-Pockets was staring at the proof like a man in a trance.
Suddenly he made half a dozen long strides to the machinist's bench. He laid hands on a twelve-pound sledge-hammer. He came back with it over his shoulder, and before the horrified Arturius could utter a word, High-Pockets had gone to the rear of No. 7 and swung the sledge in one devastating left-handed blow that sheared through the ninth and tenth cams. Then he stepped to the right and crashed the hammer down on the pot-pump cam.
He stepped back, breathing hard, the hammer over his shoulder. Pieces of cast iron tinkled to the floor. "Well," boomed High-Pockets, "I guess I fixed it, didn't I?"
There was no answer. High-Pockets looked around. Arturius had quietly fainted. The judge looked horrified.