“Sure is, but I dunno what kind it is. Mebbe it’s poison gas, for all I know. There was a fellow in Ireland when we——”
Tom ignored him, and making a guess adjustment of the mixing valve, opened the gas and threw the wheel over. “No batteries—magneto, huh?”
“Yes, but it don’t magnete. I’d ruther have a couple o’ batteries that would bat.”
A few crankings and the little engine started, missing frightfully.
“She’ll stop in a minute,” said Archer, and so she did. “We’ve all taken a crack at the carbureter and the timer,” he added, “but nothin’ doin’. It’s cussedness, I say.”
Tom started it again, listening as it missed, went faster, slowed down, stopped. It was getting gas and getting air and the bearings did not bind. He tried it again. It ran lamely and stopped, but started all right again whenever he cranked it, provided he waited a minute or two between each trial.
“Can you beat that?” said Archer.
“There’s water getting into the cylinder,” Tom said.
“Cylinder’s lucky. We poor guys got to go way down the other end of the earth to get water.”
“Maybe the water in the water jacket froze last winter and cracked the cylinder wall and the crack didn’t let any through at first, most likely. You can’t get your explosions right if there’s water. That’s why it starts first off and keeps going till the water works through. ’Tisn’t much of a crack, I guess. A file wouldn’t be any more use than a teaspoon.”