“Yes,” answered Roy hopefully. “It sounded almost as though it was going to start. Try it again.”
[“When is a fly-wheel not a fly-wheel?”] asked Chub. “Answer: when it doesn’t fly around. Good.”
Dick bent over the wheel again and turned, but the engine, as though quite satisfied with its brief sign of life, refused to evince any further interest in proceedings. Dick turned again and again, getting redder and redder, hotter and hotter, madder and madder.
[“‘When is a fly-wheel not a fly-wheel?’”]
“Oh, hang the fool thing!” he exclaimed disgustedly, standing erect to ease his aching back. “I’m going to ship it back and get my money.” He looked wrathfully at Roy, who maintained a noncommittal silence. Then he stared aggressively at Chub. But Chub was gazing off down the river and humming “My Father’s the Engineer.” Then he challenged the freight-handler. But that obliging man kept a discreet silence, looking the while properly sympathetic, even shaking his head once. Dick grunted and turned his regard to the stubborn engine. But he got no satisfaction there. So, giving it a contemptuous kick and chipping off half an inch of beautiful bright red enamel, he subsided on the seat and studied the blisters on his hands.
“I’ll try it again,” suggested Roy not over eagerly.
“What’s the use?” growled Dick. “You’ll only break your back.”