"Fine!" I said. "When you have a few moments to spare from the farm you can fill a few dozen cases. And you, too, Smith, when time hangs heavy on your hands, it might amuse you to drop in and start bottling spring water for me—instead of rearranging your bureau drawers."
The suggestion did not seem to attract him. He said he'd enjoy doing it but that he did not comprehend machinery.
I smiled at him and made up my mind that he'd not spend his spare time in Clelia's neighborhood.
"Raoul," said I, "that was an interesting song you were singing when we came in."
"What song, Monsieur?"
"The one about 'Crack-brain-cripple-arm.'"
He gazed at me so stupidly that I hesitated.
"I thought I heard you humming a song," said I.
"Maybe it was the dynamo, Monsieur."
"Maybe," I said gravely.