“What’s that?” said the subaltern.
“Rustomjee has blown her up, perhaps,” said young Ottley, and dropped out into the wet, the subaltern at his heels. They found Rustomjee sitting by the side of the line, nursing a scalded foot and crying aloud that he was a dead man, while the gunner-guard—who is a kind of extra-hand—looked respectfully at the roaring, hissing machine.
“What has happened?” said young Ottley, by the light of the gunner-guard’s lantern.
“Phut gya [she has gone smash],” said Rustomjee, still hopping.
“Without doubt; but where?”
“Khuda jahnta! [God knows]. I am a poor man. Number Forty is broke.”
Young Ottley jumped into the cab and turned off all the steam he could find, for there was a good deal escaping. Then he took the lantern and dived under the drive-wheels, where he lay face up, investigating among spurts of hot water.
“Doocid plucky,” said the subaltern. “I shouldn’t like to do that myself. What’s gone wrong?”
“Cylinder-head blown off, coupler-rod twisted, and several more things. She is very badly wrecked. Oah, yes, she is a tottal wreck,” said young Ottley between the spokes of the right-hand driver.
“Awkward,” said the subaltern, turning up his coat-collar in the wet. “What’s to be done, then?”