But she didn’t flash and I kept whirling.
“Faster, Trotwood, harder!” he cried.
I whirled and whirled. I began to get warm. The sweat began to pour off.
“Say,” I said, gasping for breath, “this beats turning a grindstone. What the devil—”
“Why, I canth—thee—” he lisped “Turnth again—quick—a tharp, sthnappy onth!”
I turned her again, quick, sharp and snappy. The thing pulled heavy and felt like an unoiled grindstone, just out of the store. My arms ached, the sweat poured off and my back was nearly broken.
I gave her a final desperate twist, and—there she was!
Dead as a log wagon.
“Confound it,” I said, mopping my forehead and staggering up; “I could have curried the mare and hitched her up six times. Why, something’s wrong with your old gas-wagon,” I went on, getting hot. “I’ll not turn this crank any more,” I said; “I’ll be so sore in my arms I couldn’t hold my gun straight to-day.”
He looked puzzled—annoyed.