"The way you handled her just now--I'm a pretty
fair judge of traffic in a volt-hurry--it was a thousand
revolutions beyond anything even I've ever seen."
Tim's back supples visibly to this oiling. Captain George on the
c. p. winks and points to the portrait of a singularly attractive
maiden pinned up on Tim's telescope bracket above the
steering-wheel.
I see. Wholly and entirely do I see!
There is some talk overhead of "coming round to tea on Friday," a
brief report of the derelict's fate, and Tim volunteers as he
descends: "For an A. B. C. man young Williams is less of a
high-tension fool than some. Were you thinking of taking her on,
George? Then I'll just have a look round that port-thrust seems
to me it's a trifle warm--and we'll jog along."
The Mark Boat hums off joyously and hangs herself up in her
appointed eyrie. Here she will stay a shutterless observatory; a
life-boat station; a salvage tug; a court of ultimate
appeal-cum-meteorological bureau for three hundred miles in all
directions, till Wednesday next when her relief slides across the
stars to take her buffeted place.
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