The boy flung off his hat and disappeared. Metallic sounds came from the interior of the car. “How are you getting on, boy?” asked Mr. Greatorex after some ten minutes. There was no answer. Five minutes passed. “Find it rather too _much_ for you, eh?” said Mr. Greatorex, looking more amused than ever. Still there was no answer. “Got everything you want?” he asked again. But the boy made no reply; only the sound of knocking and screwing continued. Mr. Greatorex laughed aloud. “Come,” he said, getting up and standing with legs astraddle a foot or two from the car, “you mustn’t make _too_ long a _job_ of it, you know.” Then he chuckled. Five minutes afterwards the boy crawled out. Mr. Greatorex laughed again as he surveyed the grimy little fellow. A great patch of black surrounded one eye, where he had rubbed his knuckles. “All right now, measter,” said the boy. “What! Come, my lad, you’ve _had your_ turn; now run along and fetch the smith.” “Bean’t no need. She’ll go now.” Mr. Greatorex looked impressed, stepped to the front of the car, and turned the handle; to his amazement the engines started. He sprang into the car, threw the engines into gear, and was still more amazed when, releasing the clutch pedal, he found that the car moved. “Better take off the brake, measter,” said the boy. “Why, yes, certainly,” said Mr. Greatorex, with a preoccupied air, and the car mounted the incline, spun across the bridge, and ran easily down the road. Then Mr. Greatorex stopped it and turned round. “Hi, boy!” he shouted. The boy picked up his hat, stuck it on his head, and approached. “Look here, youngster,” said Mr. Greatorex, “the car is all _right_!” “Told ’ee so, measter.” Mr. Greatorex roared. “You’re a wonderful little chap. Bless my soul, how did you _do_ it?” “I’ll show ’ee if you’ll get out.” “No thank ’ee. I’ve already had half an hour at it, and I’m as black as a nigger. What was wrong?” “A bit of grit was stuck in the petrol spray nozzle, so you couldn’t get no petrol into the carburetter.” “Oh!” said Mr. Greatorex blankly. “What’s your name?” “Tom Dorrell.” “You don’t happen to be manager of a motor-works, I suppose?” “No,” said the boy, unconscious of the genial sarcasm. “Where d’you live?” “In the village yonder,” said Tom, pointing ahead. “Oh! Ah! Look _here_, my lad, why aren’t you at school?” “Why, ‘cos ’tis holidays,” he replied with a grin. “Feyther didn’t want me, so I came out to fish.” “Oh, indeed. And who’s your father?” “He be the smith you wanted me to fetch; but there warn’t no need.” “So it appears! I say, my lad, how _old_ are you?” “Twelve, and I’m in the sixth standard.” “You are, are you? And how long have you been mending motor-cars?” “Not so very long. I help feyther now and again; motor-cars are always breaking down, and he has mended a rare lot of ’em.” “Ah! And how much would he have charged for mending this one?” “About two shillings, I reckon; it wasn’t a very hard job.”