“Good work,” replied Burns absently after a minute, during which he tested a steel edge with an experimental finger and shook his head at it.

“Did you expect Jord to keep Aleck, when he’s got to have another man besides for the things Aleck can’t do now?”

Burns nodded.  “Expect anything—­of him.”

“Put down that murderous-looking thing and come along over.  Ellen said you were here, and Win sent word to you not to bother to change your clothes.”

“Thanks—­I won’t.”

“Won’t bother—­or won’t come?”

“Both.”

Chester sighed.  “Do you know what you remind me of when you get in this hole of a workshop?  A bull pup with his teeth in something, and only growls issuing.”

“Better keep away then.”

“I suppose that’s a hint—­a bull-pup hint.”

Silence from inside, while the worker stirred something boiling over a flame, poured a dark fluid from one retort into another, dropped in a drop or two of something from a small vial inflammatorily labelled, and started an electric motor in a corner.  Chester could see the shine of perspiration on the smooth brow below the coppery hair, and drops standing like dew on the broad white chest from which the open shirt was turned widely back.

“It must be about a hundred and fifty Fahrenheit in there,” he commented.  Burns grunted an assent.  “It’s only eighty-four on our porch, and growing cooler every minute.  The things we have to drink are just above thirty-two, right off the ice.”  Chester’s words were carefully chosen.

“Dangerous extremes.  But I wouldn’t mind having a pint or two of something cold.  Go, bring it to me.”

“Well, I like that.”

“So’ll I, I hope.”

Chester laughed and strolled away.  When he returned he carried a big crystal pitcher filled with a pleasantly frothing home-made amber brew in which ice tinkled.  With him came Jordan King.  Chester shoved aside the screen and pushed the pitcher inside, accompanied by a glass which Winifred had insisted on sending.

Burns caught up the pitcher, drank thirstily, drew his arm across his mouth and grinned through the window, meeting Jordan King’s smiling gaze in return.

“Company manners don’t go when your hands are black, eh?” remarked the man inside.

“Mechanics and surgeons seem a good deal alike at times,” was the laughing reply.

“Can’t tell ’em apart.  Your lily-handed surgeon is an anomaly.  I hear Aleck came out under his own steam to-night.  How does it go?”

“First rate.  It was great fun.  He’s like a boiling kettle full of steam, with the lid off just in time.”

“Good.  Be on your guard when he’s driving, though, for a while.  Don’t let him stay at the wheel down Devil’s Hill just yet.”

“Why not?  He has absolute control the way I’ve fixed it.  You see the spark and gas are right where—­”

“I don’t want you to take one chance in a million on that back of yours yet.  See?  Or do I have to drive that order in and spike it down?”