"Give it a good sharp twist," she said.
"All right," said Bream.
"Here, let me do it," cried Billie.
She jumped down and snatched the thingummy from his hand. With bent
brows and set teeth she wrenched it round. The engine gave a faint
protesting mutter, like a dog that has been disturbed in its sleep, and
was still once more.
"May I help?"
It was not Bream who spoke but a strange voice--a sepulchral voice,
the sort of voice someone would have used in one of Edgar Allen Poe's
cheerful little tales if he had been buried alive and were speaking
from the family vault. Coming suddenly out of the night it affected
Bream painfully. He uttered a sharp exclamation and gave a bound which,
if he had been a Russian dancer, would probably have caused the
management to raise his salary. He was in no frame of mind to bear up
under sudden sepulchral voices.
Billie, on the other hand, was pleased. The high-spirited girl was just
beginning to fear that she was unequal to the task which she had chided
Bream for being unable to perform and this was mortifying her.
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