Harry had thought, and it was sickening how he lost interest in
us after he got his money. But he threw in a tooter for nothing
and a socket-wrench, and in some ways lived up to the
resemblance. He would not take me out himself, but gave me in
charge of a weird little boy we called the Gasoline Child. The
Gasoline Child was about thirteen, and was so full of tools that
he rattled when he walked, and I guess his head rattled, too--he
knew so much about gas engines. He was the greasiest, messiest,
grittiest and oiliest little boy that ever defied soap; and Harry
always declared he was an automobile variety of coddling-moth or
Colorado beetle or june-bug, who would wind up by spinning a
cotton-waste cocoon in the center of the machinery and hatch out
a million more like himself. Perhaps he was too busy to start
his happy home, for I never saw him at the garage but his little
legs were sticking out of a bonnet, and you could hear him
hammering inside and telling somebody to "Turn it over, will
you?" or "Now, try it that way, Bill."

But with all the heaps he knew, the Gasoline Child was a good
deal like the man who got rich by never spending anything. His
knowledge was imbedded in him like gold in quartz; you could see
it there all right, but couldn't take it out. He tried so hard
to be helpful, too; would plunge his little paw into the greasy
darkness below the seat and say:

"That's a nut you ought to remember now it works on the babbitt
of the counter-shaft"--or something of the kind--"and you must
see to it regular." Or, "Watch your valves, Miss, and be keerful
they don't gum on you." Or, "Them commutators are often the seat
of trouble, for oftentimes they wear down and don't break the