Danny Dunn and the Weather Machine by Jay Williams, Raymond Abrashkin Page B

bandage.
    â€œJust a second,” said Danny.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œWell, you’re not going to believe this, but my blood tastes like lemonade.”
    â€œWhat?” Joe cried.
    Irene said, “Oh, I know why. ’Tisn’t blood. Don’t you remember last night when Mr. Elswing came to visit us? You were so startled, you dropped your glass of lemonade and it spilled all over IT. That’s what’s on your finger.”
    Danny was already inspecting the machine’s metal case, and mumbling to himself. Then he said, “Aha!”
    â€œAha?” said Joe. “Is that good or bad?”
    â€œBoth.” Danny pointed to the side of the case. “This is all smooth metal. I wondered where I could have cut my finger. Now I see —there’s a crack in the metal, right here.”
    â€œA crack?” said Irene. “Ah—when Vanderbilt grabbed the wagon, and it fell over. Right?”
    Danny snapped his fingers. “If the case is cracked, something inside may be broken.”
    â€œHere we go again,” Joe muttered.
    Paying no attention, Danny peered into the maze of machinery. Wires led from the knife switch on the back plate to a six-volt wet-cell battery inside. Danny reached in, and slid the battery out.
    â€œI was right!” he chortled.
    Irene bent over to look at the battery. On the top of it were three plastic caps which covered the openings to the battery cells. When these caps were removed, distilled water could be poured into the battery. One of the caps was cracked almost in two.
    â€œYou see,” Danny went on, “when the case fell off the wagon, it must have hit the rock and cracked. This cap broke at the same time, and the acid spilled out of the cell of the battery. I’ll bet you anything, that’s why the machine won’t work.”
    â€œIt’s worth trying,” said Irene. “Is there another battery around?”
    â€œLook on those bottom shelves,” Danny directed. “I’ll unhook the cables.”
    He did so, and Irene quickly found another battery and brought it over. Danny fastened the cables to it, and put it back in place. Without bothering to refasten the back plate, he closed the switch.
    â€œThere!” said Irene. “The tubes are glowing.”
    â€œYou’re right. We’re back in business.”
    â€œNow, I wonder—” Irene began.
    She was interrupted by a muffled cry from Joe.
    He was waving his arms helplessly. The two rays met at his head, and from the neck up he was lost in a thick, white fog.
    â€œGet me out of here!” he yelled. “Where am I?”
    Danny opened the switch, and the fog thinned and faded away, leaving Joe’s hair wet and his face dripping.
    â€œWelcome back, Chief Rain-in-the-Face,” Danny laughed. “Stay away from the sink, from now on.”
    â€œWell, it’s working, anyway,” said Irene. “What about that crack, Dan? How can we fix it?”
    â€œProfessor Bullfinch isn’t due home until lunchtime, at the earliest,” Danny replied. “So tomorrow we’ll take the machine to Mr. Krantz, the welder, right after breakfast. He can fix it.”
    â€œYes, and this time we’ll tie it down on the wagon,” said Joe, mopping his face with his handkerchief.
    â€œI’ll bring over a roll of wire.” Irene put a hand on Danny’s arm. “Dan,” she said, “I want to ask you something.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou are going to tell the Professor what happened, aren’t you?”
    Danny bit his lip. Then he said bravely, “Of course I am. There’s no use trying to duck out on it. Maybe when he finds out we can make midget rainstorms with it, he’ll forgive me.” But in his heart, Dan knew that the Professor would be disappointed in him for not using self-discipline—and knew, too, that this disappointment would be justified.

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