Reginald’s Driver’s Ed. Class
“A true steamsmith never loses his cool, even when everything around him overheats.”
Young Reginald gripped the leather reins as his mechanical seahorse breached the crashing waves.
“Excellent form holding your air intake, lad!” Mr. Beaver, his driving instructor, praised through his monocle-affixed eye and buck teeth.
They emerged dripping onto the sandy shore. Reginald pulled down on the feather in his bowler hat, and an accordion fan unfolded from the top, its wooden blades spinning rapidly. The miniature propeller whirred to life, blasting them with an arid gust that dried their sopping clothes in seconds.
“Now, to transition to land! Activate Horse Mode!” Mr. Beaver gestured toward an emerald lever. Reginald pulled it, and the aquatic brass contraption groaned.
Hydraulic pistons strained. The finned tail slowly hinged, but stopped halfway with an ominous clank!
“Oh, bugger!” Reginald leapt down, inspecting the jammed gears.
He pounded the stuck mechanism with his fists. Metal sliced his knuckles, prompting a yelp of pain. “Ow! Bleeding blast furnaces!” Tears poured from his eyes as he clutched his injured hands.
Mr. Beaver sighed, adjusting his waistcoat. “Really now, Reginald. What kind of blubbering exhibition is this? Aren’t you nearly a man? Stiff upper lip, and all that.”
Sniffling, Reginald wiped at salty eyes. Jaw set, he retrieved his toolkit to dislodge the mechanized tail.
But Mr. Beaver raised a paw. “I don’t think so, young man. You’ve failed today’s driving evaluation.”
Reginald’s face fell. “B-But sir! I can repair — “
Mr. Beaver shook his head. “Your tantrum showed a lack of the poise required behind the wheel—or reins, as it were.” Mr. Beaver adjusted his monocle. “More crucially, you failed to activate your emergency flashers before disembarking the vehicle! Proper protocol must be followed!”
Reginald’s shoulders slumped.
“Listen closely, lad.” Mr. Beaver’s tone softened. “The road to mastery is less about the obstacles you’ll encounter, and more about how you respond to them. A level head and proper procedures are paramount, else you endanger yourself and others.”
Reginald nodded, newly humbled.
Mr. Beaver patted his arm. “We’ll try again next week. Just remember: a true Steamsmith never loses his cool, even when everything around him overheats.”
Mr. Beaver dismounted and clicked a hidden latch, and the mechanical steed compacted with an intricate whir; its brass plating reshaped into a sturdy briefcase.
“Shall we?” the dapper rodent said, picking up the contraption by the handle. “I really could go for some fish ’n’ chips.”
