“Guess there’s no one home,” murmured Tom. “So much the better. I’ll soon be aboard.”
A few more strokes put him alongside, and a quick look into the interior of the craft showed him that the machinery, at least, was intact.
“Though whether she’ll run or not is another question,” he said aloud. “Come, Tag,” he went on, half whimsically, “be nice now, and start for me.”
He looked into the gasolene tank, and saw that he had enough for a run of several miles, enough to get to the old mill, and back across the lake to camp again.
“That is, if I get the boys,” he mused; “I shan’t leave without them this time,” and he shut his teeth grimly. Testing the batteries, he found that the vibration from the coil was strong, and he took out a spark plug to note the current. It jumped blue and spitefully from point to point, when he laid the plug on a cylinder head, and turned the flywheel to make the contact.
“So far so good,” murmured Tom. “Now to see if she’ll start. Probably because everything is all right she won’t, but she ought to. Oh, if only motorboats would do as they ought to!”
The first turn of the flywheel resulted in a sort of surprised cough. The next gave forth a sneeze, as if the engine had just awakened.
Then came a vigorous “chug!” at the third turn.
“Come, we’re getting on!” exclaimed Tom with a laugh—his first good one since the disappearance of his chums and the boat. “As soon as she finds out I’m in her, instead of the old hermit and his crowd, I think she’ll behave herself.”
Tom’s prophecy proved correct, for with the next turn of the flywheel the boat started off as if she had never had an intention of doing anything else.