Dent did so, but in such a lazy and slow fashion that even from shore Tom could see that the lad was not exerting himself enough. The wheel needed a vigorous turn.
“Oh, put some muscle into it!” cried Tom. “You’ll never get her going that way!”
“I’ve tried three or four times, and she won’t go,” retorted Dent, leaning back against the gunwale, and looking at the engine, as though a mere glance would set it going.
“Keep on trying!” cried Tom. “Don’t you see where you’re going? You’ll be on the rocks in five minutes more! Can’t you even steer? Next time you take my boat I’ll wallop you good!”
“I didn’t think you’d care,” came the answer over the stretch of water.
“Well, I do. Now you crank up!”
Dent Wilcox tried again, but his inherent laziness was against him, and nothing resulted. The boat was in the grip of the current, and was rapidly drifting toward the dangerous rocks.
“By Jove! He’ll wreck my boat!” thought Tom. “Say!” he cried desperately, “can’t you get that engine going somehow, and avoid the rocks?”
“I guess there’s no gasolene,” retorted Dent.
“Yes, there is, the tank’s full.”