“Oh, do you think it means we shall have a storm?” quavered the Truesdells’ cousin, Mrs. Olmstead, who had heard what Reed said.
“Not a storm, but fog. It may come up quickly, or it may hang around outside, but we know the channel pretty well, and there’s no danger. I’ve cruised around in these waters so much this summer that I could steer in the dark. I’ve learned a lot from the fishermen, too.”
They chugged along steadily for some time, then suddenly the boat stopped short, gave a few futile wheezes, went on a little distance, and then came to a dead standstill, or as much of a one as a boat afloat could do.
“Hello! What’s wrong?” cried Tom and Reed in unison, as they climbed over to where Alvin was striving in vain to right matters.
“Let’s look at her,” said Tom, gazing down into the depths where the engine was. He and Alvin consulted, experimented, did their best, but the boat still lopped helplessly around, drifting with the outgoing tide. “I’m blest if I know what’s wrong,” said Tom, lifting his head at last. “Nothing seems to be out of order so far as I can see.”
“It looks all right to me,” Alvin agreed.
“I don’t suppose by any chance it needs some juice,” remarked Reed.
“I never thought of that,” replied Alvin, grinning sheepishly. “I gave the can to Sam Denny and told him to fill her up, so it must be stowed away somewhere.” He began to search.
“It’s horrid, this lopping around,” complained little Mrs. Olmstead. “Do help to look for the can, Bert,” she said to her brother.
He joined in the search, but it was to no avail, and at last Alvin stood up and shook his fist in the direction of the distant Beatty’s Island. “Doggone that Sam Denny!” he exclaimed. “He’s forgotten to put it in.”