“Let’s crank some more,” says I.
So we went at it again, and cranked until we wore the skin off our hands, and until our backs were ’most busted. I never thought I could hate anything like I hated that little gas engine. I could have taken a sledge hammer and busted it and then thrown the pieces overboard to the fish. But it wouldn’t start.
“Let’s holler,” says I.
“And have the Porpoise come and pick us up?” says he.
“Anyhow,” says I, “let’s sit back and rest and see what happens. We’re bound to drift ashore some place.”
“I guess that’s the best we can do,” says he.
It was mighty cold and disagreeable; the water was pouring down the backs of our necks and dripping off our noses, and the wind was trying to blow our clothes off, and the bay was kicking up so the dink rolled and pitched like it was crazy, and every once in a while a wave would come splash against it and duck us good and plenty.
“Say,” says Catty, “if we don’t look out we’re going to fill up with water and sink. Between the rain and these waves we’re getting more than we need. Hunt around for a pail or something.”
We felt around and found a can, and for half an hour we took turns bailing. I couldn’t see that we gained much, for every time we threw a pailful out a wave threw one in again. But we broke even, which was something. I never was so cold and uncomfortable in my life.
“If this is having an adventure,” says I, “I’ll stick to a quiet, peaceful life.”