“Down at th’ t’other end of th’ platform. But look out it don’t bite ye! I’ll bet it’s a shark if ’tain’t a whale,” and Mr. Hitter chuckled heartily.
The boys raced down the platform. At the end, where it had just been taken from a flat car, was a long box, measuring about twenty-seven by ten, by seven feet. Indeed it did look as if it contained the remains of some prehistoric monster.
“Hurrah! This is it!” cried Ned, as he read from a paper pasted on the big box:
“One motor boat. This side up with care.”
“Get a hammer and we’ll unpack it!” cried Bob. “Where’s an axe?”
“Now ye’d better go slow, boys,” cautioned Mr. Hitter, coming up at this juncture. “Was ye calalatin’ to sail right here from th’ depot down th’ main street?”
“That’s so, I forgot you have to have water for a boat,” spoke Bob, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, for he was quite fat, and the excitement made him warm.
“You’ll have to make haste slowly, Chunky,” said Ned, applying to him the nick-name Bob’s chums sometimes used.
“How are we going to get it home?” asked Jerry.