An instant later the motor of the Dartaway, with a wheezing cough, began to slow up. Then with a final explosion, as if in protest, it stopped altogether. The craft at once lost headway, and the Terror sprang forward and passed her, winning the impromptu speed contest.
“Well, if this isn’t the limit!” exclaimed Jerry. “I wonder what’s the trouble now.”
Ned was frantically trying to get the motor to start again.
“Seems as if there was no gasolene,” he said.
Jerry quickly opened the forward tank, and thrust a measuring stick down.
“That’s what’s the trouble!” he exclaimed. “Not a drop in the tank. We forgot all about filling it.”
The Terror, after continuing on for about an eighth of a mile had turned and was coming swiftly toward the Dartaway. When she was alongside, the steersman quickly reversed his motor and the craft, trembling like a frightened thoroughbred, came to a stop.
“In trouble?” asked the man at the wheel pleasantly. “You have a mighty fine boat there. I hope she hasn’t broken down. You had us beaten.”
“The gasolene has given out,” said Jerry.