“You get out!” advised Ned. “You forgot the gasoline and that’s all there is to it. And you wanted to have charge of all the arrangements on this little cruise. Well, you’ve had your way, but you won’t again if I know it.
“There’s nothing to do now but row,” he went on. “Not another boat in sight and there isn’t any likelihood of any coming up to this end of the lake to-day. They’re all down at those races. We’re booked for a row, and we ought to make you do it all, Bob Baker.”
“I’ll do my share,” offered the smutty-faced, fat engineer.
“Break out the oars!” cried Jerry. “Never say die! It might be worse. It’ll give us an appetite—rowing. It might be a whole lot worse.”
Ned went aft to where, in a space along the locker tops, the emergency oars were kept. He turned to Jerry and said:
“It couldn’t be!”
“Couldn’t be what?” the tall youth asked in some wonder.
“Any worse. There aren’t any oars!”
“No oars?” cried Jerry.
“Nary an oar!”