After this general vituperation the old sailors rested for a while and rowed back. The constant cranking had turned the propeller a great many times. The boat had made erratic headway and was quite a distance from shore. They landed, pulled the boat out on the sand with the windlass, and retired to the shanty for lunch and consultation.
Saunders strolled out a little later, with a piece of cold fried fish in his hand, and looked the motor over again. He gave the fly-wheel a careless turn and the engine started off gayly. Sipes heard the welcome sound and ran out, spilling his coffee over the door step. Lunch was discontinued, and the boat was re-floated. There was more cranking, but no answering vibrations. With more profanity the craft was restored to its berth on the sand, and another retreat made to the shanty.
“The Bug’ll run all right on land,” declared Sipes, “an’ we’ll turn the propeller so’s the edges’ll be fore an’ aft, an’ belay it. We’ll bend a rim on it an’ fasten some little truck wheels on the bottom o’ the boat. Then we’ll run the ol’ girl up an’ down on the hard sand ’long the edge o’ the water. We won’t go in the lake at all ’til we git ’er well het up, an’ then we’ll turn ’er in sudden an’ cut them lashin’s. She won’t know she’s in an’ ’way she’ll go.”
For many days the old shipmates struggled with the obstinate mechanism. It once ran for an hour without a break and they were jubilant. “Some gas bug that!” Saunders exclaimed joyfully, but just then it sputtered and stopped. They were quite a ways out, and the oars had been forgotten. Fortunately there was a light in-shore breeze and they drifted to the beach about two miles from home.
The oars were finally procured and the day closed with everything snug and tight at the shanty.
“I bet we ain’t got the right kind o’ gasoline,” declared Sipes. “They’s lots o’ kinds. This ’ere wot’s in the Bug ain’t got no kick to it. We got too much oil mixed in it, an’ we gotta git s’more.”
When John came again the many troubles were related to him. He knew nothing of motors, but offered to get some more gasoline when he went to the village, and to bring the former owner of the motor over to see if he could suggest anything.
“You jest fetch that feller,” said Sipes, “an’ we’ll take ’im out fer a nice little spin on the lake, an’ we’ll go where it’s deep.”
When the new gasoline came there was much more tinkering and study of the directions. Resignation alternated with hope. Sometimes the motor would run, but more often it refused. John finally took it to the village and it was shipped to the makers. A carefully and painfully composed letter was put in the “pustoffice.” The long-delayed answer was that the machine needed “overhauling,” which would cost about half as much as a new one.
“The money that them pie-biters makes ain’t sellin’ motors, but overhaulin’ ’em,” declared Sipes. They sell one o’ them bum things an’ git their hooks in an’ git a stiddy income from it long as you’ll stand fer it.”