“Two outboard motors, one on each side the stern, rigged on a cross plank,” said Jesse, never smiling. “Besides, a head sail when the wind is right behind. And a rope if we got a head wind. And the oars and paddles, too. We’ve paddled hours. Every little.”
“We could get gas easy,” said John. “Lots of towns all along, now.”
“Easy as shooting fish,” drawled Jesse. “I’m making a model of a new flying ship now, though it isn’t all done. I can run one of those motors.”
“What say, Rob?” Uncle Dick turned to the oldest of the three, and the one of soberest judgment, usually.
“I shouldn’t wonder if it’s the answer, sir,” said Rob. “How many miles a day must we average?”
“As many as we can. Lewis and Clark and their big boat did eight or ten, sometimes fifteen or twenty—the average was about nine miles a day. It took them all summer and fall to get to the Mandans. That’s above Mandan, South Dakota—a thousand miles or so, eh?”
“Just sixteen hundred and ten miles, sir,” said Rob, “according to their figures. Just about nine miles a day, start to finish of that part of the run, here to the Mandans—though the modern estimates only call it fourteen hundred and fifty-two miles.”
“If we can’t beat that average I’ll eat the boat,” said Jesse, gravely.
“Well,” said Uncle Dick, beginning to bite his fingers, as he often did when studying some problem, “let’s see. A good kicker might do two or three miles an hour, by picking out the water. Two good kickers might put her up to five, good conditions. Some days we might do forty miles.”