"Maybe if we took the oars out we could start her," Dave jibed. "I hope you've got a freight-hauling license."
"Get out and push. Your witty remarks are about as light as those young tree-trunks we have for paddles. All together now!" as Dave bent over beside him. A lurch, a grinding, thumping slide, and the flat-boat slid free of shore.
"It's a mighty good thing if that man isn't on the island," remarked Dave as he took up his half of the propelling mechanism. "Because when our craft took the water she certainly did 'wake the echoes of yon wooded glen,' as the poet says."
"Poetry's got nothing to do with this boat. It doesn't rhyme with anything but blisters. Let's see if we can move her."
Thanks to some tremendous tugging, the flat-boat moved slowly out from shore. Inch by inch, it seemed, they gained on the current.
"The old tub's got speed in her," grunted Jerry, between sweeps of his oar.
"Ought to have it in her," returned Dave. "I'll bet you nobody ever got it out of her. Ugh!"
"Always grunt out toward the back of the boat—keep your head turned.
It helps us along."
"I've only got one grunt left; I'm saving it. How far have we gone?"
"All of ten feet. I'll tell you when we hit the island. Lift your oar out of water when you bring it back. The idea is to move the boat, not merely to stir up the water."