“I wonder if she’s afraid to stay there unguarded.”
“Then why doesn’t she move into town, where she would be close to neighbors and friends?”
“On advice of counsel, I must refuse to answer,” said Lanky banteringly, striking a mock heroic attitude.
Just at this juncture the expected happened. Frank’s exclamation of “Now! what’s the matter?” showed that his fears were being realized. The engine stopped dead, and the Rocket was going upstream merely because of its own headway.
Lanky Wallace took the wheel at the suggestion of Frank, so that he himself could get down to tinker with the engine.
Once, twice, three times he tried to get it started, but there was no success.
Without any show of temper, but a determined look of the conqueror, Frank Allen rolled his sleeves back, chose the wrenches he wanted, and started to work.
“While we’re drifting, Lanky, hold her in toward shore, and when we’re close enough you might as well ease her up to some good spot to tie. I’m going to fix this thing if I know how.”
First the plugs were taken out. They showed considerable fouling, but when he had cleaned and replaced them there was no success. What Frank noticed particularly was the resistance which the motor offered to being turned over.
A half-hour of drifting passed away, Lanky in charge of the wheel, and then a slight bump told the boys that he had brought the Rocket’s nose up against a soft place in the bank. Lanky leaped off with a line and ran to a low-bending tree, a very convenient willow, and tied.