They had drifted back to a point just upstream from the Parsons house.
Several boats out in midstream passed them, but the two boys, busy in the cockpit, paid no heed to those who were going their own ways. The afternoon was wearing on.
The first thing Frank had discovered was that two of the valve springs were weak, or appeared to be so, and he placed the only spare ones he had—two new ones from the tool kit—where they belonged, then had Lanky try the engine by slowly turning it over to note the effect.
Next came his examination of the carburetor, where so much of the trouble of a gas engine lies, and found that the needle valve was dirty. This being cleaned, an examination of the float having been made, and all parts then carefully put together, Lanky grabbed the flywheel and gave it a spin. Away it went with a whir!
“Now, which of three things was wrong?” laughed Frank, as the motor spit and sputtered and then went to running evenly.
“All three!” exclaimed Lanky. “It’s not for me to choose the right one—so I’ll just play safe and say it was all of them at the same time.”
The two boys washed their hands, Lanky loosened the fastening to the tree, gave a huge shove to the boat to cast it far off shore, leaped on it as it moved away, and grabbed an oar to propel it further from shore, paddle-like, so that the propeller would not foul.
Then, its nose slowly turned upstream, the engine running smoothly, the Rocket picked up speed under the hand of Frank, and out to midstream they went, toward the Parsons Island.
“There’s Cunningham right now!” exclaimed Wallace, pointing to a rapidly moving boat which was rounding the upper side of the narrow island.
It was a trim craft, the Speedaway, and worth watching as it skimmed around the island and made its way toward the same side of the river as was the Rocket.