Mr. Delavan smiled, good-humoredly, but next inquired:
“How do you happen—to be aboard the ‘Rocket!’”
“Walked aboard,” admitted Hank. “Had to sir. Nobody ever took the trouble to shanghai me.”
Joe, in the meantime, made two or three frantic efforts to make the motor “mote,” though without success.
“It’s all on account of this valve,” Dawson explained to his chum, pointing. “I knew it wouldn’t last forever, but the last time I inspected it, it looked all right.”
“You’ve another valve in the repair chest that will fit,” replied Tom. “And, in goodness’ name, hurry up. I’ll help you.”
“One more try at this old valve, for a few miles anyway,” cried Dawson, desperately. “Tom, the new valve is just a shade too large at the screw-thread end. It’ll take a few desperate minutes to make it fit.”
By the time he had finished speaking the young engineer was industriously engaged in forcing in packing around the worn old valve.
“Hank,” Captain Tom roared from the companionway, “shake out that solitary sail and hoist it. Get all the speed you can out of it.”
No one had thought of the sail up to this moment. It wasn’t much of a sail. Rigged to the single signal mast of the “Rocket,” the sail was intended only to enable the boat to reach port if ever the engine should give out.