“But I don’t believe that happened,” he went on, brokenly. “I am quite convinced that my friend was drowned by the capsizing of the small boat.”
“Wait a few moments, Mr. Moddridge, and we’ll show you, then,” proposed Captain Tom, turning and making a signal to Joe Dawson. “Jed, keep the bridge deck, and sound the whistle regularly.”
Captain and engineer disappeared below, going to their room. They were quickly back, clad only in their bathing suits.
“Now, you keep your eyes on us, Mr. Moddridge,” young Halstead requested. “Mr. Delavan is a heavy man, but Joe and I, together, are much heavier than he. We’ll show you how hard it is to upset a boat of this type.”
Though the boat’s own oars had not been recovered, there was another pair aboard that would serve. Joe brought these, while Halstead brought the port boat alongside of the barely moving motor boat. Both boys stepped down into the smaller craft. Joe applied himself at the oars. A slight lifting of the fog now made objects visible for a radius of some two hundred feet.
“Watch us,” called Tom, when the port boat was some forty feet away from the “Rocket.”
Both boys stood up, each resting a foot on the same gunwale of that little port boat. They bent far forward. The boat heeled; they even forced it to take in some water from the gently rolling sea. Then, as they stepped back, the little craft quickly righted itself.
“Now, come on, Joe,” proposed the young skipper. “We’ll both stand with our backs to the gunwale. We’ll tip the boat, and then fall backward into the water, just as though it were a real accident.”
Wholly at home on or in the water, the two chums went through the manœuvre with reckless abandon. Once more they succeeded in making the little craft heel over and take in some water.
“Now!” shouted Halstead.