The boys then turned to the task of stowing the load the wagon had brought down. Part of this consisted of three barrels of kerosene, two of which they emptied into the Rambler’s tank, the third was placed up on the forward deck. The boxes and packages were taken below and their contents emptied into the lockers. “We haven’t got space for a hundred pounds more stuff,” Alex announced when they finished. “We are just about filled up.”
“We are ready to start right now,” said Clay with satisfaction, “but of course we cannot go until tomorrow’s freight, and we can not go without Ike. I saw him this morning and he said he would be down tonight—likely would get down in time for supper. What do you say, boys, if we take a little spin just to try out our new motor and see if there’s anything the matter with it. Turn on the oil at the tank, Alex, and then both of you stand by to cast off when I give the word.”
The boys obeyed quickly, eager for the test, while Clay went back and fussed with the motor. Case and Alex waited long by the mooring lines for the signal to let go, but it did not come.
“Can’t you start it?” Alex at last shouted impatiently.
“Sure,” replied Clay, coolly. “I could start it right off, but it would be ruined in ten minutes without petting it up a little first. I’ve been filling up grease cups, putting oil in the lubricating tanks, and oiling up the working parts. You’ve got to watch those things closely with this kind of a motor or it will run hot and melt away its bearings. But I am about to start now. As soon as she starts throw off the lines, and you, Case, take the wheel.”
In a moment there came a series of sharp explosions from the engine room. The boys cast off the lines and Case jumped back to the wheel. The Rambler backed slowly away from the wharf. As soon as she was clear of the pier, Clay reversed the engine and the Rambler was headed up stream.
Clay remained in the engine pit tuning up his new charge, trying it out slowly like a new race horse, striving to bring each working part into harmony with its fellows, now turning on a little more oil, or a little more air, again screwing down for less oil and increasing the air; his keen ear attuned to the throb of the exhaust whose varying notes told the story of the changes his tinkering had wrought. It was stuffy in the engine hold and once he raised his head above the coaming for a deep breath of fresh air. He grinned at the scraps of conversation that floated back to him from up forward.
“The Rambler don’t go like she used to go,” Case was saying, gloomily, “every craft on the stream is passing us. Look at that Vixen behind. She is creeping right up on us now and the Rambler used to make two miles to her one.”
“Yes,” Alex agreed, dejectedly. “Clay has handed us a lemon all right. It has turned the Rambler into a floating hearse. Well, he meant it for the best and we must not show our disappointment. He’ll feel bad enough about it himself when he finds out the mistake he made.”
“Sure, there’s to be no roasting of Clay,” Case agreed, heartily. “He’s the best one of us three.”