Murtry paid him no attention. He and his man put their shoulders at the stern of the boat and skidded the vessel into the river. Murtry made a line fast to a convenient “dead man,” while his man leaped into the stern of the boat and started the engine. No sooner did he have the engine purring rhythmically, than he shut it off.
“What’s the matter?” Murtry, who was about to cast off and leap aboard, made the line fast again. “Anything wrong with that engine?”
“No, but——” The man was looking at Murtry in wide-eyed alarm. He was afraid to tell what was wrong, and yet he dared not remain silent. “Mr. Murtry,” he said, speaking swiftly, as if anxious to break the news as quickly as possible, “there ain’t a single drop of engine oil. I spoke to Sam about it last night after we’d loaded the other stuff aboard, an’ he said there was plenty of oil here. But I just looked an’ there’s nothin’ but gasoline. There’s more gasoline than we need, but there ain’t a drop of——”
“You idiot!” Murtry exclaimed. “Chase right up to camp an’ get some out of the cache an’ hurry!”
Murtry’s man leaped ashore, but stood hesitantly, shifting his feet as if in a quandary.
“Hurry! I don’t want to wait here all day!”
“I’ll go look again, but I looked last evenin’ an’ there wasn’t any there. At least I didn’t see it. That’s why Sam was so sure there was plenty on the boat.”
“Of course it’s there. If you don’t find it in the cache, look in the tool shed.”
At this the man shuffled off. Young Benton was much pleased at Murtry’s unexpected delay, but he was somewhat nettled at the manner in which he had been ignored. He decided to try again, and this time he would do his utmost to make Murtry answer him.
“I suppose you didn’t hear me a bit ago,” he began, “but——”