And so as soon as Bates had finished clearing off the table he went back to his engine, and the Columbia slipped along smoothly in the shadow of the island. But a few minutes later, as they were gliding along on the seaward side, where the water was far rougher, there was a sudden jar, and the next moment the engine stopped.
“Why, what’s the matter!” asked Eleanor, surprised.
“Nothing much, probably,” said Trenwith “Bates will have it fixed in a few minutes. The best engine in the world is apt to get balky at times–and I must say that mine has chosen a very good time to misbehave.”
Eleanor chose to ignore the meaning he so plainly implied, but she was perfectly content with the explanation, and sat there dreamily, expecting to hear the reassuring whir of the motor at any moment. But the minutes dragged themselves out, and the only sound that came from the engine was the tapping of the tools Bates was using. Trenwith frowned.
“This is very strange,” he said. “We’ve never been delayed as long as this since I’ve had Bates. He usually keeps the motor in perfect running order. I’ll just step forward and see what’s wrong.”
He returned in a few moments, his face grave.
“Bates has some highly technical explanation of what is wrong,” he said, seriously. “It seems that he needs some tools he hasn’t got, in order to grind the valves. I’m afraid we’ll have to get ashore somehow–he seems to be sure that he can find what he is looking for there.”
Eleanor looked rather dismayed.
“It’s going to make us terribly late in getting ashore, isn’t it?” she asked. “I’m afraid the others will be worried about us.”
“No. Bates says that as soon as he gets the tools he wants he will have things fixed up, and he’s quite certain that he can get them on the island. He says anyone who has a motor boat will be able to help him out–and they certainly couldn’t live here without one.”