“But surely—it looks like....” The Doctor stood in the boat, gazing nearsightedly at the engine. “Surely that’s the lid of my old bathroom stove—you remember I sent it back to you?”
“Why, so it is!” cried Rothe. “Oho, so that was what he wanted the old scrap-iron for.”
“Have you noticed the funnel?” said Lange.
All saw at once that the funnel was a milk-can with the button knocked out; the stays were made fast to the handles on either side. Lange laughed, with chattering teeth; it was abominably cold.
“It makes an excellent funnel, anyhow,” said the Doctor shortly.
“Suppose the thing started off with us now,” said Trane, measuring the distance to shore.
“We’d soon be at the bottom, in this rotten old hulk.” Lange pointed to the water slopping about over the bottom boards. He had in his mind appointed Dr. Hoff head of the class, and did not care to address himself to others.
“No doubt,” said Hoff sharply. “You’d have preferred him to start with mahogany and polished brass.”
Lange turned away angrily; it was distressing to have to set a mental black mark against the name of his most promising pupil. But impertinence....