“A Guerin skiff?” quavered the old man. “That one they took was built by him. He is dead and gone now, but nobody on the St. Lawrence ever built skiffs like Amie Guerin. That one of mine was thirty years old and better than when she was new.”
After Ralph had promised that if possible one of the skiffs from the workshop of the redoubtable Guerin should replace the missing one, the old man grew calmer.
“I am selfish,” he said. “After all, perhaps your beautiful motor craft is ruined, and what is one poor skiff to the loss of a fine craft like that?”
“Let us go and see how badly she is damaged,” said Ralph; and together the old man and the boy set off for the point upon which the luckless River Swallow had driven her bow. In a short time they reached it.
The River Swallow lay on the placid river, apparently unharmed. The stern lines that Ralph had had the foresight to order out had held, and her after part was swinging clear of the sand-spit on which she had rammed her bow.
Ralph waded out to the craft and examined her as well as he could. To his joyous amazement, so far as he could make out, she had suffered no great damage. One or two of her rivets might be strained, he thought, but beyond that the River Swallow appeared to be in good order.
The boy could not resist the temptation to see if he could get her off the sand-bar. This was not as difficult as it sounds. The wind of the night before had held the craft on the sand-spit. But now she appeared to be about to glide off into deeper water of her own volition. Almost her entire hull was afloat, the exception being the foot or two of bow that was embedded in the sand.
“I believe I could do it,” mused Ralph, as he sized up the situation critically. “Wouldn’t it be fine to come cruising along into Piquetville under my own power with old man Whey for a crew!”
He turned to the old man.
“Mr. Whey, can you steer a boat?”