We let our freckled chum do the most of the planning. For he seemed to have better ideas than any of the rest of us. He was already calling himself the “engineer.”
We made a two-blade propeller out of wood, clamping it on the lower end of the drive shaft, which had been given a braced bearing just above the water.
It took us a full half hour to get the engine started. I cranked and Scoop cranked and Peg cranked. When it did start it smoked worse than old Paddy Gorbett’s kitchen chimney. But Red said that was a good thing—it proved that the engine was getting plenty of oil.
“I can hear a knock,” Scoop said, listening.
“What do you expect for three dollars?” grunted Red, sticking up for his pet. “That knock won’t hurt anything. Forget it.”
We loosened the Sally Ann and the engineer shoved the gear-box lever into “low,” thus putting the propeller shaft into slow motion.
“Hurray!” yipped Scoop, throwing his cap into the air. “We’re moving!”
Red slipped the propeller into high gear. [[51]]
“She’s working as slick as a button,” he shrieked above the engine’s roar.
“Some class to us,” yipped Peg, cocking his cap on one ear and posing, skipper-like, against the tiller.