“What do you mean?”
“We don’t move. See?” and he pointed to the trees that grew along the canal bank.
He was right. The engine was working; the propeller was churning; but the boat wasn’t moving a hair.
“Everything was working slick,” he said. “Then, all of a sudden, the boat stopped dead still. That was five—ten minutes ago. Since then we haven’t moved an inch.” [[64]]
“Maybe we’re on a sand bar.”
“It acts to me as though the blamed boat is bewitched.”
He was thinking of the whispering ghost.
“When do we go home?” a voice in the audience called out good-naturedly.
“Pretty quick,” I called back.
“What’s the matter?” Scoop inquired, appearing at my elbow.