"They're careless that way," admitted Ben, stepping into the boat to see what the trouble was. "If I were you I would make some rules and tack 'em down by the license card."
"They would never read them," Cora declared. "There—just look at that oil," as she collected some in a funnel. "This would have made the muffler smoke like a locomotive."
Ben looked at the oil cups. "There isn't any thing meaner than running a boat that throws out soft coal smoke," he admitted. "Those boys left the plungers up. But I say, girl, where's your new friend?"
"Laurel?" asked Cora as she put the wrench in the tool box.
"Yes. I thought she had come down here to stay."
"Well, we thought so too, but then she could not be expected to leave the island—all at once," and Cora wondered if she were saying too much.
"It's queer to me," went on Ben. "Them fellows have something to do with that," and he nodded his head toward the landing.
"You mean—Peters and Tony?"
"Yes. And what I want to say, Miss, is this. You had best keep clear of them. The row at the landing isn't exactly fixed up. I think it had to do with something at Fern Island."
"About Laurel?"