“The job will cost at least forty dollars,” Midge reported. “What’s worse, the boat will be out of water for at least two or three days. It makes me sick!”
“Did your father learn if it was Manheim’s boat that struck us last night?” Dan questioned.
“Not yet. We inquired around the clubhouse, but no one has seen the Manheim speedboat the last couple of days.”
Brad had noticed a mahogany speedcraft which was plowing up the channel at half-speed. “Isn’t that Manheim’s boat coming now?” he demanded. “It looks like it to me.”
“Likewise the same one that struck us last night,” Midge muttered, shading his eyes as he gazed toward the sun.
As the three Cubs watched, the boat drew closer until they could read the license numbers—D 351, and see the bright gleam of her brasswork.
“The boat that hit us had no visible license,” Dan said, a little troubled. “If it weren’t for that, I’d say it was Manheim’s craft that smashed into us.”
“Who’s at the wheel?” Brad demanded. “Not Manheim.”
The operator of the boat wore a striped red and blue jersey and soiled brown trousers. His square jaw and grizzled sun-brown face of set expression marked him as a man of surly temper.
As the boat slid along toward the Manheim berth, he glanced briefly at the Cubs. Then deliberately he looked away.