“Don’t know,” grumbled the engineer surlily. “She wuz runnin’ all right comin’ over.”
He went on with his futile cranking. Then the girl leaped to her feet with a little cry, the wind whipping aside the veil a moment. Her face decided me. If there was anything I could do to take away that look of anxiety, almost terror, I’d do it. And, furthermore, I was pretty sure I could. I knew I’d be taking a chance; but I didn’t believe it was much of a one; and, besides, I like to take chances.
By the time I had reached the boat’s side, Stevens had thrust aside the burly fellow, and was trying to start the balky machine himself, while the owner chafed in bitterest impatience.
I caught his eye.
“I think I can start her,” I said simply.
He must have read something in my tone that conveyed more than the usual talk of the “butter-in.”
“You understand engines?” he queried sharply.
“Enough to know that they need gasoline to run with,” I replied; and, before even the engineer knew what I was up to, I entered the cockpit, and strode quickly over to the tank locker, where I found my guess correct. I was no longer taking any chances.
A stopcock which I had counted upon finding there was there, and turned off.
“I saw him turn it off a moment before you arrived,” said I.