"What a brute!" exclaimed Flemming breathlessly.
"A regular mule!" ejaculated Woodleigh, mopping his heated brow.
"I agree," added Roche, desisting from his labours in sheer exhaustion, and, resting his hands on his hips, he surveyed the object of his companions' adverse comments.
For thirty-five minutes they had tussled with the refractory motor, and had not yet succeeded in getting a solitary "kick" out of it. They had cleaned the plugs, "doped" the cylinders, tried her first on the coil and then on magneto, and, finally, on both; and had with their united efforts "swung the engine" until physical force failed them.
"We'll have to tow her down to Teddington," declared Flemming. "There's nothing in the contract against that, is there? And how far is Teddington, by the way?"
"A mere matter of 93 miles," replied Roche jauntily. "That's nothing, of course. Now, then, stand by. Flemming, you tackle the fly-wheel. Mind yourself if she fires; 'if', I said. Woodleigh, my festive, help me with the starting-handle. Now, together."
With a chattering of tappets and the hiss of escaping air the engine was "turned over ", but the hoped-for explosion failed to take place.
"What, not got her going yet!" exclaimed Mr. Armitage, who had just returned from interviewing the representative of the Thames Conservancy in order to obtain a lock pass.
"No, sir; we've tried all sorts of things," replied Roche.
The Scoutmaster put half a dozen questions which were satisfactorily answered.