And there the puzzling matter ended, for the time being; but the Good Turn took on a new interest because of the mystery with which it was associated and Pee-wee was continually edifying his companions with startling and often grewsome theories as to the fate or present whereabouts of Harry Stanton, until—until that thing happened which turned all their thoughts from this puzzle and proved that bad turns as well as good ones have the boomerang quality of returning upon their author.
It was the third afternoon of their cruise, or their "flop" as Roy called it, for they had flopped along rather than cruised, and the Good Turn's course would have indicated, as he remarked, a fit of the blind staggers. They had paused to fish and to bathe; they had thrown together a makeshift aquaplane from the pieces of an old float which they had found, and had ridden gayly upon it; and their course had been so leisurely and rambling that they had not yet reached Poughkeepsie, when all of a sudden the engine stopped.
Roy went through the usual course of procedure to start it up, but without result. There was not a kick left in it. Silently he unscrewed the cap on the deck, pushed a stick into the tank and lifted it out—dry.
"Boys," said he, solemnly, "there is not a drop of gasoline in the tank. The engine must have used it all up. Probably it has been using it all the time——"
"You make me sick," said Pee-wee.
"I have known engines to do that before."
"Didn't I tell you to get gasoline in Newburgh?" demanded Pee-wee.
"You did, Sir Walter, and would that we had taken your advice; but I trusted the engine and it has evidently been using the gasoline while our backs were turned. We should worry! You don't suppose it would run on witch hazel, do you?"
"Didn't I tell——" began Pee-wee.
"If we could only reduce friend Walter to a liquid," said Roy. "I think we could get started all right—he's so explosive."