“Anyhow, it isn’t likely that we’d ever get the water out of her here. There’s a little beach at the end of that slip by the wharf where we were, and we can beach her there.”
So, running very slowly, the Vagabond returned to town, the submerged tender rolling and splashing along behind at the end of a short painter and threatening to disappear completely every minute. But she didn’t carry out her threat, and when the launch was once more tied up at the float the tender was pulled along to the end of the slip until she grounded. There they left her until the tide, which was still running out, should leave her high and dry. Bob and Dan went in search of a carpenter to patch her up, following the explicit directions of the gasoline man, who was very much interested in the sudden and unexplained appearance on the scene of the tender. Nelson and Tom made discreet inquiries for Spencer, describing his personal appearance without mentioning his name. But neither the man at the wharf nor the loungers at the street end of it had seen anyone answering to their description. Bob and Dan returned presently with the information that the carpenter was busy but would be on hand in about half an hour. So they went back to the launch, made themselves comfortable in the cockpit and speculated anew on the disappearance of Spencer. Many new and ingenious theories were aired, but in the end it was all nicely summed up in Tom’s verdict:
“It’s a regular jim-dandy mystery,” declared Tom. “That’s what it is!”
At twelve the carpenter had not arrived.
“He won’t come now until after his dinner hour,” said the gasoline man when asked for his opinion.
“Then I vote that we find a hotel or restaurant,” said Dan, “and have a thundering good dinner. If the old duffer comes while we’re gone he can wait till we get back.”
The vote was carried, the cabin was locked again and the quartet set off in search of dinner. It wasn’t hard to find, and at a quarter before one they were back at the wharf. The carpenter, garrulous and apologetic, arrived a few minutes later and the entire party went back up the pier, climbed down a slippery ladder and reached the little beach where lay the tender looking like a novel bathtub. The beach was composed largely of black muck and the resulting operations were disastrous to four pairs of white canvas shoes.
“Catch ahold here,” said the carpenter, “and turn her over.”
Out splashed the water and the dead fish and over went the tender until she lay bottom up. It wasn’t necessary to hunt long for the leaks. Half a dozen small splintered holes on each side of the keel confronted them. The carpenter examined them attentively.
“How’d you do it?” he asked finally.