“Must be something wrong,” said Dick wrathfully. Roy silently agreed. Chub looked wise.
“Have you drowned the carbureter lately?” he asked. No one paid any attention to him.
“It must be the battery,” said Dick helplessly. “Maybe we’re not getting any spark. The directions said there should be a spark. Now let’s see.” He studied the situation in silence for a moment. Then, “I know,” he said. “I’ll bet something’s wrong with the wiring. What time is it?”
“Quarter to eleven, nearly,” Roy answered.
“Then supposing I go up to the village and find some one who understands electricity.”
“Well,” said Roy doubtfully. “But suppose the trouble isn’t with the battery or the wires? Wouldn’t it be better to find some one who knows about gasolene engines?”
Dick agreed that it would and they consulted the freight-handler. He thought a long while and finally said that there was a man named Hodgson who had “one of them boats.” But it also transpired that Mr. Hodgson was extremely uncertain as to his habits and the freight-handler couldn’t suggest a place where they would be likely to find him.
“Well, there’s no use looking all over the town for him,” said Dick disgustedly. “I’ll try her once more. Flood that thing, will you?”
“One good turn deserves another,” murmured Chub. Roy flooded the carbureter for the twentieth time, remarking pessimistically that pretty soon they’d have to buy more gasolene, and Roy “turned her over” again. This time there was a real business-like sound from somewhere inside the engine and a puff of vapor came through the relief cock.
“Did you hear that?” cried Dick.