“In that case let’s have a look at the engine.”
A half hour later the two girls, dressed in greasy overalls, their hair done in knots over their heads, their hands black with oil, might have been seen engaged in the futile attempt to unravel the mysteries of the small gasoline engine, which, in other days, had been used to propel the O Moo when the wind failed to fill her sails.
“We might be able to sail her home,” suggested Marian.
“Might,” said Florence.
Risking a look out on deck, she opened a door. Her eyes swept the space before her. Her lips uttered a low exclamation:
“Gone! Mast, canvas, everything. We can’t sail home, that’s settled.”
* * * * * * * *
Mark Pence, after his strange adventures at the old scow, was marched off to the police station, where he was allowed to doze beside the radiator until morning.
Soon after daybreak he was motioned to a desk, where a sergeant questioned him closely regarding his knowledge of the events of the night and of the Orientals who lived in the old scow.
He was able to tell little enough and to explain next to nothing. When he had told of the disappearance of the O Moo, of the grease on the tracks, of the sample he had saved and of the block of wood with the cross embossed upon it, the officer proposed that they should together make a trip to the beach and go over the grounds.