H. Bedford-Jones

“ Hardrock, who was staring out to the northeast, drew back from the shore.
“Looks to me like our boat—see her? Green, sure enough; can't tell about the red stripe. Get back out of sight, Fulsom. Here—help run this launch up a little first! Move sharp. They mustn't suspect anyone is here. Can you make her out?”
“Yep. That's her,” affirmed Fulsom confidently. “Go get your shotgun, Hardrock.” ”

“ The grease-smeared lad grinned widely.
“Ye can't run an engine without a spark, can ye? Sure, she's all right—I've got some extry batteries here and can fix her up in no time.”
“But that wont fix the leaky gas tank.” Hardrock looked at the boy's boat—an open launch of no great size. “See here, Micky! Could you run off some gas into that big tin can aboard your boat, and siphon that into the carburetor, and run my launch into the harbor? If you can, there's a ten-dollar bill for you. Leave your boat here and I'll rent it until you can get my tank soldered up.” ”

“ Better move lively, too. Looks like a boat is heading this way from Beaver. Left my binoculars in camp, so I can't tell much.”
Hardrock could not pause to look—he got the box in under the canoe, then came the ticklish matter of swinging it aboard. This was finally accomplished, though at imminent danger of capsizing the frail craft; then he straightened up for a look at the approaching boat. It was still half a mile distant, and bearing up between the islands as though heading for them.
“Better get in to shore,” said Fulsom. ”