Ralph Henry Barbour

“ Roy stuck his head through the little door under the forward decking and reported that the tank, according to his belief, would hold only some ten gallons. Dick sighed with relief. One of the freight-handlers took a great interest in them and their boat and proved invaluable, producing a rope with which to tie the boat up to the wharf, giving them the address of a man who could make flags and poles to occupy the fascinating sockets and lending practical assistance when, presently, they started to get the engine to running. ”

“ 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.
“Yes,” answered Roy hopefully. “It sounded almost as though it was going to start. Try it again.”
“When is a fly-wheel not a fly-wheel?” asked Chub. “Answer: when it doesn’t fly around. Good.” ”

“ You’re about as much help as a—a—”
“Book of directions,” said Chub cheerfully. “Where’s the handle? Thank you.” Inserting the handle in the rim of the wheel, our hero, with a superhuman effort, spun—
Puff! Puff! Puff!
“It’s going!” yelled Roy.
“What’ll I do with the rope?” shouted the man on the wharf, holding on to it for dear life.
“Let go!” cried Dick, jumping for the wheel. He reached it just in time to turn the bow away from a spile, and with a grazing bump the launch swung into the stream, pulling the canoe after it.
“Good-by!” called the freight-handler. ”