“No, he’s gone fishing, I guess,” and Dick Jones, one of the best chums of Tom Fairfield, threw in the connecting switch of the latter’s motorboat, and the craft was ready to run.

“Now I wonder if she’ll start easily, or if I’ve got to break my back cranking her?” murmured Tom.

“What’s the matter?” asked Dick. “Hasn’t she been behaving herself lately?”

“Oh, yes, but you never can tell. One day she’ll run like a sewing machine, and the next I[2] can’t seem to get her started. She’s like all the other motorboats, good at times, and off her feed occasionally. That’s why I called her the Tag. I never know whether I’m ‘it’ or whether she is. However, here’s for a try.”

[2]

Tom revolved the fly wheel vigorously, but there was only a sort of sigh from the engine, as if it did not like to be disturbed from the rest it had been taking.

“One strike,” murmured Tom whimsically as he looked at the engine to see if all attachments were in their proper place. “Here goes for another spasm.”

Once more he whirled the heavy wheel around. But, save for a more pronounced sigh, and a sort of groan, there was no result.

“Let me try,” suggested Dick.

“I’m afraid to. This engine is like a balky horse at times, and if anyone but the regular trainer monkeys with her she just sulks all day. I’ll get her going yet.”

Again came an attempt to make the motor do its work, and again there came a sigh, accompanied by a cough.

“Three strikes, and I’m out!” exclaimed Tom, sinking back on the seat rather exhausted. “But she’s speaking better than at first. Didn’t you think you heard her sort of talking back at me, Dick?”

[3]

[3]

“Yes,” laughed his chum. “But say, are you sure you’ve got any gasolene?”

“I put in five gallons last night, and didn’t run two miles.”

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