“Are you sure it’s turned on?” “Of course I am!” “Have you adjusted the carburetor?” “Foolish question number twenty-six!” exclaimed Tom. “Say, you’re as bad as a chap at Elmwood Hall—George Abbot. We call him ‘Why,’ because he’s always asking questions. Don’t you get in that habit, Dick.” “I won’t, but I wanted to be sure you’d done everything you ought to to make the boat go.” “Don’t worry. Nobody can do all he ought to do in running a motorboat. The best authority that ever was would get stuck once in a while, and then some greenhorn could come along, scatter a little talcum powder on the cylinder head, and off she’d go. And the funny part of it is that no one would know why.” For a moment Tom sat looking at the refractory engine, as though trying to read its mind, and then, with a sigh himself, he once more cranked up. This time there was hardly a murmur from the engine. “Hum! Gone to sleep again!” commented Tom. “I can’t understand this.” Taking off his coat he made up his mind that[4] he would go systematically over every part of the engine, from the batteries and magneto to the gasolene tank and vibrator coil. He started up in the bow, and, no sooner had he looked at the switch which Dick had adjusted, than he uttered an exclamation. [4] “There it is!” he cried. “What?” asked his chum. “The trouble. Look, that one wire is loose, and even though the switch was connected I didn’t get any spark. It’s a wonder you didn’t see it when you turned it on.” “Say, I’m not a motorboat expert,” declared Dick. “All I can do is to steer one.” “I guess that’s right,” agreed Tom with a laugh. “It’s my fault for not looking there first. I must have jarred that wire loose when I came in last night. I hit the dock harder than I meant to. But I’ll soon have it fixed.” With a screw driver he presently had the loose wire back in place on the switch connection. Then, with a single turn of the flywheel, the Tag was in operation, and Tom steered out into Pine river, on which was located the village of
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