  The old man was more than angry. He was furious. He wept and wailed and tore his hair. The loss of the boat affected him like some great disaster, which, in fact, it was to him. But Ralph succeeded in allaying somewhat his fury and grief by promising him a new skiff as soon as he should be able to procure one. “I feel that I am partly responsible for the loss of your skiff,” said the boy, “as, if it had not been for me, those three men would not have come near your hut. So I’ll see to it that you get another one.” “A Guerin skiff?” quavered the old man. “That one they took was built by him. He is dead and gone now, but nobody on the St. Lawrence ever built skiffs like Amie Guerin. That one of mine was thirty years old and better than when she was new.” After Ralph had promised that if possible one of the skiffs from the workshop of the redoubtable Guerin should replace the missing one, the old man grew calmer. “I am selfish,” he said. “After all, perhaps your beautiful motor craft is ruined, and what is one poor skiff to the loss of a fine craft like that?” “Let us go and see how badly she is damaged,” said Ralph; and together the old man and the boy set off for the point upon which the luckless River Swallow had driven her bow. In a short time they reached it. The River Swallow lay on the placid river, apparently unharmed. The stern lines that Ralph had had the foresight to order out had held, and her after part was swinging clear of the sand-spit on which she had rammed her bow. Ralph waded out to the craft and examined her as well as he could. To his joyous amazement, so far as he could make out, she had suffered no great damage. One or two of her rivets might be strained, he thought, but beyond that the River Swallow appeared to be in good order. The boy could not resist the temptation to see if he could get her off the sand-bar. This was not as difficult as it sounds. The wind of the night before had held the craft on the sand-spit. But now she appeared to be about to glide off into deeper water of her own volition. Almost her entire hull was afloat, the exception being the foot or two of bow that was embedded in the sand. “I believe I could do it,” mused Ralph, as he sized up the situation critically. “Wouldn’t it be fine to come cruising along into Piquetville under my own power with old man Whey for a crew!” He turned to the old man. “Mr. Whey, can you steer a boat?” “What kind of a boat?” croaked the old man, who had been lost in admiration of the shapely lines and finish of the River Swallow. “Why, this boat. The River Swallow. Do you know anything about handling a wheel?” “He! he! he! What a question!” chuckled the old man. “Why, Enos Whey was skipper of a Montreal packet afore rheumatiz crippled him up. D’ye want me to help you get her off the shoal?” “That’s just what I do. If you will ship as wheelman and run her to Piquetville I’ll pay you well for it.” “I’ll do it! By gum, I’ll do it!” cried the old man. “I haven’t had a wheel in my hands for fifteen years, but a man never forgets how to steer. Help me aboard, lad, and I’ll show you what I can do.” Ralph clambered on board the River Swallow and then proceeded to help the old man up the rope ladder, sometimes used by the boys in debarking in a rough sea. With many grunts and groans, old Whey was at last safely on deck. “What now, lad?” he asked. “I’ll get the engines started and then we can cast off the stern lines. Then you’ll take the wheel and I’ll throw my clutch into the reverse and give her full power. I think, that with both propellers tugging at her the River Swallow will back off into deep water just as nicely as anything.” “She ought to,” agreed the old man, “that sand is soft and she is not up on it very far. You go below, lad, and tell me when you are ready.” Ralph hastened to his cabin, jumped into overalls and descended to the motor room. Everything was in apple-pie order, except that Hansen had left tools untidily lying about. Leaving the cleaning-up process till some future time, Ralph turned on the gasoline, set the sparks on both motors and then pulled the lever that started the compressed air apparatus that spun the engines till they picked up their power. There was a whirr and a buzz and then a volley of explosions. “Fine!” exclaimed Ralph, as the big motors began to revolve. He adjusted the mixture and then the powerful machines settled down to a rhythmic hum. The clutch was not in and they were running free—that is, the propellers were not yet revolving. “All right!” cried Ralph, hastening on deck. “All ready when you are!” The old man and the boy cast off the stem lines, and then Ralph, without loss of time, for there was danger of the freed hull swinging with the current, hastened below once more. Old man Whey took up his position on the bridge. A flash of fire came into his aged eyes as he felt the spokes of a steering wheel in his grip once more. He seized the engine-room signal lever with a hand that shook but was still determined. “Full speed astern!” flashed up on the indicator below, on which Ralph’s eyes had been glued. “The old man sure does understand his business,” murmured the boy, as he grasped the reverse lever. There came a rattling, grinding whirr as the cogs of the gears engaged. Then a tremor and a convulsion of the hull. “Is she moving?” wondered Ralph excitedly. He speeded up the engines to their full capacity. The sharp pitched propellers “bit” the water, exercising a tremendous backward drag on the River Swallow. Unable to restrain himself, Ralph rushed up on deck. What he saw caused him to utter a shrill whoop of joy, which was echoed in a feeble croak by old man Whey. “We’re off!” shouted the boy. “See here, you get below and mind your engines,” chuckled old man Whey. “I’m the temporary skipper of this craft.” |
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