“Well, let’s try it,” said Dick. “Where’s that handle thing?” “Behind you on the floor.” “If you start without unhitching,” said Chub, “you’ll tow the wharf off; yank it right out by the roots and tow it away; and maybe we’ll all be arrested for stealing a wharf.” “You dry up, will you? Maybe, though, we’d better do that, Roy.” But the freight-handler returned at that moment and solved that difficulty by untying the rope and holding it. Then Dick inserted the handle in the rim of the wheel and turned it over. There was a mild click and a little puff from the relief cock, but the launch didn’t dart off toward the dim distance. “Huh!” said Dick. “What’s the matter with it?” “Try it again,” said Roy. Dick tried it again. Then he tried it several times. Then he said “Huh!” once more, got a new hold and turned until he had a crick between his shoulders and was as red in the face as a lobster. Roy studied the directions. “That’s funny,” he murmured. “What I like about these motor launches,” observed Chub to the world at large, “is the ease of manipulation. You pour a little gasolene into a tank, open a cock, turn a handle and--zip, you’re off! Simple! There’s nothing simpler!” “Say, if you don’t shut up,” said Dick, turning a red, scowling countenance upon him, “we’ll put you out of here. And that goes!” Chub subsided for a moment, smiling cheerfully. Dick bent over the wheel again. After another full minute of labor, he stopped, wiped the perspiration from his forehead and sat down on the seat. “Let me try,” said Roy. He took his turn. Over went the wheel with a click, there was a soft sigh through the relief cock and nothing more exciting transpired. Now and then they studied the directions anew and examined everything all over again. Once in awhile the carbureter came in for another flooding. After Roy the freight-handler had his go at the wheel. He turned and turned, proving superior to exhaustion, and would doubtless be turning yet if Dick hadn’t forced him away from the wheel. “Must be something wrong,” said Dick wrathfully. Roy silently agreed. Chub looked wise. “Have you drowned the carbureter lately?” he asked. No one paid any attention to him. “It must be the battery,” said Dick helplessly. “Maybe we’re not getting any spark. The directions said there should be a spark. Now let’s see.” He studied the situation in silence for a moment. Then, “I know,” he said. “I’ll bet something’s wrong with the wiring. What time is it?” “Quarter to eleven, nearly,” Roy answered. “Then supposing I go up to the village and find some one who understands electricity.” “Well,” said Roy doubtfully. “But suppose the trouble isn’t with the battery or the wires? Wouldn’t it be better to find some one who knows about gasolene engines?”