Dick agreed that it would and they consulted the freight-handler. He thought a long while and finally said that there was a man named Hodgson who had “one of them boats.” But it also transpired that Mr. Hodgson was extremely uncertain as to his habits and the freight-handler couldn’t suggest a place where they would be likely to find him. “Well, there’s no use looking all over the town for him,” said Dick disgustedly. “I’ll try her once more. 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.” Dick bent over the wheel again and turned, but the engine, as though quite satisfied with its brief sign of life, refused to evince any further interest in proceedings. Dick turned again and again, getting redder and redder, hotter and hotter, madder and madder. [Illustration: “‘When is a fly-wheel not a fly-wheel?’”] “Oh, hang the fool thing!” he exclaimed disgustedly, standing erect to ease his aching back. “I’m going to ship it back and get my money.” He looked wrathfully at Roy, who maintained a noncommittal silence. Then he stared aggressively at Chub. But Chub was gazing off down the river and humming “My Father’s the Engineer.” Then he challenged the freight-handler. But that obliging man kept a discreet silence, looking the while properly sympathetic, even shaking his head once. Dick grunted and turned his regard to the stubborn engine. But he got no satisfaction there. So, giving it a contemptuous kick and chipping off half an inch of beautiful bright red enamel, he subsided on the seat and studied the blisters on his hands. “I’ll try it again,” suggested Roy not over eagerly. “What’s the use?” growled Dick. “You’ll only break your back.” “Let me have a whack at it,” said Chub cheerfully, getting up. “I have an irresistible way with engines, Dick.” “You!” snorted Dick. “All you can do is to lie around and make a fool of yourself. 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.