The captain of the launch _Kismet_ gave the order in a fine, gruff, sailor-like voice as he pulled the throttle a trifle wider. The deck-hand, seated on the edge of the scanty after deck, set two bare feet against the float and pushed hard. The mate gripped the wheel tightly, fixed anxious blue eyes on the stern of a lumber schooner fully ten fathoms away and hoped for the best. The launch’s nose swung slowly into the stream, the captain pulled back on the clutch lever and there ensued a clattering, jarring noise that caused the deck-hand very nearly to lose his balance and go overboard. Then the alarming sounds ceased and the _Kismet_ lurched forward. The mate saw, with vast relief, that a collision with the schooner was averted――by the narrow margin of some forty feet――and dared a backward look at the dock where his father and Pud’s father and bow-legged Andy Tremble were gathered to see them off. They were waving and calling, and Tim waved and shouted back. So did Pud. Harmon only showed a flash of white teeth. There was no one there to say good-bye to Harmon, but he didn’t seem to mind. The launch straightened out in the middle of the river and pointed her bow for the bridge. The figures on the boat-yard float receded and were presently lost to sight. Captain and mate exchanged a look of triumph. The voyage had begun! Presently there ensued an anxious period when, the little two-cylinder engine throttled down and Pud and Tim both at the wheel, the _Kismet_ negotiated the passage under the long bridge. The space looked alarmingly narrow as they approached, but once in the shadows of the ancient timbers there was room and to spare on each side, and almost nonchalantly Pud opened her up again. As they passed again into the sunlight Gus Miller’s station jitney rattled across and Gus waved down to them. Pud returned the salutation with all the dignity of the captain of an ocean liner waving from her bridge. The railroad station went slowly astern and a long line of box cars on the siding followed. The water tower on Coop’s Hill was all that remained in view of Millville now. On their left a red clay bank arose to the edge of the meadows. On their right trees and bushes marched straight down to the gently flowing water. Pud gave a sigh of great contentment. ‘Some little craft, Tim,’ he said. ‘Sure is,’ agreed Tim. ‘Say, it ain’t hard to steer, is it, when you get used to it?’ ‘N-no, not here,’ answered Pud, ‘but you wait till she gets in a sea!’ ‘How do you mean sea?’ asked Tim anxiously. ‘Where are we going to get in any sea?’ ‘Well, I guess this old river can kick up pretty mean lower down,’ said Pud. ‘Take it around Mumford, Tim, and it’s ’most a mile wide.’ ‘Mumford! Gosh, we ain’t going that far. Why Mumford’s forty miles, pretty near, by river.’