‘Well, all right,’ agreed Pud grudgingly. ‘But you have to take hold of the handle like this. See? And then pull it out when you’ve turned it over, because if you don’t it might fly back on you and break your arm. Now you be careful, Harmon.’ ‘Sure will!’ Harmon heaved upward―― Then he sat down suddenly on the floor, the handle flew against the locker and――the engine started! ‘Are you hurt?’ cried Tim anxiously. Harmon felt of himself gingerly. Then he shook his head in solemn negation. ‘No, sir, I ain’ hurt, but how-come it ac’ so short with me, Mister Tim?’ It was Tim’s turn to laugh then, and Pud’s, and they seized it. Harmon viewed them with funereal reproach and picked himself up. Pride asserted itself. ‘Ain’ any ol’ engine can hol’ out agains’ me,’ he declared as he went dignifiedly back to the stern. The early start brought them to Berryville before nine, and an hour later they steered the launch up to a shaded bank and went in swimming. It was the hottest day they had so far experienced, and life aboard the launch when the sun beat fiercely and scarcely any air moved was none too pleasant. After their swim, a protracted affair, they remained in bathing attire, deciding to have lunch there and wait for the cooler afternoon before going on. They pulled the launch downstream a few rods to where the sunlight could reach it and spread their damp tent and bedding out on the bank to dry. Tim went to sleep then, Harmon sat in the stern of the boat and played on the mouth-organ, and Pud fished. At twelve hunger asserted itself and they made a hearty lunch. Afterward Tim dozed again and Pud went back to his luckless fishing, assisted by Harmon. The fish evidently had no appetites for grasshoppers and Harmon’s search for worms was unsuccessful. At three, by which time a faint breeze was stirring, they bundled things back on the boat and went on down the river. The river had changed now. It was three times as wide as it had been when they had set forth at Millville, the pleasant forests had disappeared and settlements were close together. Boats were numerous, too; fishing launches that chugged noisily past, tugs that towed schooners of lumber or barges of coal, small sailboats that tacked back and forth in the light breeze, flat-bottomed punts, occupied by patient fishermen, anchored along the margins. While to-day the bosom of the river was hardly more than ruffled, Tim realized that, with a strong wind blowing, the same stream might well become uncomfortable to a poor sailor; and Tim, while not certain, had a suspicion that rough water would prove him to be such. Consequently, he accepted with secret enthusiasm Pud’s plan to turn into Fox River, some few miles below, and ascend that tributary for a way. ‘But,’ stated Tim positively, ‘I’m not going near Swamp Hole, Pud.’