‘We’re from Millville,’ answered Pud. ‘Three boys. We lost our way this morning and got in here by mistake.’ ‘Boys, eh?’ The voice was lower and had lost its quality of doubt. ‘All right, we’re comin’. Keep a shoutin’ so’s we can locate you.’ The oars sounded once more, growing louder, and, as Pud called at intervals, a shadowy form emerged from the mist and took shape as it drew nearer, resolving at last into a small skiff and two men, one at the oars and the other huddled in the stern. ‘Motor-boat, hey?’ inquired the latter occupant. ‘Ain’t out of gas, are you?’ ‘No, we’ve got half a tankful. I don’t know what the trouble is. One cylinder went back on us this morning and now she won’t start at all.’ As he spoke, Pud was reflecting that the two middle-aged men who were slowly becoming recognizable as such were not at all the sort of persons he would ordinarily ask assistance of. They were, he decided uncomfortably, about as villainous-looking a pair as he had ever seen! They were bearded and tanned and generally weathered as to face, roughly clothed as to body, and entirely unprepossessing as to general appearance. The man who rowed wore a dilapidated leather coat, from which the water trickled as he moved his long arms back and forth, a rusty felt hat and gray trousers that were rolled well above his bare ankles to keep them from the water that swished about in the bottom of the leaky boat. The man in the stern looked a degree more ragged, his shoulders covered with an old fertilizer bag still eloquent of its former use, and his cotton trousers stuffed into a pair of high-laced boots much the worse for wear. A sodden straw hat dripped rain from its down-pulled brim. The man in the stern was heavy-set, with a bulbous nose and small twinkling eyes, and his name, as later developed, was ‘Cocker.’ His companion was taller, with broad shoulders and long limbs. His nose was long and hooked and his staring eyes were crossed. He answered to the name of ‘Lank.’ ‘Well,’ said Cocker as the boat drew alongside the launch, ‘Lank here’s the very feller you’re a-lookin’ for. He knows more about gasoline engines and machinery――’ ‘Shut your yap,’ said Lank savagely. Then, to Harmon, who was peering interestedly over the side, ‘Here, take this painter, Nigger, and make it fast. I’ll have a look at your engine, Mister. What make’s it?’ He climbed aboard, followed by the man in the bow, and stretched as he looked curiously about him. ‘Nice boat you’ve got,’ he said approvingly. ‘Can she go?’ ‘You mean fast?’ asked Pud. ‘No, not very.’ ‘Six miles, I dare say.’ ‘Nearer five,’ answered Pud. ‘She gets there, though――usually.’