TRYING OUT A MOTOR CANOK 



483 



Stilson wrench. Subdued and penitent, 

 the paragraph in " Martin Chuzzlewit" 

 came to my mind: 



"Oh, woman, God-beloved in old Jerusalem! 

 The best among us need deal lightly with thy 

 faults, if only for the punishment thy nature will 

 endure in bearing heavy evidence against us on 

 the Day of Judgment." 



I whirled the fly-wheel and the engine 

 caught the spark at once. " Spit ! spit ! spit I" 

 came the merry impulses. The Fayette 

 sprang out from the bank like a wild thing, 

 and a cheer went up from the few bystand- 

 ers. I pulled the wheel over and pointed 

 her nose toward the open lake ; then glanced 

 at the Girl. She was contentedly nibbling 

 a sandwich, and with a roguish smile she 

 pushed the box over to me. Surely hunger 

 never before came so suddenly and fero- 

 ciously on any man. Two minutes before 

 no thought of food had touched my troubled 

 mind — now, I grasped the welcome morsel, 

 despatched it in two bites, and reached for 

 another. 



" Sniff! sniff!" I looked up and saw 

 the Girl wiggling her nose a little. Then I 

 myself sniffed. Burning oil! I placed my 

 hand on the cylinder. Water-cooled! I 

 took it off again. Never in my life had I 

 lifted my hand so quickly — and the Girl 

 gazed again, with that far-away, dreamy 

 look, upon the opposite shore. 



The cylinder was white-hot — that is, it 

 would have been white-hot if it had not 

 been japanned — and the japan was sizzling. 

 I snatched out the switch-plug, stopping 

 the engine, and threw the wheel over so as 

 to head for the bank. 



We snuggled in among a friendly clump 

 of willows, and the Girl took another 

 sandwich, pushing the box over to me. 

 We munched contentedly and resignedly. 

 I tore my handkerchief in half and bound 

 up my burned hand while the Girl looked 

 things she did not say. There was one 

 sandwich left and she offered it to me. I 

 looked at it longingly and said: 



"No, I don't wa— " 



"Don't say that, Billy— don't fib, too!" 



So I took out my jack-knife and divided 

 the last sandwich fairly in halves, and 

 thus we disposed of it. 



" What is the trouble now, Billy?" asked 

 the Girl. 



"I know not, neither do I care." I 

 sighed contentedly. My inner wants were 

 supplied — that is, partly supplied. I had a 

 pipe of fragrant tobacco doing good ser- 

 vice. The crew looked charming, and I 

 stretched myself out on the cushions, at 

 peace with the world. 



Presently, the pipe being out, and the 

 engine cooled, I made an examination. 

 The trouble was easily found. The pump- 

 belt had slipped off its pulley — the "water- 

 cooled cylinder with the jump-spark" had 

 been getting no water. I adjusted the belt, 

 taking up a little slack, and again we 

 started out. 



What a glorious exhilaration there was 

 in it all! The dear little canoe, my canoe of 

 old in a new role, fairly sprang through the 

 water, throwing out a wave on either bow 

 higher than the gun'le. The Girl had 

 twisted around, facing ahead. Her hair 

 fluttered in the breeze, and as she glanced 

 back at me her eyes were lit up with a tri- 

 umphant, joyous gleam. 



"Gurgle, trickle, trickle, gurgle!" my 

 ears caught a queer sound. I was seated 

 on the battery box, and throwing a quick 

 glance downward, I saw water in the boat 

 — two or more inches in the stern. The 

 bow was dry, it was so much higher. 



Again I threw over the wheel and headed 

 for the shore — dismayed and puzzled. 

 Two minutes before the boat was perfectly 

 dry. The leak must have started suddenly 

 and seriously to take in water like this. 



We hauled up on the bank, the crew 

 doing valiant service. After some minutes' 

 search I found the source of the leak. The 

 muffler was water-cooled, and in the severe 

 heat to which it had been exposed the out- 

 let pipe, which was soldered on, had melted 

 off. I had been pumping Lake Chebacco 

 into the canoe at the rate of four gallons 

 per minute. 



Silently and sadly, in the gathering dark- 

 ness, we bailed the Fayette out and wiped 

 the machinery dry. Then, with single 

 paddle, I worked her clumsily over to the 

 boat-house and put her away. 



Looking back at it all, I can but feel that 

 the misfortunes which beset me in making 

 the Fayette a practical motor boat now 

 add greatly to my enjoyment of the little 

 craft. My acquaintance with the engine is 



