Tom Fairfield in Camp: or, The Secret of the Old Mill. Chapman Allen

      Tom Fairfield in Camp; or, The Secret of the Old Mill

      CHAPTER I

      TOM GETS A LETTER

      “Say, Dick, just throw that forward switch in; will you?”

      “Sure I will, Tom. Going any place in particular?”

      “Oh, just for a run down the river, and on my way back I guess I’ll stop and get the mail.”

      “Can I go along?”

      “Certainly. Did you see anything of Will to-day?”

      “No, he’s gone fishing, I guess,” and Dick Jones, one of the best chums of Tom Fairfield, threw in the connecting switch of the latter’s motorboat, and the craft was ready to run.

      “Now I wonder if she’ll start easily, or if I’ve got to break my back cranking her?” murmured Tom.

      “What’s the matter?” asked Dick. “Hasn’t she been behaving herself lately?”

      “Oh, yes, but you never can tell. One day she’ll run like a sewing machine, and the next I can’t seem to get her started. She’s like all the other motorboats, good at times, and off her feed occasionally. That’s why I called her the Tag. I never know whether I’m ‘it’ or whether she is. However, here’s for a try.”

      Tom revolved the fly wheel vigorously, but there was only a sort of sigh from the engine, as if it did not like to be disturbed from the rest it had been taking.

      “One strike,” murmured Tom whimsically as he looked at the engine to see if all attachments were in their proper place. “Here goes for another spasm.”

      Once more he whirled the heavy wheel around. But, save for a more pronounced sigh, and a sort of groan, there was no result.

      “Let me try,” suggested Dick.

      “I’m afraid to. This engine is like a balky horse at times, and if anyone but the regular trainer monkeys with her she just sulks all day. I’ll get her going yet.”

      Again came an attempt to make the motor do its work, and again there came a sigh, accompanied by a cough.

      “Three strikes, and I’m out!” exclaimed Tom, sinking back on the seat rather exhausted. “But she’s speaking better than at first. Didn’t you think you heard her sort of talking back at me, Dick?”

      “Yes,” laughed his chum. “But say, are you sure you’ve got any gasolene?”

      “I put in five gallons last night, and didn’t run two miles.”

      “Are you sure it’s turned on?”

      “Of course I am!”

      “Have you adjusted the carburetor?”

      “Foolish question number twenty-six!” exclaimed Tom. “Say, you’re as bad as a chap at Elmwood Hall – George Abbot. We call him ‘Why,’ because he’s always asking questions. Don’t you get in that habit, Dick.”

      “I won’t, but I wanted to be sure you’d done everything you ought to to make the boat go.”

      “Don’t worry. Nobody can do all he ought to do in running a motorboat. The best authority that ever was would get stuck once in a while, and then some greenhorn could come along, scatter a little talcum powder on the cylinder head, and off she’d go. And the funny part of it is that no one would know why.”

      For a moment Tom sat looking at the refractory engine, as though trying to read its mind, and then, with a sigh himself, he once more cranked up. This time there was hardly a murmur from the engine.

      “Hum! Gone to sleep again!” commented Tom. “I can’t understand this.”

      Taking off his coat he made up his mind that he would go systematically over every part of the engine, from the batteries and magneto to the gasolene tank and vibrator coil. He started up in the bow, and, no sooner had he looked at the switch which Dick had adjusted, than he uttered an exclamation.

      “There it is!” he cried.

      “What?” asked his chum.

      “The trouble. Look, that one wire is loose, and even though the switch was connected I didn’t get any spark. It’s a wonder you didn’t see it when you turned it on.”

      “Say, I’m not a motorboat expert,” declared Dick. “All I can do is to steer one.”

      “I guess that’s right,” agreed Tom with a laugh. “It’s my fault for not looking there first. I must have jarred that wire loose when I came in last night. I hit the dock harder than I meant to. But I’ll soon have it fixed.”

      With a screw driver he presently had the loose wire back in place on the switch connection. Then, with a single turn of the flywheel, the Tag was in operation, and Tom steered out into Pine river, on which was located the village of Briartown, where our hero lived.

      “She’s running fine now,” commented Dick, who, at a nod from Tom, took the wheel.

      “Yes, as slick as you’d want her. She’s making good time, too,” and Tom glanced over toward shore, watching the trees seemingly slip past.

      “Hey, Tom, wait up, will you?” This came as a hail from the shore, and, following it, Tom and Dick saw a lad running along the river bank, waving his hand at them. “Wait!” he cried.

      “It’s Dent Wilcox,” said Dick Jones.

      “Yes, and he’s running – that’s the strange part of it,” commented Tom. “I wonder how he ever got out of his lazy streak long enough to get up that much speed.”

      “It is a question,” agreed Dick, for Dent Wilcox was known as the laziest lad in Briartown. “Probably he wants a ride badly enough to chase after you,” added Tom’s chum.

      Once more came the hail:

      “Hey, Tom, give me a ride; will you?”

      “What for?” called back our hero.

      “I’ve got to go down to Millford for a man. I’ve got a job,” answered Dent.

      “Then you’d better walk,” answered Tom. “It’s good exercise for you.”

      “Aw, say, stop and take me aboard,” begged Dent.

      “Not much!” shouted Tom. “I’m not going to take any chances on stopping this engine now, just when it’s going good. You walk!” and as Dick steered the boat out from shore Tom opened wider his gasolene throttle to increase the speed of the boat, which he had checked when Dent hailed him.

      “Aw, say, you’re mean!” charged the lazy lad as the craft got farther and farther from shore. “You wait; I’ll get square with you yet!”

      “Think he will?” asked Dick, glancing anxiously at his chum.

      “Of course not. In the first place he won’t dare, and in the second he’s not smart enough to think up something to do to me, and if he is, he’s too lazy to carry it out after he’s planned it. Dent can’t worry me.”

      The two chums kept on down the river toward the main part of the town, for Tom’s home was on the outskirts.

      “I want to get a new set of batteries,” explained the owner of the Tag. “I always carry two sets so I can run on one even if some of them give out, and one set I’ve got now is running pretty low. This motor won’t start on the magneto, for some reason, so I have to start on the batteries and then switch over.”

      They soon reached the town, and Tom tied his craft at a public dock. Having purchased the batteries, and some other things he needed, he went to the post office.

      There were several letters in the Fairfield box, and as Tom looked them over he found one for himself.

      “Hum, I ought to know that writing,” he murmured. “If that isn’t from Jack Fitch I’m a cowbird. I wonder what’s up? I thought he was in Europe, with his folks, this vacation.”

      Tom quickly opened the missive. As he glanced through it he gave utterance to an exclamation of delight.

      “What is it?” asked Dick, who stood near his chum.

      “Why it’s great news,” explained Tom. “It seems that there