wish that I had brought an oar. There ought to be a pair in the boat. Then we could row on.”
“Probably Tom will see you from the ‘Balloon,’ and bring the oars,” suggested Mrs. Barlow.
“Unluckily, our row-boat is on shore, getting painted. You see, we ’ve been depending on this launch.”
“Oh, well,” said Brenda, “all we can do is to sit still until some one comes along with a row-boat, or until Tom discovers our predicament. I suppose that he could signal to some one, could n’t he, over at the yacht club, or somewhere.”
“Oh, yes,” said Philip; “of course, it’s only a matter of waiting here.”
Yet, although he spoke without much impatience, his face showed his annoyance. It really was very provoking to have to admit that he did not understand the engine of the little launch. A Harvard sophomore is supposed to understand everything; and yet, here was a miserable little boat which was acting much after the fashion of a balky horse. In his inward heart, Philip knew that he had undertaken more than he was justified in undertaking. It was Tom, and not he, to whom the mechanism of the little boat had been explained; and although the engine was not really very complicated, Philip had assumed that he could manage the small craft without expert knowledge.
Mrs. Barlow, reading correctly his puzzled expression, asked anxiously, “It won’t blow up, will it?”
At this question of her aunt’s, Julia betrayed her own
