Capwell Wyckoff - The Mercer Boys' Cruise in the Lassie

“Hooray! That finishes it!”

Don Mercer straightened up from the marine motor over which he had been bending and gave a whoop to express his feelings. At the same time a browned face, topped off by a wind-blown mass of brown hair, looked down at him from the companionway of their sloop, the Lassie.

“What’s up?” Jim Mercer grinned. “Are you getting old and talking to yourself, Don?”

His older brother returned the grin from the bottom of the tiny cabin of the sloop. “Not so you could notice it. But I’ve got the engine hooked up, and now we can start our summer cruise, as soon as I see if she works.” He mopped his forehead. “Boy, that was some job. Lucky thing I learned something about marine engines down at Stillwell last year.”

Jim slipped one foot over the edge of the companionway and dropped into the hold, joining his brother beside the engine. “It surely was. Every connection hooked up?”

“Everything. I thought there was a little leak in that exhaust pipe, the one we had brazed over at Tarrytown, but it’s all right. I had a little trouble hooking up the switch wires, because I had never seen just this type of motor before, but I got it at last. How does it look to you, kid?”

Jim bent down to look at the motor. The two Mercer boys were much alike in every way, and were devoted to each other. Their father owned a large lumber business in the Maine woods, and the boys had never wanted anything in their young lives, but as they were fine, healthy boys, their comparative wealth had never spoiled them. Don was the older of the two, being seventeen, and Jim was one year his junior. Both of them were well built physically, with fine gray eyes, sandy hair, an abundance of freckles, and good-humored grins. They had graduated from the Bridgewater High School the year before.

Besides the two boys there was one sister, Margy, aged fifteen, and their mother. They had grown up in Bridgewater and were well known and liked in the town. Mr. Mercer believed in keeping his boys interested in wholesome things, and during their early years they had had one or two cat-boats. On the first week of the summer, however, the boys were surprised and delighted to find a fine 30-foot sloop riding gently at anchor in the creek which ran through their own back yard. Their father, who had done considerable cruising in his younger days, taught them how to handle the larger-sized boat, and had given them permission to go for a cruise down the Maine coast that summer.

For the last week Don, who was mechanically inclined, had been hooking up the motor. He had always been interested in motors and had studied them carefully while spending a week at the house of an uncle. He had learned more than he had thought. The motor had been in the boat at the time Mr. Mercer purchased it, but the connections had not been fitted. Late on this July afternoon Don had succeeded in finishing it.

Jim straightened up from his inspection of the motor. “Looks all right to me,” he declared. “Although I don’t know as much about them as you do. But before we crow, I guess we had better give it a spin and see if it works.”

“OK,” agreed Don. “Go up and push the starting lever over a couple of notches, while I spin the flywheel, will you?”

Jim skipped up the four steps that led to the deck, and bending down beside the tiller, grasped the lever. Don gave the flywheel a vigorous turn, and a slight chug answered him. He gave it a second spin, it coughed, chugged and began to turn over. Jim moved the lever a notch, slowly.

The engine broke into a regular, steady run, and a thin streak of smoke issued from the exhaust pipe above the water line. Don’s cheerful face appeared above the rim of the companionway.

“Jeepers, it works!” he exulted.

Jim nodded. “It sure does. Nice work, old man. Want to let it run?”

“Yes, let it go for awhile. It needs a little breaking in; I notice it’s stiff in spots.” He climbed up alongside his brother and wiped his moist brow. “Wow, that was quite a job while it lasted.”

“I’ll bet it was. Nothing to stop us from taking our cruise, now.”

“You are right there. But the question is: who are we going to take along with us? Dad wants us to take at least one other fellow. He thinks just the two of us won’t be enough. I’ve thought of most of the fellows round here, but either they have summer jobs or they are away. Who do you think we ought to take?”

“What time is it?” Jim asked, casually.

Don looked at his watch. “Half past three. What has that to do with who we’ll take on a cruise with us?”

“Maybe a whole lot!” Jim answered mysteriously. “Want to take a walk?”

“Where to?”

“Oh, nowhere in particular. Just up to where the highway touches the Lane.”

“Sure, I’ll go. I can’t see what you’re driving at, but I’ll go along.”

They stepped into the dock, walked the long stretch that made up their back yard, passed the house and walked out to the shady street on which their home stood, a street appropriately called the Lane. They walked slowly down it, making plans concerning provisioning the sloop for the cruise, which they expected to begin on the following day. About half a mile from the house the Lane ran into the State highway, and here Jim said he wanted to sit on a stone wall. So they sat down and continued to talk for a time.

Don finally became restless. “Let’s go to town and get some of the things we need,” he suggested. “No use sitting here all day.”

But Jim was not ready to go yet. He was looking down the road, to where a single car was coming toward them. It was a battered old rattletrap of a car, with sad-looking mudguards, no top, and doubtful looking tires on it. The wheels, which were the least bit crooked, made weird movements as it came toward them.

“Wait a minute,” Jim said. “I want to see who’s in this car.”

The driver of the car was a red-headed boy of seventeen, tanned by the sun and endowed with a multitude of freckles. Two laughing gray eyes peered from his long face. He looked Scotch. He was whistling as he drove the battered old car, and his sandy hair, decidedly red in the sun, stood up almost straight. There was no glass in the windshield of his car, and now and then he pretended to wipe the missing glass, greatly to the amusement of as many of the Bridgewater inhabitants as chanced to be on the road.

“Why do you want to see who the driver is?” Don began, impatiently. “You don’t——”

He broke off as Jim waved to the driver, and the driver waved back and brought his bounding car to a halt beside them. Don gasped.

“Why ‘Chucklehead’ Mackson!” he cried, while Jim grinned.

Terry Mackson, known as chucklehead, from his habit of bobbing his auburn head when laughing, ignored him completely. He carefully adjusted one soiled glove on his hand and asked Jim gravely: “Pardon me, old fellow, but could you by any chance direct me to the residence of the Mercers?”

“I think I could, if you give me time enough to think,” Jim grinned.

“Then please do so, without unnecessary loss of time,” Terry drawled. That was as far as he got. With a whoop the Mercer brothers piled into the car and thumped him on the back.

Terry Mackson had gone to grammar school with the boys, but had moved to a distant town, where he had worked hard on a farm for his old father. The boys had always admired him for his cheerful kindliness and respected him for his fine self-sacrificing nature. He had worked without complaint for a mean old father, who had even begrudged him his brief time in grammar school. Recently his father had died, and Terry had been living somewhat more happily with his mother and one sister.