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Updated: May 20, 2025
You're jest a lazy, loafin', dirty bum as 'ud make mud out of a fifty-gallon bath o' boilin' soapsuds if you was set in it, but you was mighty sore seein' pore Zip kicked to death by his rotten luck. An' feelin' that always you kind o' fergot to be tired. That's why you're on this doggone trail. 'Cos your fool heart ain't as dirty as your carkis."
One filling would be more than sufficient for a round trip to Clipper Cay plus any cruising they would do while at the island. The tanks were full. Water capacity, an important consideration on waterless Clipper Cay, was more than adequate. In addition to a built-in fifty-gallon tank in the cabin, there was a rack of five ten-gallon jerry cans in the cockpit.
Fulton, a search of the workshop having failed to reveal the wrench, and none of the Stillsons being big enough to take the big nut that capped the fifty-gallon tank sunk in the ground on the shady north side of the hangar. So they sat down beside it and waited for Mr. Fulton to come back with his visitors.
The entrance to the hotel and the lobby had been big, but the room was enormous, spacious, and very tastefully furnished, European style. "As big as Grand Central Station!" Scotty exclaimed. Rick echoed, "We'll rattle around in here like a pair of pebbles in a fifty-gallon tank."
"Where'd you git the idea of packing gas in a tin cup to run an airplane on?" "Where'd you get the idea we could pack a fifty-gallon drum on horseback?" Johnny retorted. "Believe me, you're lucky to get any at all!" "I'll say this is some country!" Bland observed sourly. "Here we are all ready to go and not enough gas to take us to the railroad, even! Well, get in.
A fifty-gallon drum out back provided the fuel supply, which was piped in through copper tubing. Rick checked the fuel. The tank was full. He read the simple instructions tacked to the wall over the refrigerator, then lighted the burner.
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