WAITING AND WORRYING.
"In the name of all that's good, Joe," cried Matt, as he and the cowboy shook hands, "where did you come from?"
"From theSprite, pard," grinned McGlory. "But that was some sort of a while ago. I've been on the house boat for quite a spell."
"Where did you get that satchel?"
"It's got the bundle of money in it, Matt—Uncle Dan's moneysabe?"
"Yes, yes, I know! I saw the red-whiskered man take the money out of the satchel, then put it back again and push the satchel under that bench. But how didyouget hold of it? That's what I want to know."
McGlory dropped the satchel and collapsed on the bench.
"Oh, that's the best ever," he laughed. "Those old hardshells were fooled at their own game. Queer about that money of Uncle Dan's. It's been in a good deal of a taking ever since it left Madison. George takes it from Uncle Dan, Red-whiskers takes it from George, Landers takes it from Red-whiskers, and now here's me taking it from Landers."
"Landers?" queried Mitt. "Did he take the money?"
"Took it the length of the boat. By then I was close enough to get hold of it myself. But you cut loose and tell me what went crossways with you—I've been worried a heap about that—and then I'll even up by tellin' how I jumped into the game."
Matt made short work of his end of the explanation, and McGlory consumed but little more time. While McGlory was talking, Matt was not only listening but also putting two and two together in his own mind.
The cowboy finished with another jubilant laugh, but Matt suddenly became grave and got up from the bench.
"Let's go outside, Joe," said he, "where we can keep an eye on our surroundings."
"What's there in our surroundings to worry us? We've got the money, haven't we?"
"Yes, but the 'taking' you mentioned a few minutes ago may keep up—unless we're on the alert. Suppose Big John, Kinky, and Ross come back here in theSan Bruno? What would happen then? We haven't anySpriteto take us off, remember."
"That's a fact," and McGlory went suddenly grave himself. "What ever came over that chink to run off? Say, I'll bet he got to tinkering with the motor, and that it started on him and he couldn't stop it. Consarn these chinks, anyhow!"
"Don't be too quick to blame Ping, Joe," remonstrated Matt. "I don't think that's what happened."
"What then?"
"Landers thought you were a detective, didn't he?"
"That's what he said."
"Well, he was afraid of being arrested and jailed for helping Big John and the other two. That's the reason he played a trick and tumbled off the boat."
"Well? Go on, pard, and give me the rest of it."
"Don't you think it's likely that he climbed aboard theSprite, took her away from Ping, and then rushed her across the cove to the nearest landing?"
"Oh, tell me!" muttered McGlory. "And I never, no, I never once let that drift into my head! And yet, why not? Wasn't it the natural thing for Landers to do? Any day you can find in the almanac, pard, I'm shy something when it comes to headwork. But here's the point: Can Landers run theSpritefast enough to keep her away from theSan Bruno? If he can't, I can see what will happen to Ping and Landers when that outfit of fire-eaters come up with them. Oh, shucks! This ain't turnin' out so pleasant as I thought. Suppose we hike for the deck and keep our eyes peeled. It may save us something, although I'm a heathen if I see what we could do if theSan Brunocame back."
"If we have to," said Matt, "we'll take the money and swim to the nearest house boat."
"It will be a damp roll of bills we take ashore with us if we have to do that."
"Better a lot of wet money, Joe, than no money at all."
"Right, exactly right, as per usual. I've got this pop-gun of Cousin George's. It looks like one of those toy Fourth of July things that make a noise and let it go at that. Still, maybe the sight of the thing would scare somebody."
Together they left the cabin, and, in order that their view might be more extensive, climbed the steep stairs to the house boat's upper deck. Here there were comfortable chairs, and the boys sat down and allowed their eyes to wander about them over the shadowy surface of the cove.
The lights of the house-boat settlement were stillgleaming in every direction, but every sound had died away and a dead silence reigned.
"If a launch was coming," said McGlory, "we could hear her a mile off—which is three times as far as we could see her."
"That's right," said Matt, "and I'm hearing one now. Listen! Unless I'm away off in my reckoning a boat is bearing this way from the direction of Tiburon."
McGlory bent his head.
"You've made a bull's-eye, Matt," said he. "A boat's coming, but is it theSpriteor theSan Bruno?"
"It's theSan Bruno," averred Matt.
"How do you make that out?" queried the wondering cowboy.
"Why, a bigger volume of sound, distance considered, than theSpritemakes. I noticed that particularly when we were chasing theSan Brunoacross the bay."
"Well, you've got me beat, plumb. We've got to swim, I reckon, going off one side of the house boat as the launch ties up at the other?"
"We'll not take to the water until we have to, Joe. Wait until we can get a good look at the boat."
Standing on the upper deck, the two boys faced in the direction of the approaching launch, and waited and worried.
Slowly, and after a period of time that seemed interminable, a blot of shadow came gliding toward them from among the clustered lights of the house boats.
Matt whirled to grip McGlory's arm.
"What's to pay now, pard?" asked the startled cowboy.
"Why," answered Matt, "two boats are coming!"
"Two?" echoed McGlory, squinting in the direction of the moving blot. "I can't make out more than one, and it's plenty hard to see that."
"One is chasing the other—I can tell by the sounds, alone."
"Good ear—remarkable. Put a lot of bronks on a hard trail and I can shut my eyes and tell you how many there are, up to five, by listening. But a boat's a different proposition. How do you know one is chasing the other, though? That's what gets me."
"Because," answered Matt, "the boat ahead is theSpriteand the one behind is theSan Bruno!"
"Sufferin' whirligigs!" exclaimed McGlory. "How far ahead is theSprite?"
"We can tell in a minute. Both boats are close—and theSan Brunohas put out her light. Ah, look!"
Matt leaned over the rail and pointed. By that time the boats could be easily distinguished. TheSpritewas pounding along in a distressing way that proved there was something wrong with her sparking apparatus or her fuel supply, but, in spite of that, she was doing nobly.
"It can't be that Ping is doing the work on theSprite," muttered McGlory.
"It sounds as though it might be Ping," said Matt.
"But he can't run the boat! Didn't we see him try, at the Tiburon landing?"
"He's been watching me, and I think he's learned what to pull and push and turn in order to keep the boat moving. A Chinaman is a good imitator, Joe. TheSan Brunois giving our launch a close race, and we'd better go down and stand ready to leap aboard the moment Ping stops for us."
Hurrying down the steps, the two boys placed themselves at the edge of the house boat's after deck, ready to jump the moment theSpritecame close enough.
PING STARS HIMSELF.
Ping was not impatient, while waiting for Matt and McGlory to come back from the house boat, and he was not worrying. His callow mind was engaged with the wheels and levers of theSprite'smachinery, and he might be said to be enjoying himself, in his artless, heathen way.
His first acquaintance with theSpritehad not been of a pleasant nature, but Ping had overcome his awe and fear, to a large extent, by watching how readily the boat obeyed the touch of Motor Matt's hands.
The Chinese boy had observed all the details of starting, steering, and stopping. Sitting alone in the launch, he touched the various levers in proper order, again and again—touched them lightly, for he had no desire to make the boat turn a "summerset," as McGlory had said she would do if he got too free with his attentions.
The uproar and commotion that started abruptly on the house boat and continued at intervals for some time, naturally drew the Chinaman's eyes across theSan Bruno. But the attraction of the motor was too much for Ping to withstand, and he jumped at a conclusion to assure himself that everything was well with Matt and McGlory, and returned to his childlike interest in the machinery.
Some one scrambled off theSan Brunointo theSprite. The rough boarding of the little launch caused her to sway and shiver and dance at the end of her painter.
"You makee plenty fuss, McGloly!" complained Ping, grabbing at the sides of the boat to hold himself upright.
Before he could look around a rough hand had caught his queue and jerked him over backward.
"Not a bloomin' word out o' you, chink!" hissed a menacing voice in Ping's ear. "Ahead with ye, now, and unloose the painter. If you don't hustle, I'll kick yer inter next week. This is a hurry-up call, and don't you fergit that!"
Ping didn't wait to argue the question. Rolling over the top of the hood, he knelt in the bow and tore the painter loose from the iron ring. The engine was chugging by the time he had finished, and when theSpritestarted, under the impulsive hands of the strange white man, she leaped away with a jolt that rolled Ping back into the arms of the boat's captor.
With an oath, the man hurled Ping into the bottom of the boat. He would as soon have tumbled the Chinese boy into the water, and it was luck, rather than design, that kept Ping out of the wet.
Crawling back on the stern thwarts, Ping leaned on his elbows, blinking his little eyes and trying to guess what had happened.
Behind, over the swiftly growing stretch of water, he heard an uproar on the house boat, then the pant and throb of another engine.
The strange white man looked around and swore.
"They're chasin' me, but they won't get me!" he muttered. "If this boat can put me ashore ahead of 'em, I'll save my bacon dry-shod; an' if it can't, by thunder, I'll take to the water and swim!"
Ping heard this, and dwelt upon the words for some time. The strange white man was running away from the other devil-boat. What had the strange white man done? Were Matt and McGlory on the other devil-boat trying to catch him? Or was it the three bad 'Melican men who were doing the chasing?
Ping couldn't figure it out. About all he realized was that there was a race between theSpriteand theSan Bruno. Inasmuch as theSan Brunobelonged to the enemy, Ping hoped in his heart that theSpritewould leave her behind.
They were making for the shore of the cove, but the strange white man was handling the boat badly. He didn't push or pull the way Motor Matt did, and the imprisoned devil under the hood—the power that made the propeller whirl—coughed and spluttered with rage and pounded on the machinery with iron hammers.
It got on Ping's nerves, and he hoisted himself to a sitting posture.
"By Klismus," he cried frantically, "you lettee Ping lun engine! Him makee go chop-chop, keepeeSpliteaway flom othel boat!"
The strange white man looked around with a snarl.
"Shut up!" he roared, "or I'll toss ye into the drink, so help me!"
Ping shut up. Lying back on the thwart he watched the other boat draw nearer and nearer. The shore was yet a good way off, and it was plain theSan Brunowould overhaul theSpritebefore the land could be reached. And how the good devil under the hood was fighting to do better! How hard it was begging the strange white man to treat it right, and let it work easier and take theSpriteaway from the other boat.
Ping gave a deep groan. Oh, if he was only at the wheel, and the pull-things and the push-things!
He looked around for something to throw at the strange white man. If a monkey wrench, or a hatchet, had been convenient, then one Landers would probably never have known what struck him.
But, fortunately for Landers—and for Ping, too—no weapon was available, and the race went on. The shore was near now, but theSan Brunowas nearer.
Ping, straining his eyes through the dark, could see the men on theSan Bruno. There were three of them, and their boat was less than three lengths away!
Suddenly theSpriteslewed around, crosswise of theSan Bruno'scourse. Ping started up with a frightened yell, a splash echoing in his ears.
There was no one at the wheel or the levers! Ping's almond eyes turned swiftly shoreward, and there they saw a form in the water, swimming strongly toward the land.
But Ping was not thinking of the strange white man, but of theSprite. Hurling himself forward across the midship thwart, he seized the steering wheel and turned the launch in a wide circle.
A shout went up from theSan Bruno.
"Halt, Landers! You can't get away with that money! Stop and drop alongside or we'll cut you down to the water's edge!"
Ping, naturally, couldn't understand this. The voice that had called out was not the voice of Motor Matt or McGlory. Since they were not on theSan Bruno, then, of course, they must still be on the house boat.
The Chinese boy started back over the watery trail which theSpritehad recently traversed under the guidance of the white man. Carefully he doctored the motor, pulling and pushing as he had seen Matt push and pull, all the while breathing choice prayers in his native tongue to placate the demon in the engine.
The devil must have been placated, at least a little, for he did not clamor quite so loud, but at intervals he hammered in a way that was very distressing to Ping. However, Ping couldn't help it, so he settled himself down to his steering, occasionally throwing a look over his shoulder at the other boat.
TheSpritewas gaining on her slowly. Ping continued to breathe his heathen prayers, and to beg the honorable demon to stop pounding in the machine and to put its extra power into the little wheel under the boat.
As theSpritecame closer and closer to the house boat Ping was able to see two figures on the upper deck.
Were they Motor Matt and McGlory? He guessed they were not, while hoping that they were. Anyhow, he would have to stop. His nerves fluttered as he wondered if he would be able to stop.
He had watched Matt as he brought theSpritealongsidetheSan Bruno. As he remembered it, Matt had begun to play with the levers before the launch was very near the larger craft.
Matt, it will be recalled, had done this in order to let theSpriteglide noiselessly to her berth. Ping repeated the manœuvre, and McGlory danced around on the house boat's deck, fuming at the delay caused by the halted motor.
TheSan Brunowas almost bunting into the stern ofSpriteas the two boys made flying leaps to get aboard. The impact of their bodies came within one of swamping the little craft, and Matt stumbled to the steering wheel and got busy without losing an instant.
Ping slid backward over the midship thwart, yielding his place meekly and gladly; and then, with McGlory, he watched while Motor Matt plucked theSpriteout of harm's way.
It was so neatly done that Ping's heart swelled within him, and he slapped his hands and said glad things in Chinese. One touch of Motor Matt's hand, and the demon stopped pounding. A hum as of an industrious hive of bees came from under the hood, and the launch gathered itself together and flung onward with a fresh burst of speed.
TheSan Bruno, those aboard her still under the impression that Landers was on theSprite—perhaps, in the darkness, mistaking Ping for their renegade comrade—continued to give pursuit.
It was a hopeless chase, however, and when theSpritegained her old berth at the Tiburon wharf theSan Brunohad given up and turned back into the night.
A NEW TWIST—BY GEORGE.
"Speak to me about that!" gulped McGlory, as he, and Matt and Ping climbed out of theSpriteto the top of the wharf. "Little Slant-eyes has starred himself. But how he ever did it stumps me."
"How did you do it, Ping?" asked Matt, leaning against the post to which he had secured the launch and peering across the water to see if there was any sign of theSan Brunoin the gloom.
"By jee-clickets," bubbled Ping, "me allee same big high China boy. Fightee like Sam Hill, workee allee same. Whoosh!"
"And that's the way he did it," commented McGlory.
"My no savvy," admitted Ping. "Plenty quick 'Melican man takee boat, plenty quick him dlop ovelbo'd, plenty quick my come back to othel boatee. No savvy ally mo."
"You did well, anyhow," said Matt.
"Awri'. My workee fo' Motol Matt allee time."
"What now, pard?" asked McGlory. "We got out of that bunch of excitement with ground to spare, but why do we tie up here? Why don't we keep right on to 'Frisco? George is going to hand us five apiece, you know," he added, with a laugh, "providing we fork over this ten thousand before the steamer sails for Honolulu."
"George will have to wait while we send some officers out to that house boat," said Matt.
"You haven't an idea those three tinhorns will have the nerve to go back to the house boat, have you?"
"They may, to pick up their traps. That makes it necessary for us to act quickly, if we are to accomplish anything. Come on, and we'll hunt up police headquarters."
Ping hesitated.
"What's the matter with you, chink?" asked McGlory. "Ain't you coming with us?"
"No can do," replied Ping. "My no leavee boat. Mebbyso my makee sleep in boat, huh? Plenty fine place. My no lettee 'Melican man lun away with him some mo'."
"Stay here if you want to, Ping," answered Matt.
"That's the heathen of it," grunted McGlory. "He'd rather bunk in the bottom of theSprite, with his legs doubled over the thwarts, than to rest on a good mattress like a Christian."
"Here's one Christian that's ready to rest," said Matt.
"And here's another," added McGlory. "Listen. Do you recollect that we haven't had a feed since we took that quick-order lunch at noon?"
"Yes."
"Well, no wonder we're hungry and fagged. Let's make rush work of this police business, and then tumble into our blankets."
It was an hour before they got a detail of officers started in a launch for the house boat, and incidentally looking for theSan Bruno; and half an hour longer before they dropped into bed and went to sleep.
They awoke late next morning, which was to be expected, considering the hour at which they retired, and their exhausted condition; and they would not have got up when they did had a smart summons not been pounded on their door.
"Speak to me about this," snorted McGlory, sitting up and yawning. "Who's got the nerve to hammer on that door before we've done anything but go to bed and turn over?"
"It's been several hours since we went to bed, Joe," laughed Matt, pointing to the sunlight streaming through the window. "The sun looks to be nearly noon-high. Who's there?" he called, as the knocking at the door went on.
"Officer from headquarters," came the response from the hall.
"Sufferin' horn toads!" exclaimed McGlory, leapingout of bed and hurrying to the door. "Mebby he's come to tell us Big John, Kinky, and Ross have been bagged."
But the officer had no such report to make.
"We found the house boat deserted, when we went out to her last night," he said, coming into the room. "Two men were left aboard of her and the rest of the detail went nosing around the bay looking for theSan Bruno."
"Did you find the launch?" asked Matt.
"Yes—tied up at Sausalito. No sign of the three men whom you described; but three passengers took a train from Sausalito, in the small hours of the morning, and it may be that they are the fellows we were after. If they were, then they have made good their escape."
"A nice handful of cold fish you're giving us, officer," said McGlory.
"Can't help it," returned the officer. "We did the best we could."
"Who owns that house boat?" asked Matt.
"A gentleman who lives in Oakland. He rents theGriseldafor part of the season when he's not using her himself."
"He rented her to that precious outfit of crooks and tinhorns, did he?" struck in McGlory, scrambling into his clothes. "What sort of a gent is that Oakland man, anyway?"
"He's all right," declared the officer. "We talked with him over the phone, a while ago, and told him to send some one to look after the boat. He said he rented theGriseldato a stranger named Higgins, who paid him eighty dollars in advance for a month's rent."
"Higgins!" muttered McGlory. "That's another label for Big John. Wonder how many names Red-whiskers has got?"
"Well," said Matt, "it's too bad, officer, but, as you say, it can't be helped."
"We've placed your description of the rascals on file," finished the officer, as he turned to leave, "and if they ever show up here, or in 'Frisco, again, they'll be run in."
"Mebby," qualified McGlory. "Tie a string to that remark, officer."
"We'll do the best we can to keep watch for them, anyhow," averred the officer.
Motor Matt and McGlory had a late—a very late—breakfast; then, after Matt had had a good meal put in a paper bag for Ping, the two boys started for theSprite.
To their surprise, neither Ping nor theSpritewere where they had been left; nor could any inquiries develop their whereabouts.
"It's good-by, Ping," laughed McGlory. "I reckon he made up his mind that he didn't want to work for you any longer, Matt."
"I'm glad of it, Joe, if that's really the case," answered Matt. "I haven't the least notion in the world what I could have found for the Chinaman to do. But I can't think that he's pulled out for good. He seemed too anxious to tie to me to break away so suddenly as that."
"Well, wherever he went he went in theSprite. We can feel sure that Big John and his pals haven't had anything to do with the chink's disappearance. They're too busy getting themselves out of sight, pard, to bother with any one else."
Matt and McGlory went to the ferry house and caught the next boat for 'Frisco. On the way across the bay Matt gave Ping's breakfast to a little chap who looked as though he needed it.
McGlory carried the satchel with the ten thousand dollars. It had been glued to him ever since he got hands on it aboard the house boat.
By one o'clock the boys were at the hotel inquiring of the frowsy-looking clerk as to whether "Mr. Thompson" was in his room. Both boys thought the inquiry rather needless, but concluded to put it as a mere formality. They were a good deal taken aback, therefore, when the clerk informed them that Mr. Thompson had gone out about nine o'clock and hadn't returned.
"Now what?" muttered McGlory, taking Matt's arm and leading him off into a corner. "We've got George's money, but no George. Do you think, pard, that he raised enough money on something to pay his passage to Honolulu?"
"Certainly not, Joe," answered Matt. "He wouldn't leave town until he had learned more about that ten thousand dollars."
"But he promised to stay here! Still, as for that, he always was a fine hand at making promises. If George isn't here, I don't reckon we're obliged to hang out in this honkatonk. The more I see of it, the more I'm sorry the earthquake didn't give it a few extra shakes and put it out of business. We'll go to some other hotel, and on our way there we'll just step into a telegraph office and shoot a few reassuring words to Uncle Dan."
"We could make them more reassuring, Joe," suggested Matt, "if we waited to find George before sending the telegram."
"I wouldn't bet a whole lot, Matt, that we're going to find him."
"Oh, yes, we are, and perhaps quicker than you think."
As a matter of fact, they found George a good deal sooner than even Matt had any idea they would, for he was on the sidewalk, making for the hotel door, as Matt and McGlory passed out.
Young Lorry was quite a swell-looking boy, togged out in another suit, but there was an air about him that suggested conceit, carelessness of others' feelings, and a haughty confidence in himself that was too plain for a favorable impression.
Lorry was surprised at seeing Matt and McGlory, and, quite naturally, Matt and McGlory were not only surprised,but delighted to come upon the missing youth so soon.
"Howdy, George?" called McGlory. "We've just been asking for you."
"You have—not," retorted Lorry. "You didn't want to see me, and you know it." He turned to a policeman who was standing behind him, and who, up to that moment, had escaped the notice of Matt and the cowboy. "There they are, officer," went on Lorry. "Arrest them."
Matt and McGlory were stunned.
"Arrest us?" queried Matt. "For what?"
"For trying to run away with ten thousand dollars belonging to me," asserted Lorry. "You were to bring it back last night, and you didn't. Arrest them, why don't you, officer? What are you standing there like that for?"
"There are always two sides to a story," said the policeman. "We've heard your side, young man, and now we'll hear the other."
Matt's amazement remained with him, but McGlory's rapidly dispelled.
"A new twist—by George," remarked McGlory dryly. "When you've known him as long as I have, Matt, you'll not be surprised at anything he does. Come back into this hotel with us, officer," the cowboy went on to the policeman, "and we'll tell you all you want to know, and perhaps more. But hang on to that false alarm who was towing you this way. He may try to bolt before we get through."
ANOTHER TWIST—BY MATT AND M'GLORY.
"I don't like your attitude," said Lorry haughtily, to the officer when they were all in the office.
"Naturally," grinned the policeman, "I'm not responsible for that."
"Well," ordered George, "search them, take the money and give it to me. That's all I want. They've got it, I know they have."
"You bet we've got it, George," said McGlory, opening the satchel and fishing out the bunch of bills. "How does that look to you? Everything's all shipshape, too, even to the name of the bank on the wrapper."
George gave a cry of delight and started forward.
"See him!" cried McGlory, calmly pushing his cousin back with one hand and thrusting the money into his breast pocket with the other.
"I want that, McGlory," snapped George.
"I know you do, but you don't get it."
"Come, come," put in the officer. "There's a whole lot of money in that roll——"
"Ten thousand, officer."
"Does it belong to this young fellow?"
"Not that anybody knows. He stole it, and we've just got it back from a bunch of crooks who lifted it from him."
The officer frowned.
"Ah," he muttered, "this is beginning to look serious. He says you two boys are thieves, and now you're accusing him of being a thief."
"There's a difference, officer," said McGlory.
"Difference?"
"Sure. We can prove our case, and he can't prove his."
"How'll you prove it?"
"Why, by sending a telegram to this young chap's father, in Madison, Wisconsin. Police headquarters will keep the money until an answer is received to that message."
Lorry went pale and began to tremble.
"I won't have it that way," he declared hotly.
"I guess you will," said the officer grimly. "That's a fair way to settle this business, and you ought to abide by your father's orders if these other young fellows are willing to."
"They've got some game they're trying to play," scowled George, "and I won't stand for it. I'll make you all sorry for this," he threatened, turning away.
The officer grabbed him before he had taken two steps.
"Where you going, Lorry?" he asked.
"Take your hands off of me!" ordered Lorry, striking feebly at the big fist that had collared him. "I'm going where I please, and you've no right to interfere with me."
"You're going to headquarters," asserted the policeman, "and it's there you'll stay until an answer is returned to that telegram."
"You gave the game a twist, George," grinned McGlory, "and now here's another twist, by Motor Matt and me."
"What made you think of such a foolish move, George?" asked Matt. "You didn't really think we were trying to steal that money, did you?"
"How'd I know?" snarled Lorry sullenly. "I haven't a very good opinion of McGlory, and if you travel around with him I can't have a much better opinion of you."
Motor Matt was disgusted.
"McGlory and I will go to headquarters with you, officer," said he, "and explain this to the chief. The quicker that telegram is sent, the better."
The straightforward story which Matt and the cowboy told the chief of police aroused nothing but pity and contempt for young Lorry.
A telegram was forwarded to George's father, at Madison, and all three of the boys were treated as guests, rather than as prisoners, by the chief while they awaited an answer to the message.
This interval Matt put in to good advantage. In hismemorandum book he had the number of the baggage check which had been turned over to Big John, and also the name of the railroad by which it had been issued.
At Matt's suggestion, the chief sent a couple of officers to the depot to examine the trunk, and also to warn the railroad officials to call a policeman at once in case any man presented the baggage check and tried to claim the trunk.
In two hours the two officers were back, highly elated. They had opened the trunk and had found it to contain, securely packed in a lot of clothing, a very complete burglar's kit.
"We can understand now," remarked the chief, "why those rascals were so anxious to secure the trunk check. In order to claim the trunk without the check, they would have had to identify the property. They would have looked nice describing that set of burglar's tools, wouldn't they? My word for it, no one will ever show up at the station and try to claim that trunk. After what has happened, it would be altogether too dangerous."
The trunk and the burglar's kit were confiscated by the police.
It was evening before McGlory received a telegram from his Uncle Dan. The message was a long one, and entirely satisfactory to the authorities, even if not so pleasing to Lorry.
The message ran as follows:
"Thank you for what you have done. My desire is to have you take charge of money and to bring George back home. This Motor Matt, who has already been of so much aid, might be willing to come with you and help still further. Use as much of the money as needed for your expenses. Prefer to have George brought home by you than to send officers for him. Bring him whether he wants to come or not. We will take care of him when he gets here."
"Thank you for what you have done. My desire is to have you take charge of money and to bring George back home. This Motor Matt, who has already been of so much aid, might be willing to come with you and help still further. Use as much of the money as needed for your expenses. Prefer to have George brought home by you than to send officers for him. Bring him whether he wants to come or not. We will take care of him when he gets here."
"I'll not go," declared Lorry, when the telegram was read to him.
"I guess you will, old chap," said McGlory. "There'll be two of us, and if we have to, you know, we can carry you to the train."
If Lorry's looks reflected his feelings, his frame of mind was anything but enviable. As a precaution, he was to be left at police headquarters until train time.
"You're going along, eh, pard?" asked McGlory, as soon as he had got Matt where he could talk to him privately.
"It's a sudden turn for me," answered Matt. "Yesterday, at this time, I hadn't any more idea of going to Wisconsin than I had of going to China."
"What difference does it make to you where you are, Matt, so long as you're making a little good money?"
"Money isn't everything, Joe."
"No more it ain't, but in this case, Matt, you're helping a couple of mighty good people—and by that, I mean Uncle Dan and Aunt Mollie."
"If I go, McGlory, it will be to help somebody else."
"Who?"
"Why, George, himself. I think there's good stuff in him if it could be brought out."
"Hear him! Matt, George is as near a false alarm as you'll find anywhere. He's not more than half baked; if he wasn't all of that, do you think he'd have tried to have us arrested for stealing that money?"
"He's all worked up, now, and has been for quite a while," explained Matt. "When a fellow's in that condition, Joe, he's not wholly responsible for what he does."
"Talk about making a man of George is all a summer breeze, Matt. He hasn't a thing to build on, if you count out the cigarette habit."
Matt mused for a little while.
"He likes motor boats, I believe you said, Joe?" he queried at last.
"Well, yes," laughed McGlory, "a liking for boats seems to run in the family. It was a motor boat, yousabe, that started George on his last dash for the Pacific Slope and freedom. But what of that?"
"I was thinking that a course of motor boats might develop George into a different person."
McGlory whistled. Then he laughed.
"You're over my head, Matt," said he, "but that's nothing. The point is, will you go? I don't care what sort of a fool notion takes you, just so you see me through to the end of the trip."
"I'll go," replied Matt.
McGlory reached out his hand.
THE END.
THE NEXT NUMBER (22) WILL CONTAIN
Motor Matt's Enemies;
OR,
A STRUGGLE FOR THE RIGHT.
On the Road to Waunakee—Into a Noose, and Out of It Again—George's Sister—The "Jump Spark"—By Express, Charges Collect—"Pickerel Pete"—George and McGlory Missing—Setting a Snare—Enemies to be Feared—Between Fire and Water—Chums to the Rescue—How Fate Threw the Dice—Under the Overturned Boat—A Dash for the Open—The Power Boat, Minus the Power—A Reconciliation.
On the Road to Waunakee—Into a Noose, and Out of It Again—George's Sister—The "Jump Spark"—By Express, Charges Collect—"Pickerel Pete"—George and McGlory Missing—Setting a Snare—Enemies to be Feared—Between Fire and Water—Chums to the Rescue—How Fate Threw the Dice—Under the Overturned Boat—A Dash for the Open—The Power Boat, Minus the Power—A Reconciliation.
NEW YORK, July 17, 1909.
TERMS TO MOTOR STORIES MAIL SUBSCRIBERS.
(Postage Free.)
Single Copies or Back Numbers, 5c. Each.
How to Send Money—By post-office or express money-order, registered letter, bank check or draft, at our risk. At your own risk if sent by currency, coin, or postage-stamps in ordinary letter.
Receipts—Receipt of your remittance is acknowledged by proper change of number on your label. If not correct you have not been properly credited, and should let us know at once.
I was traveling on duty from Kolicaad on the coast to an inland station, by a road, crossing the Western Ghauts, which was entirely new to me. Two bullock carts carried my kit; my half a dozen servants marched alongside, while I headed the procession on horseback. Before leaving Kolicaad I had ascertained that the route was furnished throughout with travelers' rest houses; that after the first three marches the country became wild; that a few coffee plantations—managed by Europeans—lay scattered about the loftier hills, and that from the third stage—Cerrianaad—right away to the further foot of the Ghauts, I would traverse heavy jungle, said to be swarming with wild animals. This last piece of information would have gladdened a seasoned shikarrie—or sportsman—but to me it was immaterial, as I was not much given that way. I was only nineteen years of age, owned nothing in the shape of firearms, and had yet to acquire that love of big game shooting which took such strong hold of me in after years.
After we passed Cerrianaad the country became more hilly, the track zigzagged and curved, the dense jungle shut in the road, hamlets grew fewer and further between, and the only natives to be seen abroad were wayfarers—all in large bodies—who told us that they purposely made up parties for the sake of security. I could see that my followers were fast becoming uneasy; they huddled together, while the bullock drivers frantically urged their sluggish cattle into keeping pace with me on horseback. We reached the next stage—Wuddagherry—without adventure; but here we learned something that well-nigh drove my servants into a panic, and made me ardently wish that I had a gun of any description in my hands. Soon after our arrival the head man of Wuddagherry hamlet came to me and asked if I intended going on to Malanaad the following day. I understood him, for I had already picked up the local language.
"Yes," I replied.
"You must take care to reach it as early as possible, sir; for it is a long stage, fifteen miles; the road is difficult, and very dangerous."
"How is it more dangerous than from Cerrianaad to this?" I inquired with surprise; for no one at Kolicaad had said anything about the stage in question being particularly perilous.
"Almost opposite to Malanaad hamlet, sir, about a quarter of a mile off the road to the right, an English gentleman has lately commenced clearing the jungle to make a coffee plantation. He has built an iron house and iron lines for his coolies."
"That's good news, head man: I shall certainly go and stay the night with the gentleman rather than at the Malanaad bungalow—all by myself."
"But, sir," continued the villager, now speaking in an awed whisper, "a man-eating tiger that is supposed to have wandered up from the low country on the other side is haunting the plantation! The Malanaad hamlet is walled in; the people do not stir out after dark, so the tiger is preying on the gentleman's coolies, who are not so protected."
Danger, indeed! I had heard and read of man eaters, but had never encountered one. What if the demon happened to be lurking by the roadside as we passed? What if he should pop out on to us? What could I do? Nothing!
"Is the gentleman by himself?"
"No, sir; he has a son of about thirteen years, and a little daughter, much younger. I saw them all when they rested here on their way up."
"No lady?"
"No, sir; but there was an old ayah who attended on the little girl."
I felt sorry for the isolated Englishman, especially when I thought of his two children, leading a lonely life in a jungle, cut off from the society of those of their own color. Knowing how gladly they would welcome me, I should certainly have claimed the planter's hospitality for one night at least had not the villager's news about the tiger put me off the idea. No, I was not going to run any risk: I would go straight to the Malanaad bungalow.
After dismissing the head man, I summoned my trembling followers, heartened them as best I could, and added that we would start sufficiently early in the morning to insure our reaching Malanaad well before sundown.
Accordingly, we set out soon after dawn, and proceeded in close order, keeping a bright lookout on all sides. The road wound, dipped, and climbed; the thick jungle lined it on both flanks, and frequently formed a canopy over our heads. We heard occasional weird cries in the forest, but saw nothing; and we met no one till the afternoon, when, all at once, as we cleared a bend, I saw a narrow road branching off to the right, and three figures standing under a tree just where the two tracks joined. One was a European lad of some thirteen years, the other a flaxen-haired little girl of eight or so—both wearing sun hats—and the third an old ayah, or maid; the planter's children, no doubt, with the maid in attendance. But why there—a quarter of a mile from their home? Why with only a solitary old native woman, while a man-eating tiger, not to say other dangerous animals, perhaps crouched in the very thicket behind them? My blood curdled as I thought it. No sooner did they behold me than all three ran forward.
"Halloa! Who are you?" I asked, dismounting and signing my carts to halt.
"Oh, we are so glad to see you!" answered the boy, eagerly and breathlessly. "My name is Jimmy Simpson: this is my sister Maud, and the old woman is her nurse. We are Mr. Simpson's children: we live up at the plantation, and—and we are in great trouble."
"What trouble?" I demanded.
"A man-eating tiger commenced coming here a few nights ago, and has killed several of our coolies. My father has not been able to shoot it. Many of the coolies ran away; and, as father could not make the plantation without men, he and Pote have gone down the other side of the hills to get some."
"Who's Pote?"
"Father's assistant. They went the day before yesterday, leaving us in the care of the servants and the few coolies who still stayed. That night the tiger came about eight o'clock, the same time as before, and killed a man who had gone out of doors. The next morning every coolie and all our house servants ran away: they said they were too frightened to stop any longer. But the ayah wouldn't leave Maud. We are afraid of spending another night by ourselves, so, as the tiger does not show himself till about eight o'clock, we came out here, and have been waiting all the afternoon in hopes of meeting some one who would stay at the bungalow with us. Father won't be back for a week. Oh, sir, do come and stay with us!" he concluded pleadingly.
I thought that if I did halt here—even for a week—and I explained the reason to my superiors, they would not blame me. It was against human nature to leave these poor children alone in their fix. I did not see how I could suggest their abandoning the house, with all their father's property in it, and accompanying me to the comparative safety of the Malanaad bungalow—the very fact of Jimmy Simpson's expressing no such wish barred the idea. I therefore decided to give them my companionship—little though it might afford in the shape of protection. So, telling my people to go on to the travelers' bungalow, I turned up the side road with the children.
In the centre of a clearing stood a corrugated iron house, with a high-pitched roof, and a veranda running all round, above which opened some ventilating windows. Several trees had been allowed to stand close to the house—evidently to give shade—while at the back was a range of out-houses for servants, and two long rows of "lines" for the coolies—all built of the same material as the main house. Excepting the high ventilators, every door and window was closed, and not a sound save that of our footsteps broke the reigning stillness. Young Simpson unlocked a door, and we entered the bungalow. The ayah brought me some refreshing drink, which was very welcome after my journey, and I chatted for some time with the children, with whom I soon became fast friends.
"Well," said I at length, "I must leave you for an hour or so. I have got to see my things safely stowed away at the travelers' bungalow. Then I'll trot back here for the night with some of my men."
"Please don't be longer than you can help, Mr. Geoffrey!" begged the lad.
"I'll be as quick as I can," I replied. "Be ready to open the door when you see us approaching."
And I hurried away.
My followers, however, were obdurate, and no amount of threats or coaxing would induce them to budge from the travelers' bungalow. During my absence the man in charge, and the villagers, had been telling them all about the tiger, and they flatly refused to accompany me to the plantation house. I had no alternative, therefore, but to go alone.
I must confess to a strong sensation of nervousness as, with lantern in hand, I set out on my return journey to the Simpsons'. But I had picked up an idea somewhere that a man-eating tiger was peculiarly regular as regarded the time of his visits to the locality he preyed on. Jimmy had said that this brute appeared at eight o'clock or thereabouts; so, it now being only a little past seven, I imagined that I had forestalled the tiger. I reached the clearing, saw the light shining through the upper ventilator windows, reconnoitred as well as the darkness would allow, listened intently, and then pushed boldly across.
I had hardly got halfway ere I heard Jimmy's voice, muffled and indistinct, from within the building.
"All right, Jimmy!" I answered, dashing on. "Here I am! Open the door!"
"Climb! Climb!" I now plainly heard him cry. "The tiger's close by somewhere!"
The words temporarily paralyzed me. I looked to see the monster shoot into the rays of my lantern; I already felt his fangs at my throat! He must have observed my approach, and concealed himself—to pounce on me! Jimmy must have marked the manœuvre, and had shouted a warning in his childish way! With the beast at the door, so to speak, of course I did not expect the boy to open it: before I could slip in the tiger would probably be up, and either grab me or enter the house. No; the boy was quite right in keeping the door shut.
These thoughts flashed through my mind in a moment: the next, nerved by despair, and roused to action by Jimmy's reiterated cry of "Climb! Climb!" I glanced wildly about me and found myself close to one of the shady trees already alluded to. It was a moderately sized tree, with a smooth, straight stem, and much foliage at the top. Dropping my lantern—fortunately, without upsetting it—I threw myself on that trunk, and frantically shinned up. I was just in time: I had barely got out of harm's way ere, with a hideous roar, a long, lanky, mangy-looking tiger squirmed round the corner of the house, came in a series of bounds to the tree, and then, rearing on end, tried to hook me down! I could hear his claws tearing the bark; I expected the cruel talons to pierce my flesh; but luckily he could not reach me, and I hauled myself up among the branches into comparative safety. It now remained to be seen whether the beast could and would follow me. At the time I knew nothing of the tiger's climbing powers; so I watched my enemy in an agony of doubt—to be inexpressibly relieved when I realized that he could not do it! He was old—as most man-eaters are: he hung on to the base of the stem, but, after many ineffectual attempts, he desisted: the task was beyond him: he was unable to draw himself up!
For the present I was safe, then, and had time to look about me. Taking my position in the centre of the tree, I topped the veranda roof, and I could almost see in through one of the ventilator windows; but a good six feet yawned between the inmost tree twig and the veranda eave; a gap that I could not cover even had I good foothold to spring from. Nothing remained, therefore, but to make the best of it, and trust to the feline sneaking off at daylight. Accordingly, I was about seeking a comfortable branch to spend the night on when Jimmy called, "Mr. Geoffrey!"
"Halloa!" I shouted in reply; "I'm safe up the tree, Jimmy, thanks to your warning."
"But you are not safe!" he wailed hysterically.
"Why, where's the danger? The brute has tried to climb the tree, but failed: he can't get at me."
"Yes, he can, if he thinks of the wood stack!"
"What wood stack?"
"There, at the end of the veranda, just round the corner! If he climbs by it on to the veranda roof, he can jump from there into the tree! I've only just thought of it!"
My lantern rays did not penetrate so far. I peered through the gloom in the direction indicated, and could dimly make out a number of log ends projecting beyond the side wall, and heaped to the full height of the veranda itself. Clearly, then, if the tiger thought of that stack he would certainly climb it, come along the veranda roof to the tree, spring across the gap, seize and carry me with him to the ground! As I contemplated these probabilities I nigh yielded to despair: I broke into a cold perspiration, and I murmureda prayer for aid. That my prayer was answered is proved by my now living to tell this story. But I had yet to get out of my fix. I was given little leisure to reflect, for the tiger—as if Jimmy's words had given him the hint—walked off and disappeared round the corner; a scrambling, scratching sound followed, and before I could well believe my eyes, there came the brute, sneaking along the inclined plane of the veranda roof!
Could I—after warning Jimmy to unfasten the door—slip down the tree and dash into the house? No; though the varmint could not climb I felt sure he could drop, and that almost before I touched ground he would be upon me. The ugly cat crawled along the sloped iron sheeting, halted abreast of the tree, and set up a hoarse purr on spotting me—cowering amid the branches. He crept closer and closer to the eave till he could come no further—then gathered himself up for a spring! He strained and strained; I expected to see him shoot across and dig both teeth and claws into me; yet he came not! I stared at the beast in a wild fascination of terror. I remember—at that awful moment—being struck by his aged and unkempt appearance; I remember hearing the purr gradually give place to a growl of anger, and then all at once the truth broke on me: that outward and upward spring was beyond the man-eater; he would not attempt the feat; I was safe!
My courage revived, and with it came a fierce longing to destroy my tormentor, whose foul breath reached and sickened me even at that distance. Now, another thought suddenly struck me: was there possibly a gun of some kind in the house? Hardly; for if so I should probably have seen it, or Jimmy would have offered me the weapon when I left that afternoon. Anyhow, I would find out.
"Jimmy!" I bawled, causing the tiger to start angrily.
"Yes, Mr. Geoffrey?"
"The tiger has come on to the veranda roof—as you said; but he can't manage to spring into the tree, so I'm safe!"
"Oh, I'm so glad! I was——"
"I say, have you a gun?"
"Father took one rifle with him; the other is in the case, locked up, to keep us from meddling with it."
"Are there cartridges?"
"Yes; a beltful in the case."
"Where's the key?"
"Father has it."
"Jimmy," I rejoined imploringly, "break open the case, load the rifle, open the door a wee bit, and fire at the beast through the veranda roof. The bullet will penetrate—I'm sure. He is crouching in a line with the ventilator, just short of the eave, so you'll know where to aim. I'll make it right with your father."
"What's the good?" half whimpered the boy. "I don't know how to use a rifle."
Here was a facer! What more was left? But my brain was busy, and I determined to die hard. Green as I was, shaken as I was, I resolved to try and shoot the tiger myself!
"Jimmy, do you think you could manage to pass me the rifle?"
"I will if I can; but how?"
"No use attempting the door—even while the brute is on the veranda roof; he'd hear you like a shot, and pounce down on you before you could wink. But could you reach the ventilator window from the inside? Don't be afraid; it is too small for him to get his head and shoulders through, so he can't touch you."
"But how am I to do it?"
"Can't you go hand-over-hand up the swing rope, with the rifle and belt slung on you?"
"Yes, I can," he answered readily.
"Then you could work along the tie beam and reach the window, couldn't you?"
"I think so; but even if the window is large enough for me, how about the tiger outside?"
"Tell you what: get the rifle and cartridge belt, climb the swing rope, making as little noise as possible, and straddle along the tie beam to the window. Directly I see you there, I'll pretend to descend the tree; the brute will either drop to the earth from where he now is, or go round by the wood heap; in either case you could scramble out, chuck me the rifle and belt, and get through the window again before the tiger is able to remount the veranda by the wood heap; that is, if he notices you. Leave the rest to me."
The boy was plucky to the backbone, and immediately agreed to carry out my instructions. Presently I heard a rending, as of a box being broken open; then succeeded a silence of several minutes, and finally—to my joy—I saw the lad cautiously peeping over the window sill. Promptly I made a show of climbing down, energetically shaking the foliage as I felt my way to the lower branches. My movement had the desired effect; the tiger raised himself, growled, and, evidently believing that he had me, down he dropped with a "thud" to the ground. The coast was clear for Jimmy!
"Now, Jimmy!" I shouted, frantically reclimbing upward and inward, "out you get! He's down below!"
Quick as thought Jimmy slipped out the rifle and belt and proceeded to follow them. With my attention divided between him and the man-eater, I waited in desperate expectancy, but try as he would, the boy could not pass through! He essayed head first, then legs first, then this way, then that way; no, he failed! In my anxiety I had momentarily taken my eyes off the animal to watch Jimmy. On recollecting myself, and looking down again, the brute was nowhere to be seen! Merciful heaven! where had he gone? I peered on all sides, striving to probe the gloom beyond the rays of my still burning lantern, but I could not see him; the monster had vanished! While a sensation of superstitious terror threatened to overwhelm me, a smothered ejaculation of triumph came from Jimmy; I glanced eagerly in his direction, to find that he had at last succeeded in getting out! He was in the act of dropping to the veranda roof, when the scrambling, scratching sound which I had once before heard that night smote on my ear; the disappearance of the tiger was no longer a mystery: he was climbing the wood heap!
"Jimmy!" I shrieked, "get back! For your life get back! The tiger's climbing the stack!"
Whether the boy heard me, understood me, or not, or had taken leave of his senses, I could not tell, for, instead of obeying me, he clutched both rifle and belt, and floundered down the slope toward the tree! At the same moment I saw that the tiger had gained the roof, and was approaching as fast as he could!
"Back! For mercy's sake, back!" I yelled despairingly; but the next instant the lad—after giving a hasty glance at the tiger—put forth all his young strength and hurled the rifle in my direction. Mechanically I managed to seize the piece as it crashed into the branches; the belt followed; I secured it, and then the plucky boy, scurrying up the inclined roof, hauled himself to the window and wriggled through the aperture not half a second before the man-eater got up to it! Intensely relieved at Jimmy's miraculous escape, and burning with fury against the accursed animal—the cause of all our trouble—I simply sat there and sent bullet after bullet into his vile carcass, continuing the fusillade till he lay limp and lifeless on the veranda roof!
No more need be said. I loved that boy, who had shown a courage and nerve beyond the wildest dreams of fancy. I love him now as a man, with a reputation for cool pluck and presence of mind, the promise of which he so signally exhibited on the occasion of my story. When Mr. Simpson returned, and I told him all, the satisfaction I derived by seeing the tears of admiration that dimmed his eyes as I described his son's gallantry more than compensated me for my own somewhat unpleasant share in that ever memorable adventure.