"You'll have plenty to do, George," laughed Matt. "There's a telephone at the asylum, and we can always get word to you if it's necessary. As for——"
Matt was interrupted by a shrill yell. It came from outside the boathouse and had plainly been raised by Ping. On the instant, all three of the boys jumped for the door.
GATHERING CLOUDS.
Much to the relief of Matt, McGlory and Lorry, the Chinese boy had not encountered intruders. His trouble was of quite another sort.
In order to watch all sides of the boathouse, he hadbeen tramping around three of its walls, from the waterfront on one side to the waterfront on the other. The day was hot and the exertion tiring. Ping, after some reflection, conceived the brilliant idea of climbing to the roof and watching from the ridgepole.
An elevated position of that kind would enable him to rest and keep eyes on the vicinity in every direction.
Some empty boxes, piled one on the other, lifted him high enough to reach the eaves. Kicking off his sandals, he took the slope of the roof in his stocking feet and was soon by the flagstaff that arose from one end of the peak on the waterside of the building.
A timber, equipped with rope and tackle, projected outward from the peak. For no particular reason, other than to test his agility, Ping lowered himself astride the projecting timber and hitched outward to the end.
Here a sudden gust of wind struck him. Lifting both hands to save his hat, he lost his balance and rolled sidewise off the timber. But he did not fall. His trousers caught in the stout iron hook by which the pulley was suspended; and, when Matt, McGlory and Lorry finally located him, he was sprawling in midair, badly scared, but as yet unhurt.
"Motol Matt," howled the youngster, "savee Ping! No lettee fall! Woosh!"
"Sufferin' heathens!" gasped McGlory. "How in the name of Bob did the Chink ever get in that fix?"
That was no time to guess about the cause. If Ping's clothing was to give way he would suffer a bad fall on the planks of the boathouse pier. Pulling the tackle rope from the cleat to which it was fastened, Matt climbed hand over hand to the projecting timber.
"Catch hold of my shoulders, Ping," he ordered.
Ping's arms went around him in a life-and-death grip. Then, supporting himself with one hand, Matt detached the Chinaman from the hook with the other and both slid to the pier in safety.
"You gave us a scare, Ping," said Matt. "We didn't know but you had found some one sneaking around the boathouse. How did you get in that fix?"
Ping explained, and the boys had a good laugh. Shortly afterward Lorry dragged his motor cycle to the top of the bank and chugged away home.
It was about two o'clock when Newt Higgins, the young machinist, arrived with the new motor. His father had brought him across. The engine was unloaded by means of the block and tackle and carried inside.
While Higgins was taking the old motor out of theSprite, Matt connected up the new one with gasoline tank and battery and got it to going. It ran perfectly.
From that time on there were several days of feverish activity in the boathouse. The hull of theSpritehad to be strengthened. The original motor had been installed on short bearers, which, according to Matt's view, was entirely wrong. The motor bed, he held, must be rigid and the vibration distributed over as great an area as possible.
A heavy bed was put down, and on this two girders were laid, shaped up to take the rake of the motor and tapering off at the ends. These girders extended as far forward and aft as the curve of the hull would allow.
Lining up the shaft was an operation which Matt attended to himself. This job gave some trouble, but was finally finished to his satisfaction.
The new engine was set farther aft than the old one had been. This enabled Matt to bring the gasoline tanks farther aft, as well. The hood had to be made longer, and a stout bulkhead was built between the engine space and the cockpit.
All controls were to be on the bulkhead. The electric outfit was placed close to the motor, where it would be protected from wet and dampness by the hood. In addition to this, the eight cells of the battery were inclosed in a box and filled around with paraffine.
The hull had already been covered with canvas, given two coats of lead and oil and rubbed down. The last thing would be a coat of spar varnish.
Saturday night Matt dismissed the machinist.
"I wish I knew as much about motors as you do," the machinist had said as he pocketed his pay. "You're Class A, Motor Matt, and you've given Lorry a boat that'll win. I'm goin' to see that race. The Yahara boys are on our lake, you know, and this part o' town is with 'em to a man. It's surprisin' how this section of town is set on havin' the Yahara club get back the cup."
"We're going to do our best, Newt," Matt had answered, "and you'll see a pretty race, no matter how it comes out."
"You bet you!" averred Newt. "Good-by and good luck, Matt. I'd be tickled if we could work together all the time."
During the work McGlory had made himself generally useful. He could run the small launch which Lorry had brought to the boathouse for Matt's use, and whenever there were any errands across the lake not requiring Matt's attention at the machine shop McGlory attended to them.
Ping proved to be a good cook, and prepared the meals on a gasoline stove. When he was not busy in the culinary department he was guarding the boathouse against prowlers.
The boathouse was nicely situated for the work Matt and his friends were doing. There were no other boathouses for half a mile or more on either side of it, and the steep banks by which it was surrounded on every side but toward the water gave it an isolation which had commended it to Matt and Lorry.
It had not been used for some time when Lorry had leased it from the owner, but was in a very good state of repair for all that.
It contained a well which opened directly into a protected cove. An incline fitted with rollers made it easy to launch a boat or to haul it out upon the floor. The water door came down to the lake level, and both door and well were wide enough to admit a craft of eight-feet beam.
During all these days of work Ping had not detected a single person skulking around in the boathouse's vicinity. Matt worked until late every night, and there was always some one on guard on the outside from sunset till sunrise. Generally it was McGlory, but occasionally Lorry would come over and insist that the cowboy should sleep while he did the sentry duty.
It was nine o'clock Saturday night when Matt finished with the varnish coat and, dropping his brush, stood back to look at the trim, shadowy lines of the boat.
"She's a beauty, Matt, and no mistake," called some one from the door.
"Hello, George!" answered Matt, turning to place the lamp on the workbench and scrubbing his hands with abunch of waste. "She'll do, I think. Anyhow, theDartwon't run any rings around us."
"You must be about fagged," said Lorry as Matt dropped down on his cot by the wall. "You've worked like a galley slave, and if we win the prize it will be all owing to you."
"I'm tired, and that's a fact," Matt answered, "but I've got some good feelings in me, as my old Dutch pard used to say. If a fellow's mind is easy it doesn't matter so much about his body."
"I came over to see if you'd heard anything from our friends the enemy yet," said Lorry.
"They haven't peeped," Matt laughed. "I guess they've decided to let us alone."
"Don't you think that for a minute," returned Lorry earnestly. "Merton and his pals have been lying low, but the clouds have been gathering. The storm will break before Tuesday, and I'm wondering and worrying as to how it is going to hit us."
"We'll weather it," said Matt lightly, "no matter what shape it takes. It's a cinch that Merton hasn't been able to find out a thing about what we've been doing. That roll of drawings is all he has to base an opinion on, and theSpriteis as different from those plans as you can well imagine. We've fooled Merton to the queen's taste."
"And probably he thinks he has fooled us," smiled Lorry.
"Have you been able to discover anything about theDart?"
"Not a thing. The Winnequas are guarding her as though she was a lump of gold. But there are hair-raising tales, all over town, of the tremendous speed a new boat on Third Lake is showing."
"TheWyandottehasn't been kicking up the water around the point for a couple of days now."
"I guess Merton thinks we're so busy here we won't pay any attention to her. Ever since he stopped sending theWyandotteto Fourth Lake he has been speeding theDartin the evening on Third."
"Well, Merton's consistent, anyhow, no matter what else you can say about him."
"I've got orders from dad and sis to take you over to Yankee Hill to spend to-night and Sunday," said Lorry, after a slight pause. "Will you go?"
"Sorry, old chap, but I can't," Matt answered regretfully. "I'm going to be Johnny-on-the-spot right here in this boathouse till theSpriteleaves to enter the race. I'm not taking any chances with her."
"But can't McGlory and Ping look after the boat?"
"They can, yes, and there isn't anybody I'd trust quicker than I would McGlory; but, if anything should happen to theSpritebetween now and Tuesday, I want to be the one who's to blame."
"I guess I know how you stack up," observed Lorry, with a touch of genuine feeling. "You're doing a whole lot for me, Matt, and my folks know it and appreciate it just as much as I do. I hope I can pay you back some time."
"Nonsense, George!" deprecated Matt. "Do you think there isn't any fun in this thing for me? I've enjoyed myself every minute I've been tinkering with theSprite, and the best part of it all will come when I show theDartthe way across the finish line next Tuesday."
Half an hour later Lorry got into his hired launch and started for home. All was quiet and peaceable in the boathouse, but, even then, a storm of trouble was preparing to break—a storm that was to try the three friends to the uttermost and to come within a hair's breadth of ruining their prospects in the power-boat contest.
THE PLOTTERS.
Merton and his seven companions were a disgruntled lot when they returned to Madison after forcing an interview with Motor Matt, having their propositions rejected and then watching him get away after unmasking the "commodore."
Merton drove the touring car straight for home, turned it over to the gardener—who was also something of a chauffeur—and then ushered his friends into his father's study, in the house.
The butler and thechefhad been left to look after Merton's comfort. Merton immediately sent the butler to the ice box for several bottles of beer, and the lads proceeded to drown their disgust and disappointment in drink.
The idea that any human emotion can be blotted out with an intoxicating beverage is a fallacy. The mind can be drugged, for a time, but when it regains its normal state all its impressions are revived even more harrowingly than they were before.
As soon as the glasses had been emptied Merton produced several packages of cigarettes, and the air grew thick with the odor of burning "doctored" tobacco.
"What're we going to do with Motor Matt?" demanded Jimmie Hess. "Take it from me, you fellows, something has got to be done with him or the cup goes back to the Yaharas. He's a chap that does things, all right."
"And game as a hornet," struck in Andy Meigs. "Wish we could find out what he's doing to theSprite."
"That's what's worryin' me," said Perry Jenkins. "If he can coax twenty miles an hour out of theSpritehe's got the cup nailed down."
"He don't know anything about theDart," spoke up Rush Partington. "As long as he thinks he's only got theWyandotteto beat, I guess we can hold him."
"Hold nothing!" growled Martin Rawlins. "You don't understand how much that chap knows. Where did he grab all that about Halloran? He gets to the bottom of things, he does, and it's a fool notion to try and pull the wool over his eyes by sending theWyandotteover to Fourth Lake every day. If I——"
"Mr. Ollie," announced the butler, looking in at the door, "there's a little negro boy downstairs and he says he won't leave till he sees you."
"Kick him off the front steps, Peters," scowled Merton.
Peters would probably have carried out his orders had not the little negro quietly followed him up the stairs. As the butler turned away, the darky pushed past him and jumped into the study.
"Pickerel Pete!" went up a chorus of voices.
The colored boy was one of the town "characters," and was known by sight to everybody.
"Come here, you!" cried the exasperated Peters, pushing into the room and reaching for Pete's collar.
"Drag him out," ordered Merton. "I haven't got any time to bother with him."
"You all better bothah wif me," cried Pete, squirming in the butler's grip. "Ah kin tell yo' about dat Motor Matt, en Ah got some papahs dat yo'd lak tuh have——"
"Come along, now, and stop your howlin'," grunted the butler, making for the door.
A clamor arose from those in the room.
"Wait, Peters!"
"Hear what he's got to say about Motor Matt!"
"Maybe he can give us a pointer that will be useful. Let's talk with him, Ollie."
"Leave him here, Peters," said Merton.
The butler let go his hold on Pickerel Pete and went out of the study, shaking his head in disapproval of Mr. Ollie's orders.
"Now, then, you little rascal," went on Merton sternly, as soon as the door had closed behind the butler, "if you're trying to fool us you'll get a thrashing."
"En ef Ah ain't tryin' tuh fool yu," returned Pete, "is Ah gwine tuh git two dollahs?"
"You say," asked Merton cautiously, "that you've got a roll of papers?"
"Dat's whut Ah has, boss. Ah stole dem f'om de boathouse ovah by the p'int where Motor Matt is workin' on deSprite."
"Why did you steal them?"
"Tuh git even wif Motor Matt, dat's why," snorted Pete, glaring. "He done hiahed me fo' two dollahs er day, en den he turned me down fo' er no-count yaller Chink. When er man gits tuh be 'leben yeahs old, lak me, he ain't goin' tuh stand fo' dat sort o' work, no, suh. Ah jess sneaked up on de boathouse en Ah swiped de papahs."
It was plain to Merton that Pickerel Pete believed he had a grievance against Motor Matt. This might make him valuable.
"Let's see the papers, Pete," said Merton. "If they're worth anything to me I'll pay you for them."
"Dar dey is, boss," and Pete triumphantly drew the roll from the breast of his ragged "hickory" shirt.
Merton grabbed the roll eagerly, slipped off the rubber band and began examining every sheet. While his friends breathlessly watched, Merton jammed the papers into his pocket, sprang to his feet and paced back and forth across the room.
"What is it, Ollie?"
"Found out anything important?"
"Do those papers really belong to Motor Matt?"
"Tell us about it, can't you?"
"Shut up a minute," growled Merton. "I'm framing up a plan."
For a little while longer Merton continued to pace the floor; then, at last, he halted in front of Pete.
"There's five dollars for you, Pete," said Merton, taking a banknote from his pocket and handing it to the boy.
"Oh, by golly!" sputtered the overwhelmed Pete, grabbing at the bill as a drowning man grabs at a straw. "Ah's rich, dat's whut Ah is. Say, boss, is all dis heah money fo' me? Ah ain't got no change."
"It's all yours, Pete," went on Merton; "what's more, if you'll come here and see me Sunday afternoon at four o'clock, I'll give you a chance to earn another five-dollar bill. Will you be here?"
"Will er duck swim, boss?" fluttered Pete, kissing the crumpled banknote and tucking it carefully away in a trousers pocket. "Sunday aftehnoon at fo' erclock. Ah'll be heah fo' suah, boss."
"Then get out."
Pickerel Pete effaced himself—one hand in his trousers pocket to make sure the banknote was still there, and that he was not dreaming.
"Now, then, Ollie," said Martin Rawlins, "tell us what your game is."
"Yes, confound it," grumbled Meigs. "We're all on tenterhooks."
"These papers, fellows," answered Merton, drawing the crumpled sheets from his pocket, "contain Motor Matt's plans for changing theSprite. Looking over them hastily, I gather the idea that he's making theSpritejust fast enough to beat theWyandotte."
A snicker went up from the others.
"We've got him fooled, all right," was the general comment.
"Don't be too sure you've got that Motor Matt fooled," counseled Rawlins. "Maybe he put that roll where the negro could get it, and expected hewouldget it. This king of the motor boys is deep—don't let that get past your guard for a minute. I've put all the money I could rake and scrape into the betting pool, and I don't want to lose it by any snap judgments."
That was the way with the rest of them. They had all clubbed their funds together and the result was a big purse for betting purposes.
"I guess it means as much to the rest of us as it does to you, Martin, to have theDartwin," said Merton dryly. "Motor Matt's deep, as you say, but don't make the mistake of crediting him with too much knowledge. He's only human, like the rest of us. From the way matters look now, we've got him and Lorry beaten, hands down. Motor Matt isn't sharp enough to steer those papers into my hands by way of Pete. Now, in all this betting of ours, the money is being placed with the understanding that if there isno racewe take the cash; in other words, if the Yaharas back down and fail to send a boat to the starting line, we take the money."
"They won't back down," said Jimmie Hess. "Great Scott, Ollie, you don't think for a second that Lorry will back down, do you?"
"He may have to," was Merton's vague reply. "Anyhow,if you fellows make any bets outside of the pool, just make 'em in that way—that the stakes are yours if the Yaharas back down and there's no race."
"What's back of that, Ollie?" said Perry Jenkins. "You've got something up your sleeve, I know blamed well."
"And it's going to stay up my sleeve, so far as you fellows are concerned," returned Merton. "If I evolve a plan, I don't believe in advertising it. This Motor Mattmayhave steered those papers into our hands, and hemaybe deep enough to make theSpritea better boat than theDartwhile not knowing anything about theDart, but I don't think so. However, I intend to be on the safe side. It means a whole lot to me to win—personally, and apart from my desire to see the Winnequas keep the De Lancey cup. Just how much it means"—and Merton winced—"you fellows are not going to know, any more than you're going to know what I've got at the back of my head for Sunday night. Put your trust in the commodore—that's all you've got to do. Open up some of that beer, Perry. I'm as dry as gunpowder's great-grandfather."
The glasses were filled again.
"To our success in the race," said Merton, lifting his glass and sweeping his keen eyes over the faces of his friends; "may theDartwin, by fair means"—he paused—"or otherwise."
Four or five peered at Merton distrustfully over their glasses; but, in the end, they drank the toast.
The success of theDartmeant dollars and cents to them; and money, for those eight plotters, stood for more than club honors and the De Lancey cup.
FIREBUGS AT WORK.
Sunday was a beautiful and a quiet day at the boathouse by the Point. Mendota, otherwise "Fourth," Lake was never fairer. Across the ripples, glimmering in the sun, the city of Madison lifted itself out of a mass of green foliage like a piece of fairyland.
The lake was alive with motor boats, sailboats and rowboats. Matt and McGlory, sitting in the shade on the little pier in front of their temporary home, idled and dreamed away the afternoon until, about four o'clock, a snappy little launch, equipped with canopy and wicker chairs, untangled itself from the maze of boats out in the lake and pushed toward the cove.
"Visitors!" exclaimed Matt, jumping out of his chair.
"Speak to me about that!" grumbled McGlory. "Now we've got to get into our collars and coats and spruce up. Oh, hang it! I like a boiled shirt about as well as I like the measles."
Mr. Lorry, his daughter, Ethel Lorry, and George were occupying the wicker chairs under the canopy, while Gus, the Lorry chauffeur, was at the bulkhead controls.
George waved his hand. Matt returned the salutation and darted incontinently into the boathouse to fix himself up. Ethel Lorry was a fine girl and a great admirer of the king of the motor boys, and Matt felt it a duty to look his best.
By the time the boat drew up in front of the boathouse Matt and McGlory, in full regalia, were out to welcome their guests.
Lorry, senior, and his daughter were firm friends of Motor Matt. They realized fully how much the young motorist had done for George.
"A surprise party, Matt!" cried George. "I'll bet you weren't expecting the Lorrys, eh?"
"Always glad to receive callers," smiled Matt, grabbing the rope Gus threw to him and making it fast to a post.
"We've got to see theSprite, Matt," said Ethel. "All our hopes are wrapped up in theSprite, you know."
"And in Motor Matt," chuckled the millionaire, beside her.
A vivid flush suffused Ethel's cheeks, though just why her emotions should express themselves was something of a mystery.
The party debarked and was conducted into the boathouse. Matt opened the doors at the other end of the building and admitted a good light for inspecting the boat.
All three of the boys were intensely proud of theSprite. In her fresh coat of varnish she looked as spick and span as a new dollar.
McGlory was a nephew of Mr. Lorry's, and, while he was explaining things at one end of the boat to "Uncle Dan," Matt was performing the same service for Ethel at the other end of the craft.
When Mr. Lorry and Ethel had expressed their admiration for theSprite, and their confidence in her ability to "lift" the cup, chairs were carried out on the pier. McGlory went across the lake for ice cream, and the party visited gayly until sunset. When the launch departed, George remained behind, having expressed his intention of staying with his friends at the boathouse that night.
Ping was engaged in clearing up the dishes—part of the camp equipment—on which the ice cream had been served, and McGlory was making the doors at the other end of the boathouse secure. Dusk was falling gently, and overhead the stars were beginning to glimmer in a cloudless sky, soft as velvet. It was a time for optimism, and a lulling sense of security had taken possession of all the boys.
"The clouds don't seem to be gathering very much, after all, George," remarked Matt.
"I must have been mistaken about Merton," returnedGeorge. "That roll of drawings, I suppose, has convinced him that the changes we were making in theSpritewere not of enough account to worry him."
McGlory came from the boathouse in time to hear the words.
"We've got Merton fooled," he chuckled, dropping down in a chair, "and I ain't sure but that it's the best thing that ever happened to us, the theft of those drawings."
"That's the way it may turn out, Joe," agreed Matt. "Still, even if Merton knew exactly what we had done to theSpriteI don't see how he could help matters any. TheDart, from what I can hear, is supposed to be by long odds the fastest boat on the lakes. How could he improve on her, even if Merton knew theSpritewas a dangerous rival?"
"Merton wouldn't try to improve on theDart," returned Lorry. "What he'd do would be to make an attempt to make theSpriteless speedy than she is."
"I'd like to catch him at that!" exclaimed McGlory. "That tinhorn would have to hip lock with me some if he ever tried to tamper with theSpritewhile Joe McGlory was around."
"He'd make sure there wasn't anybody around, George," said Lorry, "before he tried any of his underhand games. I've been thinking over the loss of those drawings, Matt," he went on, after a pause, "and it strikes me that they weren't stolen by Merton, after all, but by Pickerel Pete."
"What!" cried the cowboy, "that sawed-off moke?"
"I've thought a little on that line myself," observed Matt. "Pete was mad, when he left us up there in the path, and he could have circled around through the bushes and reached the boathouse before we got down to it with Ping."
"That's it!" assented George. "He hadn't any idea what sort of papers were in the roll, but they were handy to him as he looked through the window, and so he gathered them in. Of course, Pete knew that the papers would be valuable to Merton, if to anybody. It's a dead open-and-shut that he carried them at once to the commodore."
"Which may account for the commodore layin' back on his oars and not botherin' us any while we've been jugglin' with theSprite," deduced McGlory. "We're all to the good, pards, and your Uncle Joe is as happy over the outlook as a Piute squaw with a string of glass beads. I'm feelin' like a brass band again, and——"
"Don't toot, Joe, for Heaven's sake," implored George. "You've got about as much music in you as a bluejay."
"Some fellows," returned McGlory gloomily, "don't know music when they hear it. It takes a cultivated ear to appreciate me when I warble."
"I don't know about that," laughed George, "but I do know that it takes some one with a club to stop you after the warbling begins. When are you going to 'warm up' theSprite, Matt?" he asked, turning to the king of the motor boys. "Every ship has got to 'find herself,' you know. We've Kipling's word for that."
"Then," smiled Matt, "theSpriteis going to begin finding herself in the gray dawn of to-morrow morning. Glad you made up your mind to stay with us to-night, Lorry. I was going to suggest it, if you hadn't. I want you and Joe to hold a stop-watch on the boat."
"I wish we had one of those patent logs," muttered Lorry. "They go on the bulkhead, and work hydrostatically—no trailing lines behind."
"Too expensive, George," said Matt. "Besides, we didn't have time to bother installing one."
"You're the most economical chap I ever heard of, Matt," said Lorry jestingly, "especially when you're using another fellow's money."
"Sufferin' bankrolls!" mourned McGlory, "I wish some one would be kind enough to ask me to spend his money."
"Dad told me, when we began fixing up theSprite," went on Lorry, "that he wanted me to be sure and let Motor Matt have free play, no matter what it cost. That's the way the governor feels. There has been a big change in him, Matt, and you're the cause of it."
"That's all the more reason, George," answered Matt, "why I should not abuse his confidence."
"I guess dad knows that, and that it has a lot to do with the way you stack up in his estimation. He'd trust you with a million."
"I'm glad he feels that way. There isn't any sign of a storm, Joe," Matt added to the cowboy, "but we must keep up our guard duty just the same."
"Keno! We're not going to let Merton and his outfit catch us napping, if that's their plan. I'll stand guard to-night."
"I'll divide the duty with you, Joe," put in Lorry. "I'll take the first watch, and will call you at midnight."
"That hits me plumb. I can snooze in good shape for half the night. We'll let Matt put in full time—he needs it."
"Matt ought not to do a thing between now and Tuesday but rest," asserted George. "He's got to be fit as a fiddle for that race."
"I'm generally in shape for whatever comes my way," laughed Matt, getting up and yawning. "Right now's when I'm going to turn in, and you can bank on it that I'll sleep like Rip Van Winkle up in the Catskills. You'll see something surprising in the morning, fellows! If theSprite, after she gets warmed up, can't do her mile in better than three minutes, I'm no prophet."
"If she does that," jubilated McGlory, "we're apt to have theDartlashed to the mast."
"Good night," said Matt.
The parting word was returned, and the king of themotor boys followed the wall of the dark boathouse past the well and on by the workbench to his cot.
Inside of two minutes he had turned in, and inside of three he was in dreamless slumber.
How long Matt slept he did not know, but it must have been well beyond midnight when he was awakened. He was half stifled, and he sat up in his cot struggling for breath.
A yellowish gloom was all around him, and a vague snap and crackle came to his ears.
Suddenly, like a blow in the face, the realization came that the smothering fog wassmoke, and that the flickering yellow that played through it wasflame.
"Fire!" he yelled, springing from the cot. "Lorry! McGlory! Where are you?"
Matt's only answer was the whirring rush of the fire and the weird snapping as the flames licked at the wood. For a moment the heat and the smoke almost overcame him, and he reeled backward against the wall.
SAVING THE "SPRITE."
After a moment of inaction, Matt realized something else besides the fact that there was a fire. Ping and either McGlory or Lorry should be in the boathouse with him; also either McGlory or Lorry ought to be on guard outside.
Why had no answer been returned to his startled shout? What had happened to the guard outside, and what had happened to those inside the boathouse?
In that terrifying moment, when so many dangers threatened him and his friends, Motor Matt had no time to think of theSprite. First he must get fresh air, and then he must find out about his friends.
The landward end of the boathouse seemed to be completely wrapped in flames. A breeze had come up during the night, and it was driving the fire onward toward the waterfront of the building.
Drawing upon all his reserve strength, Matt staggered to the window over the workbench. Picking up a wrench, he smashed the glass, and a draft of cool night air rushed in. For a moment he hung over the workbench filling his lungs with the clear air; and then, at the top of his voice, he repeated his call for McGlory and George.
Still there was no response. Bewildered by his failure to hear an answering shout from his friends, and dazed by the suddenness of the catastrophe which threatened the boathouse, Matt whirled away from the window and groped through the blinding smoke toward the other cot.
Some one was lying on the cot, breathing heavily. It was impossible to tell whether it was Lorry or the cowboy, but, whichever it was, the form was unconscious from the effects of the foul air.
Making his way to the door, Matt unfastened it and flung it open. The breeze which swept through the building caused the roar of the fire to increase, giving an added impetus to the flames.
Darting back to the cot, Matt picked up the form and staggered with it out into the night, falling heavily when a few yards from the blazing building.
In the glare that lighted up the vicinity of the boathouse Matt discovered that it was Lorry whom he had carried to safety. Lorry! That meant that it was after midnight, and that McGlory had been outside of the boathouse, on guard.
The fire was not accidental—it could not have been accidental. Firebugs must have been at work. What had become of McGlory that he had not interfered?
It was impossible that the cowboy was in the burning building. Ping, however, should be there. The Chinese usually bunked under the workbench.
Whirling away, Matt started again for the burning building; but, before he reached the door, Ping, coughing and spluttering, his arms filled with clothes, reeled out and fell in a sprawling heap on the ground.
Rushing up to him, and thankful to find that he was safe, Matt grabbed him by the shoulders and drew him farther from the boathouse.
"Where's McGlory?" shouted Matt.
It was necessary for him to talk at the top of his voice in order to make himself heard above the roar of the wind and the flames.
"No savvy," panted Ping, lifting himself to his knees, his terror-stricken face showing weirdly in the glare. "My no makee yell when you makee yell," he added, digging his knuckles into his smarting eyes. "My heap full smoke. My blingee clothes——"
"Never mind the clothes," cut in Matt, wildly alarmed on McGlory's account. "You—— Here, stop that, Ping! Where you going?"
The Chinese had abruptly gained his feet and plunged toward the open door. At that moment, the door looked like the opening into a raging furnace.
"My saveeSplite!" blubbered Ping. "No letteeSplitego top-side! Woosh!"
The yellow boy was as fond of the boat as were Matt, McGlory and Lorry. He had watched her rebuilding, in his curious, heathen way, and every step toward completion lifted his pride and admiration higher and higher.
Matt had grabbed Ping and was holding him back. His mind, dealing with McGlory, worked quickly.
The cowboy, he reasoned, had been on guard outside. Those who had fired the boathouse must have had to take care of McGlory before they could carry out their nefarious plans. This being true, it could not be possible that the cowboy was in any danger from the fire. It wastheSprite, therefore, that should now claim Matt's attention. McGlory could be looked for afterwards.
"We'll save her together, Ping," cried Matt, "but we can't go into the boathouse that way. We'd be overcome before we got anywhere near the well. We must get into the building by the other end."
TheSpritewas in imminent danger, there could not be the least doubt about that. After Mr. Lorry and Ethel had left for home, during the afternoon, the boat had been placed upright on the rollers leading to the incline of the well.
This, bringing her nearer the landward end of the boathouse made the boat's danger greater than if she had been left on the skids which had supported her while the work inside her hulk was going on.
Not only that, but, preparatory to the morning's trial, her tanks had been filled with gasoline. If the flames should reach the tanks——
"We'll have to hurry!" yelled Matt.
Picking up a coat from the heap of clothing on the ground, Matt ran to the edge of the lake and plunged the coat into the water; the next moment he had darted back to the open window, hoping to reach in and get an ax or hammer from the workbench for use in battering down the water-door. This door was secured on the inside, and would have to be broken if entrance was effected from the pier.
Ping, frantically eager to help, but hardly knowing what to do, rushed around after Matt, copying every move he made.
When Matt picked up a coat and submerged it in the lake, Ping followed suit; and when Matt, with the dripping garment in his hand, rushed for the broken window, the Chinese boy was close behind.
As ill-luck would have it, there was nothing in the shape of an ax or hammer lying on the bench within reach of Matt's groping fingers.
The window was perhaps a dozen feet along the wall from the landward end of the building. The fire, apparently, had been started at the extreme end, and, although the flames were driving fiercely through the building, the blaze was not so formidable near the window as it was by the door.
Matt changed his plans about entering the boathouse by the water door. He would make an essay through the window, push theSpritealong the rollers and down into the well, unlock the water door from the inside, and then, under her own power, take her out into the cove.
Not a second was to be lost if this plan was to be carried to a successful conclusion. There was danger, plenty of it, in making the attempt to save theSprite.
Blazing timbers were already falling from the roof of the doomed building, and if one of those dropped on the barrel containing the gasoline supply, an explosion would result and the flaming oil would be hurled everywhere.
But the king of the motor boys did not hesitate. Hurriedly throwing the coat over his head and shoulders, he climbed through the window and rolled off the bench to the smoking floor of the boathouse.
To see anything between the confining walls was now impossible. The smoke was thick, and the glare that shot through it rendered it opaque and blinding.
Matt, however, knew every foot of the building's interior as he knew his two hands. Holding the coat closely around his head to protect his face, he hurried through the blistering fog and finally stumbled against theSprite.
Laying hold of the boat, he pushed with all his strength. In spite of his fiercest efforts, she stuck and hung to the rollers. It was not a time to hunt for what was wrong, but to force theSpriteinto the well at any cost.
While Matt tugged and strained, the end of the building fell outward with a crash, and a flurry of sparks and firebrands leaping skyward. This released a section of the roof, which dropped inward.
One blazing beam landed on Matt's right arm, pinning it against the rubstreak. A sickening pain rushed through his whole body, and when he had hurled the timber away with his left hand, the injured arm dropped numb and helpless at his side.
"Matt! Motol Matt!"
The shrill, frightened cry came from Ping. He had followed through the window and had been feeling his way about the interior of the boathouse. The crash of the wall and the roof had frightened him, and he would have bolted had not the knowledge that Matt was somewhere in that blazing inferno chained him to the place.
"Here, Ping!" cried Matt, hoarsely. "Lay hold of the boat and help me get her into the water. Lively, now—for your life!"
Their united strength, even through Matt had only his left hand, was sufficient. TheSpritestarted slowly over the rollers, reached the head of the incline, and her own impetus carried her downward. Matt and Ping sprang into her blindly as she leaped away.
Across the well ran theSprite, her nose striking the water door and causing her to recoil backward until her stern brushed the incline.
Matt, dizzy and weak, pawed and floundered toward the bulkhead.
Overhead the roof was all in flames. Any moment it might fall bodily, sinking theSpriteand those aboard her under the water of the well—holding them like rats in a blazing trap.
Matt's eyes were of no use to him. They were smarting from the smoke and heat. But he did not need his eyes. He knew the place of every lever on the bulkhead.
A pull started the gasoline, another started the oil, andanother switched on the spark. A third lever was connected with the starting device. Two pulls at this and the boat took the push of the propeller.
Boom!
The fire had found the gasoline supply, and shafts of lighter fire shot through the yellower blaze of burning wood.
There was no time to unlock the water door. Already the fire-eaten wreck was swaying.
TheSprite, urged by the automobile engine, must ram the door and break it down.
Grabbing his companion, Matt dragged him down under the protection of the bulkhead, while theSpriteflung herself toward the door, toward the cove—and toward safety.
OUT OF A BLAZING FURNACE.
The cool night air quickly wrought its work, so far as George was concerned. Sitting up on the ground, confused and unable to understand what had happened, he stared at the conflagration at the edge of the cove.
Rubbing his eyes and muttering to himself, he stared again. He remembered calling McGlory, and dropping down into the bunk after McGlory had got out of it. After that he knew nothing until he sat up there on the ground, with the fire dancing in front of his eyes.
The fog was slower getting out of his brain than out of his lungs. Rising to his feet, he started for the path leading up the bank, animated by the hazy idea that he ought to get word to the fire department.
He stumbled over something. Being none too steady, he fell headlong, only to lift himself again as the object over which he had fallen gave vent to a rumbling, inarticulate sound.
"Is that you, Matt?" he asked.
The answer was a desperate gurgle.
By that time Lorry had, in a great measure, recovered the use of his wits. Creeping to the side of the person who was trying so hard to speak, he saw by the glare of the fire that it was McGlory.
"Great Scott!" he murmured, his hands passing over the form. "It's cousin Joe, and he's tied and gagged!"
Lorry was only a moment in freeing the cowboy's jaws of the twisted handkerchief.
"Tell me about this!" fumed McGlory. "I thought I'd never be found. What are you kneeling there for, George, gawping like you were locoed? Get these ropes off me, and see how quick you can do it. Don't you know that Matt's in that boathouse, and that he and Ping are trying to save theSprite? We've got to lend a hand. Sufferin' blockheads, but you're slow! Cut the ropes with a knife if you can't untie 'em."
"I'm in my underclothes," answered George. "I don't know where my knife is."
"I've got a knife in my pocket. Take it out, but hustle, for Heaven's sake,hustle!"
George was shaking like a man with a chill. The terrors of the moment were dawning upon his bewildered mind. His hands trembled while groping through McGlory's pockets, and they trembled worse when he opened the knife and tried to use it.
"Who—who set the fire?" he mumbled.
"Do you think I'm a mind reader?" stormed McGlory. "I was to blame, for I was on guard and ought to have seen those negroes before they downed me and trussed me up in this fashion. If anything happens to Matt, I'll be to blame for it, and if theSpriteis burned I'll be to blame for that, too. Oh, I've got a lot to think of, I have!"
The cowboy's self-reproach was keen.
"Did some one steal up on you, Joe?" asked Lorry.
"What do you take me for, George? Do you think I laid down and put my hands behind me so the blacks could tie 'em? They got me, right there at the corner of the boathouse, just as I was coming around. A blow dazed me, and before I could let out a yip, they had ropes on my wrists and ankles and that thing between my jaws. I heard Matt calling, and, sufferin' jailbirds! here I lay without bein' able to say a word. Oh,can'tyou cut those ropes? Take a brace—your nerves are in rags."
George managed finally to saw the blade through one coil of the cord that secured McGlory's hands. With a swift tug from the shoulders the cowboy released himself, then caught the knife from his cousin's hand and slashed it through the ropes at his feet.
The next instant he was up and bounding toward the boathouse.
"Where are you going?" shouted George.
McGlory, rendered desperate by the knowledge that Matt was in the boathouse facing death in a fierce effort to save theSprite, was heading straight for the door of the building.
The door was merely a riffle in a wall of flame. Before McGlory could reach it, the whole end of the boathouse crashed outward.
He sprang backward, just in time to avoid the blazing timbers, and turned to Lorry with a groan.
"We can't help him!" he cried hoarsely. "Motor Matt's done for, theSprite'sdone for—everybody's done for, George. And it was all on my account."
Here it was that Lorry came to the front with a little common sense.
"You were not to blame, Joe," he asserted. "You were set on by some negroes, and you could no more help what happened than Matt or I. Pull yourself together anddon't be a fool. Motor Matt knows what he's about. If he's in that boathouse he'll get out of it again. Anyhow, we can't help him from this side. We'll go around by the pier and get the launch. If we can get the launch through the water door, maybe we can hitch on to theSpriteand tow her out."
This talk had a salutary effect on McGlory.
"TheSpriteisn't in the water," he answered. "How could we tow her out?"
"Matt will get her in the water," said Lorry confidently. "What do you suppose he's doing in there if he isn't getting theSpriteinto the well? We left her on rollers at the top of the incline, and Matt could launch her alone without any trouble. Let's get the launch and be ready to help."
The launch referred to by Lorry was the one he had hired and brought across the lake for Matt's use during the work on theSprite. The boat was kept at one end of the pier. While theSpritewas on the skids, the other boat was housed in the well at night, but this night she had been left outside so as not to interfere with the launching of theSpritein the early morning.
Hoping against hope that they could yet do something that would help Motor Matt, the two boys ran alongside the boathouse, jumped to the pier and unfastened the painter of the launch. Just as they tumbled into it and McGlory was turning the flywheel, a loud explosion came from inside the boathouse. A cloud of firebrands and sparks geysered up from the roof.
"What was that?" gasped Lorry.
"The gasoline," answered McGlory, dropping down on the thwartships seat in front of the motor. "I don't know what we can do now, George."
"We'll get into the boathouse," flung back Lorry. "If——"
Lorry was interrupted by another crash. Under the startled eyes of the two in the launch, the water door was ripped and splintered, and through the ragged gap as out of a blazing furnace sped theSprite.
For a moment she reeled as though undecided which way to turn; then, suddenly, she shot off into the lake. Neither Lorry nor McGlory could see any one aboard her.
"Where's Matt?" cried the cowboy.
The echoes of his voice were taken up by another crash, and the remaining walls of the boathouse flattened themselves with a great hissing as the burning timbers dropped into the well, and off the pier into the lake.
"If he was in there," added the cowboy huskily, pointing to the wrecked building, "then there's——"
"He wasn't in there," cut in Lorry. "He couldn't have been. Do you suppose theSpritestarted herself?"
While speaking, Lorry was "turning over" the engine. The motor took up its cycle, and Lorry steered into the lake after theSprite.
TheSpritewas darting this way and that at terrific speed, following a course so erratic that it would be easily inferred there was no guiding hand on the steering wheel.
Away the boat would rush, directly into the gloom that hovered over the lake; then, before she could vanish, she would describe a hair-raising turn and jump to starboard or port.
"But where's Matt if he is in the boat?" demanded McGlory.
"On the bottom, perhaps," replied Lorry. "He started her, and that's all he was able to do. We've got to lay theSpriteaboard, somehow."
"That's easier said than done," said McGlory. "She's jumping around like a pea on a hot griddle, and is just as likely to slam into us and cut us down as to do anything else. Sufferin' sidewinders, look at that!"
TheSpritehad made a complete turn and was now headed shoreward and streaking straight towards the boys.
"Here's our chance!" said Lorry. "If theSpritehangs on as she's coming she'll pass close to us. Will you jump aboard her, Joe, or shall I?"
"I'll do it," answered the cowboy. "Can't you turn the launch and follow theSprite, side by side with her? She'll travel faster than we will, but it'll make it easier to jump without going into the lake."
This manœuvre was carried out, and Lorry, who could handle a boat tolerably well for an amateur, brought the launch about and picked up theSpriteas she dashed onward.
McGlory cleared a foot of water at a flying leap and dropped into theSprite'scockpit. In a few minutes he had checked the boat's aimless racing and had brought her to a halt.
"Is Matt there?" queried Lorry anxiously, working the launch close to theSprite.
"He's here," answered McGlory, "but he's unconscious. Ping's here, too, and his wits are wool-gathering, same as Matt's. They're both alive, though, and I reckon they'll be all right with a little care."
"Follow me across the lake," said Lorry. "We'll go to the clubhouse. The quicker we can get a doctor, the better."
The first gray of dawn was just glimmering along the eastern edge of the sky as the two boats stood away for Madison.
WHAT ABOUT THE RACE?
Matt opened his eyes in surroundings that were not familiar to him. The room was big and lofty, and the bed he was lying in was a huge affair of brass and had amosquito canopy. He tried to lift his right arm. The movement was attended with so much pain that he gave it up. He saw that the arm was swathed in bandages.
A sound of whispering came to him from the bedside. Turning his head on the pillow, he saw two figures that had escaped him up to that moment. One was Lorry and the other was McGlory.
"The doctor says he'll have to stay in bed for a week," Lorry was saying.
"Sufferin' speed boats!" muttered McGlory. "Let's kiss our chances good-by. It's glory enough, anyhow, just to know Matt got clear of the burnin' boathouse with his life."
"Don't be in a rush about bidding good-by to our chances," said Matt.
McGlory jumped around in his chair, and Lorry started up and hurried to the bedside with a glowing face.
"Jupiter, but it's good to hear your voice again, Matt," said Lorry.
"We were expectin' you to wake up any minute, pard," added McGlory. "How're you feeling?"
"A one, except for my arm. What's the matter with it?"
"A sprain and a bad burn," replied Lorry.
"I remember, now," muttered Matt. "A blazing timber fell from the roof and pinned my arm against the gunwale of theSprite. It isn't a fracture?"
"Nary, pard," said McGlory. "You were in a heap of luck to get out of that blaze as well as you did."
"I guess that's right. Where am I?"
"In the Lorry home on Fourth Lake Ridge," smiled George. "We took you across the lake to the Yahara Club, and when I called up dad on the phone, and told him what had happened, he insisted on sending the carriage after you. The doctor was here when we arrived. He has patched you up so you'll be as good as new in a week."
"Is Ping all right?"
McGlory chuckled.
"You can't kill a Chink, pard," he answered. "Ping was unconscious, same as you, when we picked up theSprite, but he drifted back to earth while we were crossing the lake."
"And theSprite—did she suffer any damage?"
"She's blistered here and there, but otherwise she's just as good as she was when you hit her the last tap."
"What about the race?"
A glum expression settled over the faces of George and Joe.
"Well," said George, "this is Monday morning, and the race is to-morrow afternoon. The doctor says you ought to keep quiet for a week. Of course, the race can't be postponed, and if theSpritedoesn't come to the line to-morrow, why, the Winnequas keep the cup. Also, Merton and his clique keep the money they wagered. That has been their game all along, and every bet they made was with the understanding that if the Yahara Club failed to furnish a starter in the race the Winnequa fellows were to pull down all the stakes."
A glimmer came into Matt's gray eyes.
"It looks to me," he remarked, "as though Merton and his friends had a feeling all along that something was going to happen to theSprite."
McGlory scowled, and Lorry looked grave.
"Have you heard anything about who started that fire?" went on Matt.
"The latest comes from Merton indirectly," said Lorry. "We hear that he's spreading a report that we were careless with matches, and that we kept our gasoline in the boathouse."
"Sufferin' boomerangs!" snapped McGlory. "I reckon, if we figure it down to a fine point, people will find that Merton was careless in hiring niggers to do his crooked work."
"Negroes?" echoed Matt. "That reminds me, Joe, that I couldn't find you when I woke up and found the boathouse in flames. Where were you?"
"Speak to me about that!" gurgled McGlory. "Why, pard, I was lashed hand and foot and smothered with a gag. I could hear you callin', but it wasn't possible for me to answer you. That was torture, and don't you forget it. What's more, I could hear you and Ping talking, and by turning my head I could see you getting into the boathouse through the window. It was only when George, half-dazed, stumbled over me, that I was able to let any one know where I was. George got the ropes off me, and I'd have gone into the boathouse after you, only the front of it tumbled and blocked the attempt. Then we went around and got in the launch, thinking we'd get in by the water door and give theSpritea lift into the cove. Before we could do that the buildin' began to cave in, and the gasoline to let go, and then theSpritecame smashing through the door and began dancing a hornpipe out in the lake. Lorry and I manœuvred around until we managed to catch her, and then we brought you across to the clubhouse. That's where theSpriteis now, and she'll be well taken care of by the Yahara boys."
"But the negroes!" exclaimed Matt. "You haven't told me anything about them."
"Keno!" grinned McGlory. "I told the last end of my yarn. I reckon the first end was left out because it don't reflect any credit on your Uncle Joe. Lorry called me at midnight to go on guard duty. I slid out, and hadn't been watching the boathouse more than three hours when a couple of black villains nailed me as I was going around a corner. I was dazed with an upper-cut, andbefore I could get into shape to do any fighting, they had me on the mat. Then I had to lay there and listen to 'em setting fire to the boathouse, with you, and Lorry, and Ping inside, never dreaming of what was going on. I reckon I'm a back number, pard. It was my fault."
"You can't shoulder the responsibility, Joe," answered Matt. "You couldn't help being knocked down, and tied, and gagged."
"Nary, I couldn't," was McGlory's gloomy rejoinder; "but I might have stepped high, wide, and handsome when I went around that corner. If I'd had as much sense as the law allows I'd have seen that black fist before it landed, either ducked or side-stepped, and then let off a yell. All you fellows inside needed was the right sort of a yell. But I didn't give it. When it came to a showdown, pard, I couldn't deliver the goods."
"I still maintain that you have no cause to blame yourself," persisted Matt. "If George or I had been in your place, Joe, the same thing would have happened."
McGlory bent his head reflectively.
"It's mighty good of you, pard, to put it that way," said he finally.
"Would you know those negroes again if you were to see them?" asked Matt.
McGlory shook his head.
"It was plumb dark there in the shadow of the boathouse," he answered. "I could just make out that they were negroes, and that's all. I reckon, though, that Ollie Merton could tell us who those fellows were—if he would."
"I'd be a little careful, Joe," cautioned Matt, "about involving Merton in that fire. If it could be proved against him it would be a mighty serious business—just as serious as for the fellows who set the fire."
"Well, pard, why was Merton and his friends making their bets in that queer way? In case there isn't any race because of the failure of the Yahara Club to produce a starter, the Winnequas take the stakes. That looks as though Merton and his pals knew what was going to happen. If theSpritewas burned, there'd be no boat for the Yaharas to produce."
"Joe's right," declared Lorry.
"Well, keep your suspicions to yourselves," said Matt. "In a case of this kind it's positive proof that's needed, not bare suspicion. Wasn't the fire seen from the city? Didn't any one go across the lake to help fight it?"
"We met a couple of boats going over as we were coming across with you and Ping," replied Lorry. "By that time, though, the boathouse was no more than a heap of embers. It went quick after it got started. But what about the race to-morrow? That's the point that's bothering me. I could take theSpriteover the course, and so could Joe, at a pinch, but we wouldn't get the speed out of her that you would."
"I'll drive her myself," said Matt.
"Speak to me about that!" gasped McGlory. "Why, pard, you've only got one hand—and that's the left."
"A man who's any good at automobile driving has a pretty good left hand. In an automobile race, Joe, the driver's left hand has to do a big share of the work. The racer steers with the left hand, holding the right hand free for the emergency brake. The left hand has to be trained to take full charge at all corners, and in a thousand and one other places as the need arises. I can do the racing well enough."
"But the doctor says——" began Lorry.
"I know what I can do better than the doctor, George," laughed Matt. "I'll be in that race every minute—watch me."
Both Lorry and McGlory studied Matt's face carefully.
"Pluck, that's what it is," muttered McGlory. "It's the sort of pluck that wins. But I don't know whether the doctor will let you——"
Just at that moment a servant stepped into the room.
"What is it, James?" asked Lorry.
"Mr. Martin Rawlins to see Mr. King," was the answer.
Lorry looked bewildered.
"Mart Rawlins!" he exclaimed. "Why, he's one of the Winnequa fellows, and a crony of Merton's!"
"He's here to pump Matt," growled McGlory, "or else to find out what his chances are for being in that race to-morrow. Sufferin' tinhorns, what a nerve!"
"Have him come up, Lorry," said Matt. "It won't do any harm to talk with him. If he's here to pump me, he's welcome to try."
Lorry nodded to the servant, and a few moments later Mart Rawlins entered the room.