Produced by David Edwards, Demian Katz and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Images courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University (http://digital.library.villanova.edu/)) MOTOR STORIES THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION NO. 21 JULY 17, 1909 FIVE CENTS MOTOR MATT'S LAUNCH OR A FRIEND IN NEED _BY THE AUTHOR OF MOTOR MATT_ [Illustration: _"Steady!" cried Motor Matt; "you'll be all right in a minute."_] STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK. MOTOR STORIES THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION _Issued Weekly. By subscription $2.50 per year. Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1909, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C., by_ STREET & SMITH, _79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York, N. Y._ No. 21. NEW YORK, July 17, 1909. Price Five Cents. Motor Matt's Launch OR, A FRIEND IN NEED. By the author of "MOTOR MATT." CONTENTS CHAPTER I. NEW FRIENDS AND NEW FORTUNES. CHAPTER II. THE RAFFLE. CHAPTER III. PING PONG OBJECTS. CHAPTER IV. ANOTHER RESCUE. CHAPTER V. AN ODD TANGLE. CHAPTER VI. THE RICH MAN'S SON. CHAPTER VII. A PLAN THAT FAILED. CHAPTER VIII. A CHASE ACROSS THE BAY. CHAPTER IX. THE LION'S MOUTH. CHAPTER X. THE MOUTH CLOSES. CHAPTER XI. SURPRISING EVENTS. CHAPTER XII. M'GLORY'S RUN OF LUCK. CHAPTER XIII. WAITING AND WORRYING. CHAPTER XIV. PING STARS HIMSELF. CHAPTER XV. A NEW TWIST--BY GEORGE. CHAPTER XVI. ANOTHER TWIST--BY MATT AND M'GLORY. THE MAN-EATER. CHARACTERS THAT APPEAR IN THIS STORY. =Matt King=, otherwise Motor Matt. =Joe McGlory=, a young cowboy who proves himself a lad of worth and character, and whose eccentricities are all on the humorous side. A good chum to tie to--a point Motor Matt is quick to perceive. =George Lorry=, a lad who has begun steering a wrong course, and in whom Matt recognizes a victim of circumstances rather than a youth who is innately conceited, domineering and unscrupulous. =Ping Pong=, a young Chinese who wins a motor launch in a raffle and insists on working for Motor Matt. Full of heathen vagaries, he drops mysteriously out of the story--but is destined to be heard from again. ="Red-whiskers,"= otherwise "Big John," an unscrupulous person who takes his dishonest toll wherever he can find it; but, in crossing Motor Matt's course, he meets with rather more than he has bargained for. =Kinky and Ross=, two pals of Big John. =Landers=, another pal who proves treacherous. CHAPTER I. NEW FRIENDS AND NEW FORTUNES. "What next?" Not often does a boy put that question to himself and receive an answer as quickly as Motor Matt received his. The king of the motor boys was out among the sand dunes on the Presidio Military Reservation. He had started to walk to the old fort at the Golden Gate, but had dropped down on one of the sand heaps, thinking--a little moodily, it must be admitted--over his present situation, and what lay ahead. It was a fine morning. The sky was pale blue and without a cloud, and the bay was as blue as indigo. The trade wind blew over him, and tempered the heat, and the salt tang in the air reminded him of the long voyage around the Horn which he and his chums had completed no more than a week before. Alcatraz was so close that it almost seemed to Matt as though he could take a running jump from the shore and clear the intervening stretch of water, and beyond Alcatraz, like a purple pyramid, arose Tamalpais, looking westward across the Pacific. Matt was gloomy because, early that morning, he had separated from his two chums, Dick Ferral and Carl Pretzel. Dick had received a telegram from his uncle, in Denver, asking him to come east at once. At his invitation, Carl had gone with him. Both lads urged Matt to accompany them, but he had declined, thinking more seriously than he had ever done of some "prep" school and a course at Leland Stanford. If he was to take that step, seeking new friends and new fortunes, why not take it now? There was something more in life, Matt told himself, than just knocking around the world, meeting all kinds of trouble and getting the upper hand of it. But there were the motors, the explosive engines Matt loved so well, and had worked among so long. If he entered some academy, he would have to turn his back on the humming cylinders, the rushing wheels, and the racing propellers. That thought gave him a pang. The gasoline motor was just coming into its own, and the field that lay before it was so wide as to stagger the imagination. Could Matt tear himself away from the fascination of terminals, commutators and spark plugs, from differential and transmission gear, from spray nozzles and float feeds, from the steady explosion, the perfect mixture of air and gasoline, the humming of the coils, and the beautifully balanced reciprocity of a running motor? Well, after a while, perhaps, but not--not right away. "What next?" he asked himself. "Huh!" came a sound, half-grunt and half-greeting, from directly in front of him. During his reflections, Matt's head had bowed forward and his eyes had fixed themselves vacantly on the gray sand. He raised his glance abruptly, and saw within a yard of him a young fellow in dingy sombrero, faded blue flannel shirt, and corduroy trousers. The lad could not have been more than seventeen. His face was tanned a deep bronze, and his eyes were as black as midnight. His nose was what is termed a "snub," and gave his face a droll, humorous look. As he slouched in front of Matt he had his hands in his pockets. For a full minute Matt and the stranger surveyed each other. "Huh!" said the stranger again, pulling a hand out of his pocket to jerk the brim of his hat down over one eye. "Got any sand?" he inquired. "Sand?" echoed Matt. "Sure--s-a-n-d, sand. I'm game as a hornet myself, and I reckon I can lay holt of you and wind you up like an eight-day clock. Say, try me a whirl, catch-as-catch-can. If I can't put you on your back in a brace of shakes, I'll eat my spurs. Dare you!" The stranger backed off, and pushed up his sleeves. A wide grin crossed his face and his black eyes twinkled. "What have you got against me?" asked Matt. "Why do you want to fight?" "Shucks! You got to have a reason for every blamed thing? Come at me. Dare you--dare you! I'm hungry to caper--and you ain't going to hold back on a feller when he's _hungry_, are you?" Matt laughed. "Well, no," he answered, getting up. Then, without any ifs, ands, or whyfors, the king of the motor boys and the stranger rushed together. It was the "double grapevine" that did the business for the stranger. In ten seconds, by the watch, he went into the air and dropped down on the soft sand with a _chug_ that left him dazed and bewildered. Then he sat up and stared. "Well, well, well!" he sputtered. He was still grinning, and his black eyes traveled over Matt with wonder and admiration. "You the Tur'ble Turk in disguise?" he inquired. "Hardly," laughed Matt. "You must have learned wrestling in an Agricultural School." "Mebby," answered the other, picking himself up, "but I ain't diving into my wannegan any, at that. You can't give me another jolt like that, pard. Two out of three, you know. First fall for the gent in the leather cap--but the next one's mine. Whoop-ee!" The stranger, bareheaded and sleeves rolled to his elbows, rushed at Matt like a hurricane. Matt side-stepped, whirled, caught his antagonist from behind and shouldered him like a bag of meal. The next instant he had dropped him, and squirmed out from under his gripping fingers. "Gee, man!" gasped the stranger, rubbing his hand over his eyes. "Speak to me about that, oh, _do_! He lifts me up and sets me down, and all my caperin' don't amount to shucks. Ain't it scandalous to be hip-locked with like that?" "Got enough?" asked Matt. "Plenty, _amigo_." The stranger climbed to his feet, picked up his hat and reflectively slapped the sand out of it. "Down where I come from, a feller can 'most always tell when he's got enough. When did you break out on this part of the map?" "A week ago." "What label do you tote?" "King, Matt King." The strange youth came within one of dropping his hat. "Speak to me about _that_!" he gasped, his eyes widening. "Why, I might as well have wrestled with a locomotive and tried to stand it on its headlight in the right of way! Say, I've read about _you_! You're the king of the motor boys--the big high boy who brought that submarine around South Americy, and turned her over to Uncle Sam here in 'Frisco. _Gracias!_" "What are you thanking me for?" "Because you could have tied me into a bowknot and tossed me into the bay--and you didn't. Next time I hip-lock with a cyclone I hope somebody will put a tag on me and ship me to an asylum for the feeble-minded. My name's McGlory, Joe McGlory, and when I'm to home I hang up my lid in Tucson. Shake, Motor Matt. You sure stack up pretty high with me." "Glad to know you, McGlory," said Matt, highly edified, giving the youth's hand a cordial pressure. "Is it your custom to take a fall out of every acquaintance you make?" "Well, it's sort of satisfyin', when you make friends with a galoot, to know which is the best man. It shows you what he's got in him that you can depend on in a pinch, see? I reckon you think I've got everything but the long ears, eh? Don't make a mistake about that, pard. I'm not so foolish as you might think. Tell me something!" "What?" "While you've been in 'Frisco have you seen anything of a feller about my heft and height, scar an inch long over his right eyebrow, answerin' to the name of George Lorry?" Matt shook his head. "Haven't seen him," he answered. "Are you looking for a fellow answering that description?" "I am, a heap." The grin, which seemed almost perpetual on McGlory's face, faded into an earnest expression as he mentioned the lad he was looking for. "Did you come to this reservation looking for him?" went on Matt. "Nary, pard." McGlory faced the boy, and waved his hand toward the life-saving station ahead, and to the left of them, on the shore. "I'm mortal fond of boats," he went on. "Kind of queer, that, don't you think, for a galoot that's passed pretty near his whole life in the mines and in the cattle ranges? Anyway, that's me. I can't cross the ferry without gettin' seasick, but, all the same, everything that floats tickles me more than I can tell. I've been down to the life-saving station looking at the surf boat." "I'm fond of boats myself," said Matt, "especially motor boats. There's something on the ground that must belong to you, McGlory," he added, pointing to the sand near where McGlory had fallen, the first time. The young cowboy looked at the object, and then recovered it with a whoop. The object was a small, oblong square of pasteboard. "It's a ticket for the raffle," McGlory explained. "There's two hundred of 'em out, and I've got sixty." "Raffle?" queried Matt. "Sure. A little old motor launch is goin' to be raffled off, over at Tiburon, this afternoon. Say, that boat's a streak! She can show her heels to anythin' in San Francisco Bay. Speak to me about that, will you! I've got sixty chances out of two hundred for baggin' her. Come over with me to the raffle, pard. I've cottoned to you, and you're my style from the ground up. What say?" "Can you run a motor launch?" asked Matt. "Don't know the first thing about it." "What do you want with such a boat, then, if it makes you seasick to ride on the water, and if you don't know how to run a motor?" "Shucks! Whenever I get a notion I play it up strong, no matter whether there's any reason in it or not. That's Joe McGlory from spurs to headpiece, and everybody in Tucson will tell you the same. Are you with me, Matt? If you are, we'll slide back through the reservation, and jump the cars." Matt had already conceived a liking for young McGlory. There was something mysterious about him, and a mystery is always attractive. A few moments later the king of the motor boys was strolling along the old board walk between the big Presidio barracks and the row of officers' houses, side by side with his new friend. New friends and new fortunes, ran his thoughts. How were they to turn out, and what were they to be? CHAPTER II. THE RAFFLE. "There she is, Matt; and it's apples to ashes she's the fastest thing that floats. Why, she can run like a scared coyote makin' for home and mother. I've seen her perform, pard, and when she goes any place she arrives just before she starts. Speak to me about that, please. Squint at her good and hard, and tell me what you think." Motor Matt and Joe McGlory had eaten their dinner at a restaurant in Market Street, and had caught the one-o'clock boat across the bay to Tiburon. It was now a quarter to two, and they were standing on a small wharf, not far from the ferry landing, looking down on a trim little boat. There were about a dozen others, men and boys, lounging on the wharf. The raffle was to come off at two, and most of the idlers, presumably, had bought tickets, and were waiting to "put their fortune to the touch." The boat was an eighteen-footer, some three feet beam, and looked as though she could "git up and git" if enough ginger were thrown into her propeller. She was in charge of a boy who had let her drift out to the end of a ten-foot painter. "Pull her in," called Matt to the boy. "I'd like to look at her engine." The boy laid hold of the painter, and drew the boat up alongside the wharf. Matt dropped into her, and lifted one side of the hinged hood that protected the motor. He found that the engine consisted of two horizontal opposed cylinders, and was as neat, simple, and compact a marine motor as any he had ever seen. The gasoline tank was in the nose of the boat. "Ten horse power," mused Matt. "You've struck it," said the boy. After a five-minute examination the only fault Matt had to find with the machinery lay in the reversing gear. The brake band was not properly adjusted, but was set so that it dragged on the drum, which could hardly fail to result in a reduction of speed. When Matt climbed up on the wharf again McGlory met him with an eager question as to what he thought of the _Sprite_, which was the name of the little craft. "She's all right," answered Matt, "and ought to run like a singed cat." "Worth a couple of hundred plunks?" "The motor alone is worth a hundred and fifty, and seems to be as good as new." "Whoop!" exulted McGlory. "Somebody's going to get her for a cartwheel--one single, solitary piece of the denomination of eight bits. Mebby it's me? _Quien sabe?_" "There were two hundred tickets, you say, and they were sold at a dollar each?" "Keno, correct, and then some." "And you have sixty tickets, Joe?" "Again your bean is on the right number, pard." "Well, if you get the boat she will have cost you sixty dollars." "But it's only one ticket out of the sixty that wins her, Matt. Fifty-nine plunks are squandered, and it's one big dollar that pulls her down to me. I'd have bought more, if I'd had the _dinero_." "I might take a chance myself," observed Matt, "although I haven' any more use for a motor launch here in 'Frisco than has a stray cowboy by the name of McGlory." "Nary, you won't, Matt," said McGlory. "Tickets are all gone." "What in the world are you going to do with the craft if you win her?" "I can't tell how nervous you make me, wanting a reason for every blooming thing. The notion hit me plumb between the eyes, Matt, and that's all there is to it. But if I can't use the _Sprite_ I can sell her, can't I? And if I did want to go cruising, I've got you to run her for me! Oh, speak to me about that. But," and here McGlory's face fell, "I'm not going to get her. Johnny Hardluck has been running neck and neck with me ever since I was knee-high to a clump of cactus. If I'd have bought a hundred and ninety-nine tickets, the pasteboard I failed to corral would be the one that bobbed up when the wheel stopped runnin'. That's me, but I'm so plumb locoed that I keep trying to bust this hard-luck blockade. What's that--a twenty-dollar gold piece?" Matt had stooped down while McGlory was talking, and picked up a flat object from the ground in front of him. "A baggage check," answered Matt. "Some of the crowd here must have dropped it. If we could find----" Just then, a man appeared carrying his derby hat in his hand. The hat was filled with numbered slips. "Gents," called the man, "this here drawin' for the _Sprite_ is now a-goin' to take place. Somebody's a-goin' to get that little streak o' greased lightnin' for a dollar. She's a good boat, an' wouldn't be sold for twice two hundred if her owner hadn't tumbled into a stretch of hard luck. She's done her mile in four minutes, the _Sprite_ has, right here in the bay. This here hat is filled with slips o' paper numbered from one to two hundred, like the tickets. One of 'em's goin' to be drawed by the kid, who'll be blindfolded for the occasion. The lucky number the kid first pulls from the hat takes the boat." Cheers from the assembled crowd greeted the "kid" as he climbed out of the boat and allowed a handkerchief to be tied over his eyes. Then, with much formality, and while the breathless crowd watched, the youngster's grimy hand went into the hat and pushed around wrist-deep among the slips. "If the feller that gets the boat lives over in 'Frisco," pursued the man, while the boy dallied provokingly with the slips, "he won't have to wait for the next boat back. All he's got to do is to jump into the _Sprite_, head her where he wants to go, and cut loose. She's full o' oil and gasoline, an' could go from here to Vallejo without takin' on any more." The boy's hand lifted from the hat and held up a slip. "Number seventy-three," read the man; "number seventy-three is the lucky ticket, an' gets the _Sprite_. Who's got number seventy-three?" "Stung again!" said McGlory gloomily, taking a handful of tickets from his pocket and tossing them into the air. "I might just as well say moo and chase myself. Sixty _pesos_ gone where the woodbine twineth, and McGlory's got another lesson in the way luck's cut him out of her herd. Mebby it's just as well. I've got about as much use for a motor launch as a yaller dog for the tin can tied to the end of his tail, but the notion that I wanted the thing sure hit me hard." "You ought to put a curb on those notions of yours, Joe," said Matt. "They seem to be pretty expensive." "Shucks! Well, I get a couple o' square miles of fun nursing the notions along, anyways. It's hoping for things that makes a feller feel good; he never steps so high, wide, and handsome after he gets 'em. Now----" Just here there came an excited chirp, followed by a shrill cackle of joy. A Chinese boy, not more than fifteen or sixteen, broke through the disappointed throng of whites, his queue flying, and his blue silk blouse fluttering. "My gottee! Hoop-a-la! My ticket him seventy-tlee! My gottee chug-chug boatee." "Happy days!" scowled McGlory, his eyes on the young Chinaman. "If that washee-washee yaller mug hasn't pulled down the prize I'm a sick Injun. And here's me with sixty tickets, and him with only _one_! Speak to me about that! What sort of a low-down thing is luck, anyway, to pass up a respectable white, with sixty chances, and dump that boat onto a Chink with only one! Sufferin' sister! Let's go some place, Matt, where we can be away from the crowd and by ourselves. I'm in a mood for reflection--like old Jack Bisbee was when the government mule kicked at him and set off a box of dynamite. I've got it in the neck, as per usual, and I want to say things to myself." "Wait a minute, Joe," returned Matt. "Let's watch the Chinaman." The man who had "bossed" the drawing examined the Chinaman's ticket. "It's seventy-three, all right," he remarked. "Where you gettee, Charley?" "'Melican man no gottee dol pay fo' laundry," the Celestial answered; "him givee China boy ticket." "It was sure a good play for you. There's your boat. Take her." The yellow boy ran down to the edge of the wharf, dancing around in his wooden shoes, and crooning ecstatically to himself. "My gottee boat, my gottee boat! Hoop-a-la! Where row sticks?" he demanded, turning to the man who had been in charge of the raffle. "That's a motor boat, Charley," grinned the man. "You don't need any row sticks." The yellow boy, still chattering to himself, slipped from the wharf into the boat. One of the men, alive to the humor of the situation, pulled the painter off the post and threw it into the craft after him. "How you makee lun?" inquired the new owner of the _Sprite_, taking his seat at the steering wheel. The bystanders began nudging each other in the ribs. There was a delightful prospect ahead of them, in watching this guileless Celestial, who knew nothing about motors, trying to run a motor boat. Half a dozen voices called down directions for switching on the spark, starting the flow of gasoline, and getting the engine to going. "He'll get into trouble," cried Matt, pushing his way through the crowd. "What's the diff?" guffawed a blear-eyed individual, with a husky laugh. "It's only a chink, anyhow." Matt paid no attention to this remark. "You'd better look out, Charley," he called to the Chinaman. "My gottee, you no gottee," the yellow boy answered. "You no savvy China boy's pidgin; him savvy plenty fine. Hoop-a-la!" The motor began to pop, and then to settle down into a steady hum. The China boy was fairly palpitating with excitement. Grabbing at a lever, he threw the power into the propeller and the _Sprite_ jumped ahead along the wharf, rubbing her gunwale against the planks. Frantically the Celestial yanked at the steering wheel. The _Sprite_ turned her nose into the wharf and tried to climb out of the water. "She ain't no bubble wagon, chink!" roared the delighted crowd; "don't bring her ashore!" "Turn the wheel the other way!" shouted some one else. "If we can head the rat-eater right, he'll go plumb through the Golden Gate to China." In the confusion of yells, the yellow boy caught the suggestion and whirled the wheel the other way. In answer to this sudden twist of the helm, the boat made a hair-raising turn, going over so far that she almost showed her garboard strake, then she flung away like a race horse. A group of three piles arose out of the water, half a cable's length from the wharf. The _Sprite_ caught them a glancing blow. There was a terrific jolt, and those on the landing had a glimpse of a Chinaman in the air, his hat and sandals flying in three different directions. He came down headfirst in fifteen feet of water, while the _Sprite_ sheered away from the piles and struck a bee line for Sausalito. Matt, seeing that disaster was sure to happen, had jumped into a rowboat, and was bending to the oars. There might be fun in baiting a Chinaman in that way, but he could not see it. CHAPTER III. PING PONG OBJECTS. Motor Matt's first intention was to fish the China boy out of the water. He had barely started in the lad's direction, however, when he saw McGlory teetering on the edge of the wharf and throwing a rope. "Whoosh!" gulped the China boy, as he bobbed to the surface and laid hold of the rope. "No likee boatee! My gottee, no wantee. Whoosh!" Seeing that the lad was as good as rescued, Matt turned his attention to the runaway launch. By some freak of the steering gear the boat was cutting away in a straight line. The rowboat Matt had secured for the occasion had been tied well to the south of the piles into which the Chinese had run the _Sprite_. The launch, describing a turn before she struck into a straightaway course, would have to pass a point directly abreast of Matt. By quick work with the oars he could reach the point in time to lay hold of the launch. Under his strong arms the rowboat leaped out across the water, and then, with a quick push on one oar and an equally quick pull on the other, the boat was laid broadside on to the course the runaway _Sprite_ was taking. Not a second too soon was this accomplished. Hardly had Matt dropped the oars when the _Sprite_ came plunging up beside him. Leaning out over the side of the rowboat, he grabbed the gunwale of the _Sprite_. Both boats were hauled together, and the rowboat was towed along at a fierce clip--but only for a moment. Out of one boat and into the other Matt scrambled, deftly avoiding the swamping of either craft. A minute later he was at the steering wheel and the levers, and had slowed down and turned the _Sprite_ back. Yells and cheers greeted his successful manoeuvre; and when he regained the wharf, towing the rowboat, a dozen willing hands reached down to catch and secure the painters. "A dandy piece of work, you hear _me_!" bellowed one of the crowd. "You didn't expect Motor Matt to play lame duck while pullin' off a trick like that, did you?" came the voice of McGlory. "Shucks! that was as easy for him as sitting in at grub pile." "Say," cried the blear-eyed person, "is he the young thunderbolt as brought that submarine around from the Atlantic?" "He's the chap." This piece of information caused the crowd to develop a tremendous amount of interest in the king of the motor boys--more interest than he cared to claim. "Where's the Chinaman, Joe?" he asked, with difficulty extricating himself from the crowd, and making his way to McGlory's side. "Right here, Matt," answered the cowboy, leading the way to a pile of old timber on which the dejected Celestial was sitting. "He ain't feelin' quite as chipper as he was a spell ago. 'Melican man's boatee didn't set well, and he's got a bad attack of the blues." "Hello, Charley!" exclaimed Matt, leaning forward and slapping the yellow boy on his wet shoulder. "Where do you want that boat? I'll take it across the bay for you if that's where you want it to go." "No wantee," was the doleful reply. "Him debble boat; go sizz-sizz-sizzle, mebby so sendee China boy topside." "But you've won it, and it's yours." "No wantee," was the decided response. "My givee you fi' dol you takee." McGlory exploded a laugh and fell down the timbers. "Speak to me about that, will you?" he gasped. "He's willing to give you five dollars, Matt, to take the boat off his hands." The blear-eyed man pushed closer. "See here, chink," said he, "don't you be a fool jest because you got a chanst. What's the use of givin' a feller money to take the boat? I'll give you a ten-dollar bill for it, if that's the way you feel." McGlory pulled himself off the pile of timber and stepped in front of the man. "I wonder if you wouldn't?" he scoffed. "What's it to you, anyhow?" growled the man. "Who give you any right to butt in? If the chink wants to sell the boat I got a right to buy it." "You ain't got a right to rob him, howsumever, and I'm not going to loaf around with my hands in my pockets and see you do it." "Blather! What's a chink, anyhow?" "A chap's got to be treated square," spoke up Matt, "no matter whether his skin's white, black, or yellow." "Look here, Charley," persisted the man, "I'll give you fifty cold dollars for that boat." "I'll give him seventy-five," put in another man. "If the launch is going at a bargain I might as well hand over a bid. What do you say, Charley?" The China boy's little eyes began to snap and sparkle as the idea of profit drifted through his head. "Let them bid, Charley," said Matt. "I'll give you ten dollars more than the highest bid they make." This headed off any further attempt to get the better of the Chinaman. After lingering in the vicinity for a few minutes, the last of the crowd departed in the direction of the ferry house. "You takee boat," said the Chinaman to Matt. "You ketchee, you takee. Huh?" "For how much?" queried Matt. "I haven't any use for the craft, Charley, and I was merely bidding to keep those other fellows from robbing you." "Wisht I had some money," muttered McGlory. "I'll get a letter from Tucson in a day or two, and I reckon it'll have a wad of _dinero_ in it for me. Lend me enough to buy that boat, Matt, and I'll fork over as soon as I make the raise." "I'd be glad to lend you money, Joe, for anything but that," answered Matt. "You don't need the _Sprite_ any more than I do, so, if I don't lend you any funds you can't buy the boat." "That's just like a hired man, Matt, and not like a real pard," mumbled McGlory. "But you're doing the right thing, at that." "Me allee same Ping Pong," piped up the Celestial, picking up the slack of his kimono and wringing the water out of it. "Ah Choo makee lun launly, fire Ping Pong, you savvy? Whoosh! My no gottee job allee mo'." "That's rough," commiserated the cowboy, with a wink in Matt's direction. "Little Ping Pong here worked for Ah Choo, and the old sneeze pulled the pin on him. What was that for, Ping?" "My takee ticket flom 'Melican man fol washee-washee," explained the China boy. "Ah Choo no likee; him tellee Ping Pong makee skip, nevel come back allee mo'." "Listen to that!" went on McGlory. "A flat-faced swatty owin' Ah Choo a dollar for the week's wash, blows into the laundry emporium and trades a ticket on the raffle with Ping Pong here for the amount of his debt. When Ah Choo hears the particulars, he ditches Ping. Ping comes over to Tiburon, wins the boat, and tries to make it do a handspring over a clump of piles. Between you and me, Matt, we pull him out of the briny and save the boat, and here he is, worryin' because he's out of a job and never thinking about the eighty-five _pesos_ that are bound to drop into his yellow palms!" "China boy workee fo' you," chirped Ping Pong, reaching out to grab Matt's hand. "You takee boat, givee Ping Pong job." "There's your chance," grinned McGlory. "Take on the chink, Matt, and you corral the boat. It's no rhinecaboo he's running in, either. He means every word of it." Matt's eyes wandered in the direction of the ferry house. "The next boat is about to leave," said he hurriedly. "You take Ping and go on the boat, Joe, and I'll follow you with the _Sprite_. You'll find me on the water front near the foot of Clay Street. When we get back there we'll find some way out of this difficulty. I haven't any more use for the Chinaman than I have for the boat, but I should think we could sell the boat for somewhere near what she's worth and then turn the proceeds over to Ping. That ought to keep him going until he finds a job that suits him." "Keno!" agreed McGlory, grabbing the Celestial by the arm. "Come on, Ping, and we'll strike a bee line for the ferry." As they hurried off, Motor Matt returned to the landing and to the _Sprite_. He was only a few moments casting off and starting across the bay. Destiny was lying in wait for him. Fate knows her business, and never juggles events into such a state as they were then without having a well-defined object in view. CHAPTER IV. ANOTHER RESCUE. Matt fell in behind the big ferryboat as she moved out of the slip and churned up the water in the direction of San Francisco. Drawing back far enough to be clear of the steamer's troubled wake, he jogged along, and tried out the _Sprite_ with various manoeuvres calculated to test her motor and her rough-weather qualities. A keen delight ran tingling through every nerve as he handled the steering wheel and manipulated the levers. The engine worked perfectly; and, by flinging the little craft ahead into the rough water thrown up by the steamer, he was surprised and delighted at the easy work she made of the big waves. For a while, McGlory and Ping grouped themselves aft and watched him. Every now and then the cowboy would wave his hat and shout something which the distance between the boats rendered indistinguishable to Matt. A tug came towing a two-masted ship in from the Gate. Matt allowed the _Sprite_ to fall off, so that the tug and its tow would pass between him and the ferryboat. As he headed westward in order to round the stern of the sailing ship, Matt became suddenly aware that sailors were running about the deck of the towed vessel, shouting back and forth, and some of them hurrying to pick up coils of rope. Abruptly the excitement ceased. The sailors dropped their ropes, and two or three of them ran up on the poop deck, waved their hands to Matt, and pointed southward, along the track of the ferryboat. Matt could not hear what the sailors shouted to him, but from their gestures he knew there was something demanding his attention on the other side of their vessel. As the schooner gurgled and lurched past, Matt saw a human form bobbing about in the water, and he also saw that the ferryboat was in the act of putting about. Waving a reassuring hand to the captain of the boat, Matt forced the _Sprite_ to her best speed, and laid a direct course toward the struggling form. The captain of the ferryboat, no doubt assuming that the launch would easily effect a rescue, signaled his wheelman to keep on across the bay. As Matt steadily diminished the distance that separated him from the form in the water, the form suddenly vanished. With his eyes on the spot where it had gone down, the young motorist was just making ready to shut off the power and dive overboard when the form once more shot to the surface. "Keep afloat!" shouted Matt encouragingly, "I'm almost alongside." It was a young fellow, Matt could see that, and there was despair in his face as he turned his head in response to the call. He tried to say something, but the words were lost in a watery gurgle. His arms were working feebly, and it was evident that he was nearly at the last gasp. Coaxing the last ounce of speed out of the _Sprite_, Matt laid her bow within a foot of the youth, then swiftly shifted the wheel in order to bring the side of the launch as close as possible. Hanging to the wheel with one hand, Matt leaned outward and downward, grabbing the collar of the youth's sweater with his disengaged hand. "Steady!" cried Motor Matt; "you'll be all right in a minute." Then, with a heave that caused the little boat to dip at a dangerous angle, he hoisted the young fellow aboard and dropped him splashing against the stern thwarts. There was plenty of life in him, and Matt felt, just then, that the boat required more attention than he did. After getting the _Sprite_ back on her proper course, Matt slowed her speed and looked around. The young fellow was sitting up in the bottom of the boat, leaning back against the rear thwarts. He was about Matt's own age, his hands were slender and white, and his sweater, trousers, and shoes were of the most expensive material. "Did you ship much water?" asked Matt. "Not much," was the answer. "Fall off the boat?" "Yes." The youth did not seem inclined to go into particulars. When he answered Matt's question, he leaned over the gunwale to peer around Matt and get a look at the ferryboat. "She's going right on," he said, as though to himself; "she won't stop to take me aboard." "It won't be necessary for the ferryboat to stop," spoke up Matt. "I've got you aboard, and that's enough." The youth started, stared, and lifted one hand tremblingly to his head. "How did you happen to drop overboard?" inquired Matt. "I--I don't know," was the indefinite rejoinder. "I just happened to, that's all. Where are you going?" "To San Francisco--where you must have been going." "Can't you put about and take me to Sausalito?" The request surprised Motor Matt. "Changed your mind about going to 'Frisco?" "I don't want to go there. I want to go to Sausalito. It don't make any difference to you where you land me, does it?" There was an arrogant, domineering air about the youth, even in his present half-demoralized condition, that struck the wrong kind of note in Matt's ears. "It just happens," returned Matt, "that I'm to meet a friend at the foot of Clay Street, and he'll probably be waiting for me when I get there. I don't see how it makes very much difference to you, when it's certain you must have been going to the city when you dropped off the ferryboat." "Well," was the ungracious response, "it does make a difference to me--a whole lot of difference. Will you take me to Sausalito after you meet your friend?" "I guess the ferryboat can do that for you," answered Matt stiffly. The strange youth had not had a word of thanks to say to his rescuer, on the contrary, he was acting as churlish as possible in the circumstances. "I'm in a nice fix to ride on a ferryboat," grumbled the young fellow, looking down at his soggy clothing and his water-logged shoes. "What's your name?" asked Matt. "What do you want to know that for?" "Curiosity," was the cool response. "I'd like to chalk it up in my memory as belonging to a young chap who couldn't even be civil to the fellow who saved him from drowning." A tinge of color ran through the youth's pale face. "The captain of the ferryboat would have saved me, if you hadn't," said he. "He couldn't have got there in time. You were about to sink as I grabbed you." There was a silence, broken at last by the youth. "My name's Thompson," said he, "and I live in Sausalito." "You got on the boat at Tiburon?" Thompson was recovering his normal condition by swift degrees. He flashed a strange look of suspicion at Matt. "Well, yes," he answered. "I've been staying there for a while; but I live in Sausalito. Give me a cigarette." "You've come to the wrong shop for cigarettes, Thompson. I'm beginning to understand why you couldn't keep yourself afloat in the water better than you did--too many paper pipes. They play hob with a fellow's endurance." The _Sprite_, by that time, was abreast of the docks, and off the unsavory quarter known as the "Barbary Coast." Thompson paid little attention to Matt's remarks, but fixed his eyes gloomily on the shipping as they glided past. There was something at the bottom of Thompson's mind, and Matt wondered what it could be. "I suppose," Thompson continued, tiring of looking at the ships and the sweating stevedores, "that it's a lucky thing for me you happened to be around to pick me up." "You might call it that," returned Matt dryly. He had his back to his passenger, so that he might pick a berth for the _Sprite_ somewhere in the vicinity of the foot of Clay Street. When he spoke he did not look around. "Well, I'm obliged to you," proceeded Thompson. "I guess you needn't take me to Sausalito, after all. I'll get out and go to a hotel. There's a lot of hotels on the 'Front.'" "Stay away from the hotels on the 'Front,' Thompson; that's my advice to you. They're not the right sort of place for a fellow like you to stop, even for a short time." "I guess I can take care of myself," was the haughty rejoinder. "I guess you think you can, Thompson. You seem to have a pretty large opinion of yourself." "Are you trying to insult me?" "Great spark plugs, no! Why should I want to do that?" "I don't like the way you talk, that's all. You act as though you didn't believe what I said." "That's where your imagination is working overtime. What is it to me, one way or the other, whether you're telling the truth or not?" Matt saw the berth he was looking for, and turned the _Sprite_ into the slip. Two minutes later he was alongside the dock, and had his painter fastened to a post. As he faced about, after making the painter secure, he saw that Thompson had gained the dock, and was starting off toward the street, his feet sluicing around in his wet shoes, and his trousers slapping about his legs as he walked. He was intending to leave without any further talk with Matt, and the latter leaned against a post and watched him with half-humorous, half-wondering eyes. Before he reached the street, however, McGlory and Ping Pong dodged around the end of a loaded dray and came face to face with him. McGlory stopped short, and stared. So did Thompson. Then McGlory jumped forward with a whoop, countered the half-hearted blow Thompson aimed at him, and grabbed him around the waist. "Sufferin' Joseph!" cried McGlory, "if it ain't Cousin George! Speak to me about that, will you? Cousin George Lorry, that I've been bushwhackin' all over 'Frisco to find! Easy, George! You couldn't get away from me in a thousand years, and you know it. Whoop-ee, Matt! Come this way, and come a-running!" CHAPTER V. AN ODD TANGLE. In a flash Motor Matt recalled what McGlory had told him among the sand dunes beyond the Presidio barracks. He had described a fellow, about his own heft and height, whom he named as George Lorry. Could it be that Matt had picked up the very chap McGlory was looking for? And McGlory had referred to him as his cousin! Matt hurried forward to where the so-called Thompson was struggling to get away from the cowboy. "Hands off of me, McGlory!" panted the bedraggled youth. "You haven't any right to lay a finger on me, and you know it!" "I haven't, eh?" growled McGlory. "Well, you just try to bolt, and I'll give you a run for your alley. You're a pretty specimen, ain't you? Oh, shucks! I'm plumb disgusted with you, and so's everybody else. What do you suppose the folks think, back in Madison?" There was an exasperated rattle in the other's throat, but words and strength failed him, all at once, and he drooped limply in McGlory's arms. "He's played out, Joe," said Matt. "Let him sit down for a minute and rest." "What a mess he's made of this business," muttered McGlory angrily, as he allowed the flabby form he was holding to slip down on the rough cobblestones. "He hasn't as much sense as the law allows, and you can spread your blankets and go to sleep on that." "You're positive he's the fellow you were looking for, Joe?" inquired Matt. "Positive? Why, pard, I know him as well as I know my own picture in the looking-glass. See that scar?" and he indicated a thin red line over his cousin's right eyebrow. "I don't need even that to prove who he is," McGlory added. "He told me his name was Thompson, and that he lived in Sausalito." "He's liable to talk anything but straight--_now_. Let's get him somewhere to a hotel. Sufferin' sand hills! his folks would throw a fit if they could see him like this. His name's George Lorry, and he lives in Madison, Wisconsin. What's more, he's a cousin of mine, although that's nothing to congratulate myself about." McGlory bent down. "Able to walk, George?" "Yes," was the sullen rejoinder. "Any particular place you'd like to be taken?" "Bixler House, around in Kearney Street. Get a cab." "Got any money, George?" Lorry's hands went slowly into his pockets. "All I had with me is in the bottom of the bay," he answered sulkily. "I don't think I can dig up enough to pay for a cab, but I reckon it's just as well for us to ride." "I'll foot the bill," chimed in Matt. "Here, Ping!" Ping was almost as hard a sight as was Lorry, but he came blandly forward in his bare feet. "Yasso, Missul Matt," said he. "Go and get a cab for us, Ping." "Allee light. My workee fo' you," and he darted away along the street. "I thought there was something queer about Lorry," remarked Matt. "It's queerer than you think. Matt," replied McGlory. "The whole yarn, when you go over it from end to end and crossways, is enough to make a feller's hair stand like the fur on a buffalo robe." Lorry looked up with a scowl. "How did you know where I was?" he demanded. "Didn't you buy a ticket to San Francisco?" "I bought a ticket to Chicago." "And from there, George, you bought one for here. Think you could fool the wise boys your father had scramblin' around Chicago lookin' you up? I got a telegram at Tucson asking me to hustle for 'Frisco, and do what I could to locate you. I've been in this burg for a week, and had just about made up my mind you'd taken a boat for somewhere on t'other side of the Pacific. And to think you were riding from Tiburon on the same craft that was carrying me!" "I saw you on the boat, and I jumped overboard to get away from you." McGlory went up into the air and came down with an astounded look at Matt. "Say something about that!" he gasped. "Sufferin' Hottentots, Matt, did you hear him? He jumped overboard to get away from his cousin, Joe McGlory! Don't tell me, George!" he growled to Lorry. "You're not such a fool as that comes to. We're out of the same family, mind, and I'd hate to think it." "You--you don't know everything," faltered Lorry. "Keno, I don't; but I'm goin' to know everything, George Lorry, before we part company." All this, of course, was more or less Greek to Motor Matt. It was clear enough that George Lorry had come of good stock, and equally clear that he had been pampered and spoiled. As for the rest of it, Matt was completely in the dark. Just at that moment the cab arrived. As it drew up, Ping Pong threw open the door and jumped out. "My gottee, Missul Matt!" he chirruped. "My workee fo' you, huh?" "For a while, yes, Ping," Matt answered, unable just then to think of any other satisfactory method for dealing with the Chinaman. "Stay here and watch the boat till I come back. Savvy?" "Can do," crowed Ping Pong, "you bettee. My workee fo' Motol Matt. Hoop-a-la!" The Chinese boy seemed as delighted as he had been over in Tiburon, when ticket
{'title': "Motor Matt's Launch; or, A Friend in Need by Stanley R. Matthews", 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}