MOTOR MATT'S CHASE.
Meanwhile, the king of the motor boys, without the remotest idea as to
what was happening to his cowboy pard, was exacting his own tribute
from the realm of exciting events.
When he started after Sam Wing, Matt had no time to give to any one
else. He supposed that McGlory was following him, but was altogether
too busy to look behind and make sure. It was a trifling matter,
anyhow. The main thing was to catch Sam Wing, and Matt threw himself
into the pursuit with ardor.
McGlory, it will be remembered, had worked upon the theory that the
Chinaman, eager to get as far from the road as possible, had gone over
the hill. But this was incorrect. Sam Wing hustled along the hillside
slope, his course paralleling the valley and the road.
Very early in the chase the Chinaman lost his grass sandals, and a
little later his stockings, but loss of his footwear seemed to help
rather than diminish his speed.
Motor Matt was "no slouch" as a long-distance runner, but Sam Wing
proved a handful for him. From time to time Matt would gain, coming so
close to the hustling Celestial that he shouted a call for him to stop,
but the Chinaman, gathering himself together for a spurt, ducked away
to his usual lead, and the chase went merrily on.
Once Matt nearly had him. A section of treacherous bank broke away
under Sam Wing's feet, and the pursued man flung up his arms and
dropped straight downward. Matt paused on the brink and looked below
for three or four yards to a little shelf gouged from the bankside. Sam
Wing, scarred and apparently senseless, was lying sprawled on the shelf.
Matt slipped and slid downward, fairly certain that he was at the end
of his exciting trail; but, just as his feet struck the shelf, the
Chinaman rolled over the edge and carromed away in a break-neck descent
that finally plunged him into the road.
This was the identical road that led past the spring, and Matt and Sam
Wing were somewhere between the spring and Gardenville. Where Martin
was with the automobile, Matt did not know, but if Martin had been
at that point in the road when the Chinaman rolled into it, an easy
capture could have been made.
There was some one in the road besides Sam Wing, however, and the
traveler was an old colored man, riding toward Gardenville on a mule.
The mule and the colored man were about a hundred feet away from Wing
when he got to his feet. As soon as the Chinaman's eyes rested on the
long-eared brute and its aged rider, he started at speed in their
direction.
Matt jumped into the road with less than twenty-five feet between
himself and Sam Wing. Once more he deceived himself with the idea that
the chase was narrowing to a close.
The mule, throwing its head and swinging its long ears, was ambling
leisurely along the way. The old darky appeared to be in a doze.
Matt, divining Sam Wing's intentions, gave vent to a warning yell. The
darky aroused himself and flung a look over his shoulder. But it was
too late, for Wing had already grabbed him by one of his dangling feet.
Another moment and the negro had been roughly pulled into the road.
Wing scrambled to the mule's back and dug into the animal with his
naked heels. Probably the mule was as startled as his former rider, for
he broke into a lumbering lope.
The chase, just then, took on a hopeless outlook for Motor Matt. If
Martin had only happened along in the automobile, the fleeing Chinaman
could have been brought up with a round turn, but Matt, with only his
feet under him, could not hope to overtake the galloping mule.
The darky, as Matt came up with him, was gathering in his ragged
hat and climbing to an upright position. He wore a look of puzzled
astonishment.
"Ain't dat scan'lous?" he cried. "Ah done been slammed into de road
by er Chinymum! En he's got mah mu-el! He's er runnin' erway wif mah
Gin'ral Jackson mu-el. By golly, whaffur kind ob way is dat tuh treat
an ole moke lak me?"
"It was pretty rough, uncle, and that's a fact," replied Matt,
smothering an inclination to laugh at the ludicrous picture the old
negro presented. "If we had another mule, I could catch the rascal, but
it is too much of a job for me with nothing to ride."
"You chasin' dat 'ar Chinymum, boss?" inquired the darky.
"Yes."
"Has he been up tuh somefin' dat he hadn't ort?"
"He has."
"Den yo' lis'en heah, chile," and a slow grin crept over the wizened,
ebony face of the negro. "Erbout er mile ahead dar's a bridge ovah a
creek, en dat 'ar Chinyman ain't gwine tuh ride Gin'ral Jackson ovah
dat bridge."
"Why not?"
"'Case dat fool mu-el won't cross no bridge if yo' doan' cotch his off
eah en give hit a pull. Mu-els is mouty queer daterway, en Gin'ral
Jackson is a heap queerer dan any othah mu-el yo' most evah see. He's
skeered ob a bridge, en pullin' his off eah done takes his min' off'n
de bridge, lak, en he goes ovah wifout mistrustin'. Now, dat yalluh
Chinymum trash doan' know dat, en ef he try to mek Gin'ral Jackson
cross de bridge wifout pullin' his off eah, dar's suah gwine to be
doin's, en----"
Just at that moment a boy came along on a bicycle. He was evidently
making a long journey, for he had a bag strapped to the handle bars.
"Wait a minute!" called Matt to the boy.
The bicycle halted, and the lad rested one foot on the ground and
looked inquiringly at Matt.
"I wish you'd lend me your wheel for a few minutes," said Matt. "A
Chinaman just stole this old darky's mule, and I believe I can overhaul
the thief if you'll let me take your bicycle."
"Gee!" exclaimed the boy. "How much of a start has the Chinaman got?"
"About three minutes. The darky says there's a bridge a mile ahead, and
that the mule won't cross the bridge unless he's coaxed. Perhaps I can
come up with the thief at the bridge."
"There you are," said the stranger generously, getting out of the
saddle and holding the wheel for Matt.
"Much obliged," returned Matt. "You and the darky come on to the
bridge, and perhaps you'll find me rounding up the mule and the
Chinaman."
"We'll do it," was the answer.
Matt mounted easily, thrust his toes into the toe clips, and got under
way. When he turned an angle of the road, and vanished behind a screen
of timber, he was going like a steam engine.
It had been a long time since Matt had ridden an ordinary bicycle,
but he had by no means forgotten the knack. He was not long in coming
within sight of the bridge, and there, sure enough, were the Chinaman
and the mule at the bridge approach.
The Chinaman was having trouble. General Jackson would not cross the
bridge, and he was braced back, immovable as the rock of Gibraltar. Sam
Wing was using his heels and the flat of his hand in a furious attempt
to force the brute onward. General Jackson did not budge an inch, but,
from the way he wagged his ears, it was evident that his wrath was
growing.
Matt remained silent and bent to the pedals. While Sam Wing was busy
urging the mule, Matt was planning to come alongside and treat the
Celestial as he had treated the old negro.
This design might have been successfully executed had not General
Jackson interfered with it. The mule's temper suddenly gave way
under the rain of kicks and blows, and he put his head down between
his forelegs and hoisted the rear half of his body into the air.
The manoeuvre was as sudden as it was unexpected, and Sam Wing went
rocketing into space.
The bridge was merely a plank affair, without any guard rails at the
sides, and after the Chinaman had done a couple of somersaults in the
air he landed with a thump on the bridge, close to the unprotected
edge. He started to struggle upright, and the hurried movement caused
him to slip over the brink.
He vanished from before Matt's eyes just as he had disappeared from the
caving bank--there was a flutter, a yell, a splash, and Sam Wing was
gone.
Matt threw on the brake, jumped from the wheel, and, after leaning the
machine against a tree, rushed to the bridge.
The creek was narrow, but seemed to be deep, and the Chinaman was
floating down with the current.
There was no time for Matt to linger and explain events to the
bicyclist and the negro. Each would recover his property, however, and
that ought to satisfy both of them. Springing from the bridge approach,
Matt hurried down the bank of the little stream.
The Chinaman, the king of the motor boys thought, must have been made
of india rubber to bear so well the series of mishaps that had come his
way. He came out of every one with astonishing ability to keep up his
flight.
Matt's rush down the creek bank was not continued for long. Sam Wing
saw him and made haste to effect a landing on the opposite bank. He
emerged, a dripping and forlorn spectacle, and left a damp trail up the
bank and into the woods.
Matt did not care to swim the creek in his clothes, and a tree, fallen
partly over the stream, afforded him an opportunity to cross dry-shod.
The tree was not a large one, and there was a gap of water at the end
of it, where the trunk had been splintered and broken away.
With a clear, steady brain and sure feet the king of the motor boys
passed to the end of his swaying, insecure bridge; then, with a leap,
he cleared the stretch of water and landed on the bank. The force he
had put into the jump displaced the tree and caused it to tumble into
the creek. It had served its purpose, however, and Matt, without a
backward look, tore away along the watery trail of the Chinaman.