Matt hoped that McGlory would be able to follow him; but, if the cowboy
found this to be impossible, then Matt would do his best to prevent
the report from falling into the hands of the colonel and Levitt. That
report was the one thing of vital importance. On it alone hinged the
success or failure of the colonel’s gigantic swindling operations. Matt
must escape capture at any cost, in order to retain possession of the
report.
The course of his flight carried him toward the rear of the Country
Club grounds. He heard the colonel’s shout to the young men just
in from the golf links, and he knew there would be a pursuit. Of
course Matt could explain the situation and perhaps escape legal
complications, but if caught he would be compelled to give up the
report.
He darted across a tennis court, leaped the net, dodged behind a clump
of lilac bushes, and ran toward the edge of a grove that bordered the
Country Club grounds on that side. Between the lilacs and the grove was
a rustic pavilion. A flower bed was near the pavilion, and an old negro
was kneeling beside the bed, his back toward Matt, and industriously
pulling weeds. Matt had not much time to give to the negro, but hoped
that he was giving his whole attention to his work. As he came around
the pavilion Matt heard sounds which indicated that more pursuers
were after him--these coming from the direction of the garage and the
stables.
To reach the timber without being seen seemed hopeless, and Matt looked
hurriedly around for some place in which he could secrete himself.
The floor of the pavilion was elevated some two feet or more above the
surface of the ground. The opening between the floor and the ground
was filled in with panels of close latticework. One of the panels was
broken, and Matt dropped to his knees and crawled through it.
This was not as secure a hiding place as he would have selected, if he
could have had his choice, but his emergency was such that he had no
time to look farther.
Lying flat on the ground, so that his form would not be visible to his
pursuers, Matt watched and waited.
The two young men with the golf sticks broke into view around the lilac
bushes. They were closely followed by three others, employees of the
club, evidently, for they wore overclothes. Matt recognized one of them
as having been in the garage when he and McGlory left the runabout
there.
The old negro had lifted himself to his feet and was facing the five
pursuers. Freedom or capture for Matt depended upon what the old negro
knew. Scarcely breathing, the king of the motor boys listened for what
was to come.
“Say, uncle,” panted one of the young men from the links, “did you see
a fellow running this way?”
“Ah did, suh,” replied the negro. “Ah was as close tuh him as whut me
an’ yo’ is, boss.”
Levitt at that instant rushed around the bushes. He was in time to hear
the negro’s answer to the question.
“Which way did he go?” Levitt demanded. “He’s a thief, and we’ve got
to capture him and recover some stolen property. Which way did he run?
Quick!”
The old darky turned and deliberately pointed away from the pavilion
and to a point in the encompassing timber which led toward the road,
well to the north of the clubhouse.
“Dat’s de way he went, boss,” said he, “an’, by golly, he went jess
a-hummin’.”
“This way, men!” shouted Levitt, leaping off in the direction indicated
by the negro.
The six pursuers disappeared at a run, and left Matt gasping with
astonishment. Why had the old darky put them on the wrong track? It was
preposterous to think that the negro had himself been deceived.
While Matt was turning the matter over in his mind, and puzzling his
brain with it, the negro began to whistle softly and to limp in the
direction of the pavilion. On reaching the broken panel of latticework,
he leaned against the railing of the pavilion.
“How yo’ lak dat, Marse Matt?” he chuckled. “Didn’t Ah done send um on
de wrong track, huh? En yo’ all thought Ah wasn’t lookin’ at yo’, en
dat Ah didn’t know who yo’ was! Har, har, har!”
The darky laughed softly as he finished talking.
Matt’s wonderment continued to grow.
“Great spark plugs!” he muttered, recognizing an old acquaintance. “Is
it--can it be--Uncle Tom?”
“Dat’s who Ah is, marse! Hit’s been a right sma’t of er while since
Ah had de pleasuah ob seein’ yo’. De las’ time we was togedder was in
Denvah. ’Membah all dem excitin’ times we had in Arizony, dat time dat
Topsy gal en me was wif dat Uncle Tom’s Cabin comp’ny? Golly, I ain’t
nevah gwineter fo’git dat! Who’s been doin’ yo’ mascottin’ lately, huh?
’Pears lak no one had, f’om de ha’d luck yo’ is in.”
Matt recalled Uncle Tom very vividly. The aged negro had belonged to
a stranded company of players, and Matt had helped them out of their
difficulties. But that had happened in the Southwest, and here was
Uncle Tom about as far East as he could get. The world is not so large,
after all, and many strange and unexpected meetings occur.
“I’m more surprised than I can tell, Uncle Tom,” said Matt, “to run
across you, here on Long Island, and at a time when I certainly needed
a friend. It may be that you can help me even more, but----”
“Ah’s pinin’ tuh do all dat Ah can fo’ yo’, Marse Matt,” interposed the
darky earnestly.
“But,” went on Matt, “this is hardly a safe place for me. If the coast
is clear I guess I’d better crawl out and get into the woods.”
“Yo’s right erbout dat, marse. Ah’s so plumb tickled tuh see yo’ dat I
come mighty nigh fo’gittin’ yo’s bein’ hunted fo’. Wait twell Ah take
er look erroun’.”
Uncle Tom stepped away from the pavilion and swept a keen glance over
the grounds in that vicinity.
“De coast am cleah, Marse Matt,” he announced, returning to the side of
the pavilion. “Yo come out an’ hike fo’ de woods, en Ah’ll foller yuh.
Den we can talk a li’l, en you can tell me whut mo’ de ole man can do.”
Matt pushed through the broken lattice and gained the timber line at a
point opposite the place where his pursuers had vanished. Here, for a
time, he was safe, and he sank down behind a mask of brush. Uncle Tom
was not long in reaching his side.
“Golly,” he beamed, looking Matt over, “but hit’s good fo’ sore eyes
jess tuh see yo’, marse. Ah nevah expected nuffin’ lak dis. Mouty
peculiah how folks meets up wif one anotheh sometimes, dat-er-way.”
“How did you happen to wander in this direction, Uncle Tom?” Matt asked.
“Mascottin’,” answered the old man gravely. “Ah be’n mascottin’ fo’
er prize fighteh. Terry, de Cricket, is whut he called himse’f, en Ah
won a fight fo’ him in Denvah, en another in Kansas City; but in New
Yawk Terry, de Cricket, done ’spected me tuh do all de wo’k, en he went
down wif er chirp, en dey counted ten on him. Ah couldn’t help dat,
but Terry he ’low Ah was losin’ mah mascottin’ ability, en he turned
me loose. Topsy done got er job in er house in Hempstead, en Ah picked
up dis place at de Country Club. But Ah doan’ like hit, marse. Ah’s er
ole man, en hit’s backachin’ wo’k. Yo’ needs er mascot bad, en now’s de
time tuh take me on.”
Uncle Tom was a humorous old rascal, and professed to believe that he
possessed mystical powers as a luck bringer. He declared that he had
helped Matt, and Matt humored him by letting him think so, giving him a
few dollars now and then to help him keep body and soul together.
“I’m not in shape just now, Uncle Tom,” said Matt, “to hire a private
mascot of your abilities. You see, I’m mixed up in a bit of trouble
that I’ve got to work through alone.”
“Bymby, Marse Matt, mebby yo’ all can make er place fo’ Uncle Tom?”
pleaded the negro. “Jess remembah whut Ah’s done fo’ yo’ in de past.
Ah nevah mascotted fo’ anybody dat Ah liked so well as yo’se’f. Dat’s
right. Has yo’ got a dollah yo’ can let go of wifout material damage to
yo’ own welfare?”
Matt extracted a five-dollar bill from his pocket and pushed it into
the negro’s yellow palm. Uncle Tom’s gratitude was so intense it was
almost morbid.
“Yo’s de fines’ fellah dat evah was,” he declared, grabbing Matt’s hand
and hanging to it. “Dat’s de trufe. Ah’d raddah wo’k fo’ you fo’ nuffin
dan fo’ some odders fo’ er millyun dollahs er day. Dat’s right. Yo’s de
same ole Marse Matt, en yo’----”
“I haven’t much time to talk, Uncle Tom,” interrupted Matt. “When I
left the clubhouse I had to drop from a second-story window. I made
it all right, but I left a friend behind. My friend’s name is Joe
McGlory. Do you think you could get word to him?”
“Shuah Ah can!” replied the old negro promptly. “What kin’ ob a lookin’
fellah is dat ’ar Joe McGlory?”
Matt described his chum’s appearance, and the darky listened closely.
“Find out,” Matt finished, “whether McGlory is still upstairs in the
clubhouse. If he is I don’t suppose you can communicate with him, for
you will have to do it privately. Providing you can get word to him,
tell him to meet me in the grove at the roadside, a quarter of a mile
north of the clubhouse. Got that?”
“Yas, I done got dat, marse.”
“If you can’t get word to McGlory inside of an hour, then you come and
tell me, will you?”
“Yo’ knows, Marse Matt, yo’ can count on Uncle Tom. Ah’ll do whut yo’
say, en Ah’ll wo’k mah ole haid off mascottin’ fo’ yo’ while Ah’m doin’
it.”
The old darky slipped away through the edge of the timber, and Matt,
none too sanguine, proceeded to lay a course for the spot where he
hoped to be joined by his cowboy chum.