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 the _Sprite_. 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 savee _Splite_!" blubbered Ping. "No lettee _Splite_ go 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 was the
_Sprite_, 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."
The _Sprite_ was 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 the _Sprite_ along 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 the _Sprite_.
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 the _Sprite_.
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 the _Sprite_ into 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. The _Sprite_ started 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 the _Sprite_, 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 the _Sprite_ and 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, and another
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.
The _Sprite_, 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 the _Sprite_ flung herself toward the door, toward
the cove--and toward safety.