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!"