PING STARS HIMSELF.
Ping was not impatient, while waiting for Matt and McGlory to come
back from the house boat, and he was not worrying. His callow mind was
engaged with the wheels and levers of the _Sprite's_ machinery, and he
might be said to be enjoying himself, in his artless, heathen way.
His first acquaintance with the _Sprite_ had not been of a pleasant
nature, but Ping had overcome his awe and fear, to a large extent, by
watching how readily the boat obeyed the touch of Motor Matt's hands.
The Chinese boy had observed all the details of starting, steering, and
stopping. Sitting alone in the launch, he touched the various levers
in proper order, again and again--touched them lightly, for he had no
desire to make the boat turn a "summerset," as McGlory had said she
would do if he got too free with his attentions.
The uproar and commotion that started abruptly on the house boat and
continued at intervals for some time, naturally drew the Chinaman's
eyes across the _San Bruno_. But the attraction of the motor was too
much for Ping to withstand, and he jumped at a conclusion to assure
himself that everything was well with Matt and McGlory, and returned to
his childlike interest in the machinery.
Some one scrambled off the _San Bruno_ into the _Sprite_. The rough
boarding of the little launch caused her to sway and shiver and dance
at the end of her painter.
"You makee plenty fuss, McGloly!" complained Ping, grabbing at the
sides of the boat to hold himself upright.
Before he could look around a rough hand had caught his queue and
jerked him over backward.
"Not a bloomin' word out o' you, chink!" hissed a menacing voice in
Ping's ear. "Ahead with ye, now, and unloose the painter. If you don't
hustle, I'll kick yer inter next week. This is a hurry-up call, and
don't you fergit that!"
Ping didn't wait to argue the question. Rolling over the top of the
hood, he knelt in the bow and tore the painter loose from the iron
ring. The engine was chugging by the time he had finished, and when the
_Sprite_ started, under the impulsive hands of the strange white man,
she leaped away with a jolt that rolled Ping back into the arms of the
boat's captor.
With an oath, the man hurled Ping into the bottom of the boat. He would
as soon have tumbled the Chinese boy into the water, and it was luck,
rather than design, that kept Ping out of the wet.
Crawling back on the stern thwarts, Ping leaned on his elbows, blinking
his little eyes and trying to guess what had happened.
Behind, over the swiftly growing stretch of water, he heard an uproar
on the house boat, then the pant and throb of another engine.
The strange white man looked around and swore.
"They're chasin' me, but they won't get me!" he muttered. "If this boat
can put me ashore ahead of 'em, I'll save my bacon dry-shod; an' if it
can't, by thunder, I'll take to the water and swim!"
Ping heard this, and dwelt upon the words for some time. The strange
white man was running away from the other devil-boat. What had the
strange white man done? Were Matt and McGlory on the other devil-boat
trying to catch him? Or was it the three bad 'Melican men who were
doing the chasing?
Ping couldn't figure it out. About all he realized was that there was
a race between the _Sprite_ and the _San Bruno_. Inasmuch as the _San
Bruno_ belonged to the enemy, Ping hoped in his heart that the _Sprite_
would leave her behind.
They were making for the shore of the cove, but the strange white man
was handling the boat badly. He didn't push or pull the way Motor Matt
did, and the imprisoned devil under the hood--the power that made the
propeller whirl--coughed and spluttered with rage and pounded on the
machinery with iron hammers.
It got on Ping's nerves, and he hoisted himself to a sitting posture.
"By Klismus," he cried frantically, "you lettee Ping lun engine! Him
makee go chop-chop, keepee _Splite_ away flom othel boat!"
The strange white man looked around with a snarl.
"Shut up!" he roared, "or I'll toss ye into the drink, so help me!"
Ping shut up. Lying back on the thwart he watched the other boat draw
nearer and nearer. The shore was yet a good way off, and it was plain
the _San Bruno_ would overhaul the _Sprite_ before the land could be
reached. And how the good devil under the hood was fighting to do
better! How hard it was begging the strange white man to treat it
right, and let it work easier and take the _Sprite_ away from the other
boat.
Ping gave a deep groan. Oh, if he was only at the wheel, and the
pull-things and the push-things!
He looked around for something to throw at the strange white man. If
a monkey wrench, or a hatchet, had been convenient, then one Landers
would probably never have known what struck him.
But, fortunately for Landers--and for Ping, too--no weapon was
available, and the race went on. The shore was near now, but the _San
Bruno_ was nearer.
Ping, straining his eyes through the dark, could see the men on the
_San Bruno_. There were three of them, and their boat was less than
three lengths away!
Suddenly the _Sprite_ slewed around, crosswise of the _San Bruno's_
course. Ping started up with a frightened yell, a splash echoing in his
ears.
There was no one at the wheel or the levers! Ping's almond eyes turned
swiftly shoreward, and there they saw a form in the water, swimming
strongly toward the land.
But Ping was not thinking of the strange white man, but of the
_Sprite_. Hurling himself forward across the midship thwart, he seized
the steering wheel and turned the launch in a wide circle.
A shout went up from the _San Bruno_.
"Halt, Landers! You can't get away with that money! Stop and drop
alongside or we'll cut you down to the water's edge!"
Ping, naturally, couldn't understand this. The voice that had called
out was not the voice of Motor Matt or McGlory. Since they were not on
the _San Bruno_, then, of course, they must still be on the house boat.
The Chinese boy started back over the watery trail which the _Sprite_
had recently traversed under the guidance of the white man. Carefully
he doctored the motor, pulling and pushing as he had seen Matt push and
pull, all the while breathing choice prayers in his native tongue to
placate the demon in the engine.
The devil must have been placated, at least a little, for he did not
clamor quite so loud, but at intervals he hammered in a way that was
very distressing to Ping. However, Ping couldn't help it, so he settled
himself down to his steering, occasionally throwing a look over his
shoulder at the other boat.
The _Sprite_ was gaining on her slowly. Ping continued to breathe his
heathen prayers, and to beg the honorable demon to stop pounding in the
machine and to put its extra power into the little wheel under the boat.
As the _Sprite_ came closer and closer to the house boat Ping was able
to see two figures on the upper deck.
Were they Motor Matt and McGlory? He guessed they were not, while
hoping that they were. Anyhow, he would have to stop. His nerves
fluttered as he wondered if he would be able to stop.
He had watched Matt as he brought the _Sprite_ alongside the _San
Bruno_. As he remembered it, Matt had begun to play with the levers
before the launch was very near the larger craft.
Matt, it will be recalled, had done this in order to let the _Sprite_
glide noiselessly to her berth. Ping repeated the manoeuvre, and
McGlory danced around on the house boat's deck, fuming at the delay
caused by the halted motor.
The _San Bruno_ was almost bunting into the stern of _Sprite_ as the
two boys made flying leaps to get aboard. The impact of their bodies
came within one of swamping the little craft, and Matt stumbled to the
steering wheel and got busy without losing an instant.
Ping slid backward over the midship thwart, yielding his place meekly
and gladly; and then, with McGlory, he watched while Motor Matt plucked
the _Sprite_ out of harm's way.
It was so neatly done that Ping's heart swelled within him, and he
slapped his hands and said glad things in Chinese. One touch of Motor
Matt's hand, and the demon stopped pounding. A hum as of an industrious
hive of bees came from under the hood, and the launch gathered itself
together and flung onward with a fresh burst of speed.
The _San Bruno_, those aboard her still under the impression that
Landers was on the _Sprite_--perhaps, in the darkness, mistaking Ping
for their renegade comrade--continued to give pursuit.
It was a hopeless chase, however, and when the _Sprite_ gained her old
berth at the Tiburon wharf the _San Bruno_ had given up and turned back
into the night.