"PICKEREL PETE."
By bringing the submarine boat _Grampus_ safely around South America
the king of the motor boys had made a good deal of money. Most of this
he had invested on the Pacific Slope, but he had more than enough of
the "ready" with him to settle the express charges and to keep him
afloat until George Lorry's affairs had been put in proper shape.
Having paid over the money and signed the express receipt, the question
as to what should be done with the _Sprite_ presented itself.
"You can uncrate the boat in the storeroom, if you want to," said the
obliging clerk, "and then we'll have her hauled down to the water for
you."
"Much obliged," answered Matt. "I believe I'll take off the crate and
see how the boat has stood her long overland journey."
The clerk furnished him with a hatchet, and Matt threw off his coat and
got busy. In an hour, the clean-cut hull of the _Sprite_ had emerged
from a litter of boards and old gunny sacks. An examination showed that
both hull and machinery were in as good condition as ever.
While Matt was working he had noticed a map of Madison hanging from
the storeroom wall. The map gave a very clear idea of Lakes Monona and
Mendota, between which lay the long and narrow city.
One of the express company's drivers had come into the storeroom and
was looking over the _Sprite_ with an air of deep interest.
"I wish you would tell me something about this map, neighbor," said
Matt.
"Ask me anything you want to," was the cheerful response. "I was born
and raised here and I know the place pretty well."
"What's this?" Matt inquired, laying a finger on a certain part of the
diagram.
"That's the Yahara River, sometimes called the 'Catfish.' It's been
straightened into a canal, and connects Third and Fourth Lakes. Monona
is Third, and Mendota is Fourth. There's locks at the Mendota end."
"And what's the other river coming into Mendota Lake on the side across
from the city?"
"The Yahara again."
"Then, if this boat was launched in Lake Monona, it could enter the
Canal over by Winnequa, cross into Mendota Lake, and proceed up the
Yahara?"
"She could, sure. Lots of boats do that."
"Here's a creek entering the Yahara. Is that navigable for a boat
drawing two or three feet of water?"
"Maybe. I guess a small boat could get up the creek a ways."
As Matt figured it, the cabin where he had left McGlory and George was
on the creek. Why couldn't he get the _Sprite_ afloat and proceed by
water to the cabin?
"I don't know anything about these lakes," went on Matt, "but I'd like
to get some one who knows them and make a little cruise."
"Fourth Lake is mighty treacherous. Whenever there's a west wind she
kicks up a big sea, and a lot of boats have come to grief on the rocks
of Maple Bluff. That's here--that piece of land running out into the
water, over where they've made a park. It used to be called McBride's
Point. A mile across from the bluff is Governor's Island. The insane
asylum is near the island. If you want to put your boat in Fourth Lake,
why don't you launch it there instead of taking it to Third Lake?"
"Well, I want to try her out with a little longer cruise than just
across Fourth Lake. Do you know of any one I could get to pilot me
around?"
"H'm!" murmured the driver thoughtfully. Presently his face brightened.
"Any objection to color?" he asked.
"How do you mean?"
"Well, how'd a colored boy do? I know of one that's right to home on
the lakes, and he's a character, you bet. His name's Pickerel Pete;
that's all he's got, just Pickerel Pete."
"He'll do," said Matt. "How can I get hold of Pickerel Pete?"
"Tell you what I'll do; I'll get hold of him for you. When you going to
put that boat in the water?"
"Right away."
"'Course we got to deliver it for you. I'll have some of the boys help
me get it on the dray, and on the way down to the lake I'll pick up
Pete. You don't need to wait here. In half an hour you go down King
Street to Wilson. There's a lot of landings and boathouses t'other side
the railroad depot. If we ain't there when you reach the place, you
wait, and we'll show up pretty soon afterward."
"That's mighty good of you," said Matt. "You'll be careful of the boat,
will you?"
"Sure, you bet. No harm'll happen to her. We got a special dray for
movin' boats like that."
Matt went to the capitol grounds and sat down on a bench. For half or
three-quarters of an hour he was there, thinking of George and the
unsatisfactory state his affairs had drifted into.
The king of the motor boys did not want to appear to be helping George
to dodge his father's authority, but he knew that the elder Lorry would
not have taken the stand he did if he had not acquired a whole lot of
misinformation. The thing for Matt to do was to get back to George and
McGlory, tell them exactly what had taken place, and then ask them for
suggestions as to the next move.
On the way down King Street, Matt stopped at a store and bought a
supply of gasoline, oil, and cotton waste. Not having a hydrometer, he
tested the gasoline as well as he could by other means, and convinced
himself that it was, as the dealer assured him, the "right stuff."
Matt rode down to the lake with the expressman who took his supplies,
and when he got there he found the _Sprite_ in the water, moored to a
small pier. The express driver, and those who had helped him with the
boat, were gone. The only person in the vicinity of the launch was a
barefooted little darky. He sat on the pier, absorbed in throwing a
couple of dice.
"Come seben, 'leben, come seben, 'leben," he was saying, as the small
cubes rattled on the boards.
"Pickerel Pete!" called Matt.
The little negro jumped as though a bomb had exploded under him.
"Yassuh, yassuh, dat's me," he answered, grabbing up the dice and
shoving them into a pocket of his ragged trousers.
"Come over here, Pete, and give us a hand with this gasoline and stuff."
"On de hop."
The gasoline was emptied into the tanks and the oil cups filled. After
that Matt went over the machinery, carefully examining the ignition and
all connections.
Pickerel Pete helped him intelligently.
"Yo's de fellah whut's a-wantin' tuh hiah me?" he inquired.
"Yes," replied Matt, highly pleased with the way Pete divined whatever
he wanted and handed it over to him from the tool kit. "Do you know
anything about a motor boat, Pete?"
"Ah's done steered heaps o' boats froo dese yer lakes, boss," grinned
the moke, "an' Ah reckons Ah knows de spa'k plug f'om de propellah."
"You know the lakes, too?"
"Hones' tuh goodness, boss, Ah could go froo all de lakes f'om First
tuh Fo'th, en cleah down de Rock Rivah, wif mah eyes shut. Ah'm er
phenomegon."
"What's that?"
"Phenomegon. Doan' you-all know whut a phenomegon is?"
"You mean a phenomenon, I guess."
"Ah reckons Ah knows whut Ah means," answered Pete, with sudden dignity.
"You've mixed phenomenon and paragon, and----"
"Ah ain't mixed nuffin. Ef you-all thinks Ah'm er ignorampus, den Ah
'lows Ah ain't de fellah you wants tuh hiah."
"Yes, you are, Pete--you're just the fellow."
"How much does Ah git?"
"Two dollars a day. There's pay for your first day's work."
Pete almost fell out of the boat. Fifty cents a day was the most he had
ever received.
"Does yo' think yo' kin stand dat, boss?" he inquired. "Ah'd hate
mahse'f tuh def ef Ah thought Ah was er strainin' yo' financibility."
"I guess it won't be much of a wrench to give you a couple of dollars a
day," laughed Matt.
"Den yo's bought me. By golly, dis is de first time Ah's evah had two
whole dollahs knockin' togethah en mah clothes since Ah was knee-high
to a chickum. Where you-all wants tuh go, boss?"
"I want to go into Fourth Lake through the canal, then across Fourth
and up the Catfish."
"Dat's easy. De Catfish runs f'om one lake tuh de odder, intuh one en
out ergin, cleah f'om Fo'th Lake tuh First. Thutty miles you-all kin go
in er boat, den intuh Rock Rivah en clean erroun' de worl'. But dat 'ar
Fo'th Lake is right juberous when dar's er west win'. A boat Ah was in
once, on dat 'ar lake, turned ovah fo' times! Yassuh. I got spilled out
de las' time en swum fo'teen miles towin' de boat by de painter, which
Ah done happen tuh ketch when Ah drapped in de watah. Ah got er medal
fo' dat. De Gun Club give me de medal."
"They ought to have given you two medals, Pete."
"En it was er solid gol' medal, with er inscripshun sayin' dat Pickerel
Pete was gallywhoopus tuh dat extent. Golly, but dat was er fine medal!
It was as big erroun' as er fryin' pan."
"Must have bothered you some to tote it."
"Sold it fo' fo' dollahs en fo'ty cents, en dey kep' it in de cap'tol
fo' people tuh come in en look at. Yo's got er pow'ful fine moke
wo'kin' fo' yo', boss."
"Well, cast off, Pete, and we'll start. I'll do the steering, and you
can sit up front and tell me which way to go."
Matt started the gasoline, switched on the spark, and Pete gave the fly
wheel a turn. One turn of the wheel was enough to give them their first
explosion, and the _Sprite_ shook herself together and started out into
the lake.