GEORGE AND M'GLORY MISSING.
The hum of the motor was soothing to Matt's troubled spirit, and even
the kick of the wheel sent a joyous thrill through his every nerve.
There were clouds in the west, and a promise of wind and rain in the
air, but if there was to be a storm it would not come before night,
and the _Sprite_ would have ample time to nose her way up the Catfish
and into the creek.
It was surprising how quickly the kinks of fortune straightened
themselves out for Motor Matt whenever he found himself in control of
an explosive engine.
The sun was sinking behind the capitol as the _Sprite_ headed toward
Winnequa on her way to the Canal. The yellow rays pierced the gathering
clouds, and Madison peered from its enveloping greenery like a phantom
city.
A number of fishermen were rowing, sailing, and motoring home for
supper, and they stared at the dashing little _Sprite_, and some of
them yelled a cheerful greeting to the diminutive colored boy perched
on the launch's hood.
"Dat's de Gobernor ob Wisconsin," Pete gravely explained, indicating
a grizzled fisherman in one of the boats. "Ah knows him as well as Ah
knows anybody. De fellah in dat rowboat wif de pipe is Honnerbull Tawm
Patterson, en he's done took me by de han' mo' times dan Ah kin count.
De lake is full ob notoribus pussuns tuhnight, seems lak."
"Where's the Czar of Russia?" asked Matt soberly.
"Ah reckons he was too busy tuh come out tuhday," answered Pete. "Ah
knows him, dough. Ah done took him tuh a good fishin' place ovah by
Picnic P'int las' week."
They passed the canal and locks, swept into Fourth Lake, and Pete lined
out a westerly course that carried the _Sprite_ past the high bluffs of
McBride's Point with the buildings of the asylum in clear view.
Pete's chatter enlivened the trip wonderfully. The little moke was a
"notoribus" personage, to take his word for it, and there were very few
famous people whom he had not shaken hands with or conducted around
the lakes. Matt was surprised to learn that he had dug bait for Julius
Cæsar and had shown Napoleon Bonaparte a pickerel hole off Governor's
Island.
The Catfish was comparatively easy for the _Sprite_, but Whisky
Creek--which, Pete said, was the particular creek Matt was looking
for--was too shoal. After they had grounded twice, and backed clear
with considerable difficulty, Matt decided to tie up to a tree on the
creek bank and go on to the cabin on foot.
By then it was falling dark, and Matt wanted to cover the remainder of
his journey as quickly as possible.
"Pete," said he, getting out on the creek bank, "I'm going to leave you
with the boat for a short time, while I go up the creek."
Pete immediately had an attack of the "shakes."
"Golly, boss," he chattered, "Ah doan' lak de da'k when Ah's erlone.
Hit's spookerous, en white things done trabbel erroun' lookin' fo'
brack folks. Where you-all gwine?"
"Not far. I ought to be back in an hour. You're not afraid of spooks,
are you, Pete? I should think a chap who was the friend of so many
illustrious people would be above such foolishness."
The gathering wind sobbed through the trees, and from somewhere a
screech-owl tuned up in a most hair-raising way.
"Br-r-r!" muttered Pete, hugging himself and dropping into the bottom
of the boat. "Ah ain't afraid, no, sah," he declared plaintively. "Ah
ain't afraid ob anythin' dat walks. Hit's dem white ha'nts whut doan'
walk, er fly, but moves erlong in er glide, dat gits me a-goin'. Mebby
Ah better go along wif yo' en see dot yo' doan' git lost?"
"I'll not get lost, Pete, and I don't want the _Sprite_ left alone."
"Yo'll be back in er houah, hones'?"
"Yes."
"Den hurry. Ef Ah was lef' in dishyer place twell midnight Ah'd be
skeered plumb intuh de 'sylum, sho' as yo's bawn. Hurry up en git back,
dat's all."
Pete cuddled up with his back against the stern thwart, and Matt
whirled away and vanished into the timber.
As Matt figured it, he was not more than a mile from the cabin. He had
landed on the side of the creek where he knew the shack to be, and if
he followed the little water course he knew he would soon arrive at the
place where he had left George and McGlory.
The timber was broken into by fields of corn, and by cleared pasture
land. Matt pushed through the corn and climbed pasture fences, and
within half an hour came to the end of his journey.
The cabin, nestling in a clump of oaks, seemed dark and deserted.
George had known of the cabin as a rendezvous, in the fall, for duck
hunters. It was a quiet and obscure place, and answered admirably the
requirements of the boys while working out their plans in Lorry's
behalf.
As Matt drew closer to the hut the silence oppressed him with a
foreboding that something had gone wrong. The door was open, and he
stepped inside.
Still there was no sign of life about the place.
"McGlory!" he called; "George!"
His voice echoed weirdly through the one room of the cabin, but brought
no response.
Striking a match, he peered about him.
Empty! There was no one in the room.
The match flickered and dropped from Matt's fingers. Groping his way to
a bench, he sat down, alarmed and bewildered.
What had become of McGlory and George? This was the question he asked
himself, and his mind framed a dozen different answers, none of them
satisfactory.
George was full of whims and unreasonable resolves. Had he suddenly
made up his mind that he could not trust Matt to make peace with his
father? Had he broken away from McGlory, and had McGlory gone in
pursuit of him?
Or was the absence of the boys due to some move against them on the
part of Big John?
Or had they gone to some farmhouse after milk and eggs, or to get a hot
supper?
That George had not "bolted," Matt was almost sure. Matt's plan for
patching up a truce with the elder Lorry had appealed to George too
strongly for that.
As for Big John making George and McGlory any trouble, that was
possible, although not very probable. Matt did not see how Big John
could have any information about the cabin.
And as for the boys visiting a neighboring farmhouse to secure food, it
was not in line with their plan for either George or McGlory to show
himself until their schemes were further advanced.
Rations had been secured in Waunakee--cold rations, but enough to last
all three of the boys for two or three days.
Giving over his bootless reflections, Matt lighted another match,
hunted up a candle, and soon had a more dependable glow in the room.
A brief search showed him that George's suit case, McGlory's carpetbag,
and his own satchel were missing. This was a staggering discovery. It
meant, if it meant anything, that the two boys had left and did not
intend to return.
They would hardly go away, it seemed to Matt, without leaving some clue
as to their whereabouts, and the cause that had led them to make such a
decided change in the general plans. George and McGlory understood that
Matt was to return as soon as he had talked with Mr. Lorry.
Matt had expected to get back to the cabin early in the afternoon. Had
his failure to return alarmed the two boys?
Matt hunted high and low for some scrap of writing which would let in a
little light on the situation, but he could find none.
The rations brought from Waunakee had vanished along with the
luggage--another fact that indicated a permanent departure on the part
of the two lads.
"Here's a go!" muttered Matt, leaning perplexedly in the open door of
the cabin. "About all George and McGlory left behind them was that
piece of candle. They might, at least, have tipped me off regarding
their intentions, I should think. All sorts of things are liable to
happen to a fellow when he's trying to do the right thing by another
chap who's too proud and weak-kneed to put himself company-front with
his responsibilities. But then, George is an odd stick. He can't be
judged by any of the usual standards, and I'm pretty sure that if he's
handled right, he'll come out all right. One or the other of them will
certainly come back here. I'll return to the mouth of the creek, get
Pete, and we'll bunk down in the cabin. It's the only thing to be done."
Perplexed as he was, Matt neglected to put out the candle before
starting on his return to the Catfish. On a corner shelf, the feeble
gleam sputtered and flickered in the draft that came through the open
door.
Matt hastened his steps on the return journey to the _Sprite_. The
clouds were slowly mounting and blotting out the stars, intensifying
the darkness.
As he came close to the bank where the launch was moored he experienced
a feeling of relief when he saw the boat riding to her painter just as
she had been left.
The _Sprite_ resembled a black blot on the water. The bank was rather
high, at that point, and its shadow covered the boat.
"Hello, Pete!" called Matt.
There was no answer to the call, and Matt began to think that Pete had
vanished, as well as George and McGlory.
"Pete!" Matt cried in a louder tone.
"Yassuh, yassuh," came the answer from below, and Matt's apprehension
suddenly subsided.
"Come up here, Pete," Matt went on. "We're going to spend the night up
the creek. I guess the _Sprite_ will be safe enough. There's a lantern
in the port locker, amidships. Bring it up with you."
Matt could see only the blurred outline of a human form moving around
in the boat. He heard the lid of the locker as it was lifted.
"Ah kain't find dat lantern," came from the boat.
"I'll get it," said Matt.
The next moment he had climbed into the launch. Hardly had his feet
found firm foothold when he was seized and flung roughly backward. Two
pairs of hands held him, and a hoarse, mocking laugh echoed in his ears.