HOW FATE THREW THE DICE.
There was a rough but comfortable sitting room in one end of the
boathouse. Lorry, who was familiar with the place, left Matt and
McGlory near the door which they had forced open, and groped his way to
the sitting room, where he lighted a tin lamp.
There was a smell of stale cigarette smoke in the room, and the walls
were papered with pictures of prize fighters, sailboats, race horses,
and "footlight favorites," all cut from newspapers and magazines. This,
and the acrid odor of cigarettes, attested sufficiently the taste of
the owner of the boathouse.
There were chairs enough to seat the three boys comfortably.
"Somebody has been here, pards," declared McGlory, "and not so very
long ago, either."
"He's a Sherlock Holmes, all right," grinned Lorry. "How do you suppose
he knew that, Motor Matt?"
"Oh, go on!" growled the cowboy. "Your friend George is a cigarette
fiend. Why do you reckon the windows were draped like that?"
There were two small windows in the sitting room, and each was covered
with a double thickness of canvas, battened down on all sides.
"Give it up," said Lorry. "Ollie must have been having a game of cards
here with some of the boys, and probably he didn't want anybody looking
in."
"Ollie?" murmured Matt, startled, suddenly remembering that, at the
time of the attempted robbery on the Waunakee road, Big John had
addressed his youthful companion as "Ollie."
"Yes, Ollie Merton," answered Lorry; "he's the fellow who owns this
place."
"What sort of looking fellow is he?"
"Why, he's about my build, rather dark, and with a face that's not much
of a recommendation; but Ollie's been a good friend of mine, just the
same."
Matt was convinced that the Ollie he had met on the Waunakee road,
under such evil conditions, was the same Ollie who had papered that
rude little sitting room--and had left behind him the reek of his
cigarettes.
"What are you asking about Ollie for?" inquired Lorry curiously.
"We'll get to that in a few minutes," said Matt. "Just now I want to
hear how you fellows came to leave the cabin on the creek, and what
sort of a coincidence it was that enabled you to come to my rescue, out
there on the lake."
"I reckon we can explain that a heap easier than you can explain how
you came to be lashed hand and foot and jammed between the thwart and
the engine of a burning boat," returned McGlory. "You didn't get back
to the cabin, that was one of the things that bothered George and me,
and we couldn't savvy the why of it; then, all at once, we spotted our
old friends, Ross and Kinky, standing among the oaks and piping off
the cabin. _Was_ it a jolt? Say, speak to me about that. 'That means
trouble,' said George, and I allowed that he had rung the bell.
"There we'd been congratulatin' ourselves that no one knew of the
hang-out, when along comes those 'Frisco gents, loafing in the scrub
and taking the sizing of our wickiup. Having made up our minds that the
appearance of Ross and Kinky spelled trouble with a big T, George and
me got to guessing that those two lads had somehow interfered with your
getting back to the cabin, Matt.
"'We'll duck out of this, George,' says I, 'and you can bet your
moccasins on _that_. And when we duck,' I says further, 'we'll take the
luggage and the grub along with us.'
"'But what about Matt?' says George. 'He's trying to do something for
me, in Madison, and it looks kind of rough to scatter when maybe he'll
whistle for this siding even if he is somewhat behind his running time.
Didn't you tell me that Motor Matt usually does what he says he'll do?'
"You must admit, Matt, that this cousin of mine is improving a whole
lot or he'd never have thought of that. Up to now, he's been so busy
taking care of Number One that he hasn't had any consideration for the
rest of the human race. But I explains to him like this:
"'Georgie, we're makin' a change of base. That's all. When we dodge
those tinhorns, and pile our traps in another part of the woods, we'll
sneak back here on the q. t. and watch for Matt. Like as not we can
head him off on the Waunakee road before he reaches the bridge over the
creek.'
"George thought that would be all right, so we get our plunder
together, sneak out of the cabin, drop over the edge of the creek bank,
crawl a mile downstream, and sashay right into the woods. I don't know
whether you'll believe it or not--things like that happen mostly in
story books--but we find the neatest cave you ever crawled into right
on the banks of the Catfish. George says it's a second edition of Black
Hawk's cave. Well, say, after we get the bats out of that hole in the
rock, we are almost as snug as we are here, this minute. Sufferin'
Niagara, hear it pour!"
"Never mind the rain, Joe," said Matt. "Your talk is mighty exciting.
Go on with it."
"Of course," proceeded McGlory, "we couldn't enjoy our cave while you
were due to arrive at the cabin any minute and drop into the hands of
Ross and Kinky. I reckon it was about eight o'clock into dewfall when
George and me crawled out of that hole and started to make a short
cut for the Waunakee road. Then, right in the middle of the dark, we
heard somethin' coming our way just a-tearin'. George guessed bears
and I guessed Injuns; but, no, we were both fooled. It was a little
negro--George struck a match and got his color a minute after him and
me had collided and I had flopped him on his back and was holding him
down. Then----"
"Pickerel Pete!" exclaimed Matt.
"That's a guess for your life. Sure, pard, it was Pickerel Pete, and a
scared Pickerel he was, at that. He thought George and me was a pair of
'ha'nts,' whatever they are; but George knew him, and he braced up some
when he made sure that we were perfectly human.
"Then--speak to me about what that little ebony chap told us! Motor
Matt had hired him for two plunks a day--you're getting reckless with
your money, pard--and he had piloted Motor Matt from Third Lake to
Fourth, and from Fourth up the Catfish to Whisky Creek. Motor Matt
had left the boat tied up there, with Blackberry on guard, and gone on
afoot up the creek. Then spooks arrived, ordered Pete to duck, and he
had started for home like a singed cat. He was on his way when he ran
into us.
"Well, George and me was all crinkled up with a scare. Matt's gone on
to the cabin, we figure it out, and he's dropped into the hands of Ross
and Kinky. We make a run for the cabin. No one there, not even Ross and
Kinky. But there's a candle still burnin' on the corner shelf.
"Was it Motor Matt who lit that candle, we asked ourselves, or Big
John's pals? Of course we couldn't tell that, but we allowed it was
probably Matt who had struck a light. Then it was us for the mouth of
the creek to see what was going on at the launch.
"I forgot to tell you, pard, that George and I had found a skiff, while
we were fooling around the creek bank, waiting for you to get back. The
skiff pleased me--I never saw a boat yet that didn't--and I suggested
to George that we paddle down the creek in the skiff. That would save
climbing fences and blundering around in the dark. Well, we took the
skiff. It didn't draw much more'n a drink of water, and, although the
creek is lower than usual at this time of year, according to George, we
got down it all right. Just as we got within hailing distance of the
launch, we heard the chug of an engine, and some one calling from the
boat to some one else on the bank. We'd found Ross and Kinky--their
voices give 'em away; and from what they said later we also knew that
we'd found _you_.
"George and I were up a tree for fair, then. Ross and Kinky were
'heeled'--we didn't have to guess any about that--while all I had was a
pocketknife, and all George had was a scarfpin.
"'Well,' says George, 'I'm not going to leave those tinhorns to do what
they please with Matt.' Surprisin', eh, the way this cousin of mine is
beginnin' to act? He was as nervy as a Ute buck with an overload of
tizwin. I asks George what he thinks we can do against two men with a
pair of hardware hornets that sting six times apiece. George didn't
know, but allowed we'd better drop down the creek and get a closer view.
"By the time we got down to where the launch was she had moved on and
stopped again. When she moved on once more, something was trailing
behind her. It was so dark we couldn't see what the thing was very
plain, but after some sort of a while we made out that it was a boat.
Well, how we ever did it I don't know, but George--it was George,
mind you--made our chain painter fast to the stern of the trailing
rowboat--and that's the sort of procession we made down the Catfish."
McGlory threw back his head and laughed till he shook. "First, the
launch," he went on; "then the rowboat, then George, and me, and the
skiff. Sufferin' side-wheelers! Why, I nearly gave the snap away
enjoying it."
"Great spark plugs!" muttered Matt. "When we went down the Catfish,
I was watching the bank, hoping to see some one I could call to. And
there were you and George behind us all the time! I wish Ross and Kinky
knew about that."
"It was too much fun to last, pard," continued McGlory, sobering a
little. "When we got out into the lake the heavier swell made the chain
break loose from the rowboat, and we had to follow with the oars,
which was slow work. We were a long ways off when you spoke that other
launch; and when you started like a streak of fire for the northwest
end of the lake, we were still so far off that we didn't think we could
reach you in time to do you any good. But we broke our backs at the
oars, and managed to make it. You know the rest."
"Fine!" exclaimed Matt admiringly. "Say, you fellows are pards worth
having. What became of Pickerel Pete?"
"Bother him!" put in George. "We didn't have any time to fool with the
little moke after we heard what he had to tell us about you."
"He kept on toward town, burnin' the air," said McGlory.
"I think," said Matt reflectively, "that this cave of yours would be a
safer place for us than this boathouse."
"Safer," returned the cowboy, "but it hasn't got any chairs and nothing
to make a light with. Hear the rain, once! Gee, _compadres_, I wouldn't
move from here to the cave, through all that water, for a bushel of
double eagles."
"Why is the cave safer?" asked Lorry.
"Because this Ollie Merton isn't such a friend of yours as you think,"
said Matt.
George Lorry stiffened in the old, arrogant way.
"I guess I know my friends," he answered frigidly.
"Listen," went on Matt. "When I left the cabin and started along the
Waunakee road, some one in the bushes threw a riata at me. It was Big
John threw the rope, and along with Big John was this Ollie Merton.
They were after that ten thousand dollars, but I played a trick on them
and got away with the draft. It was your sister, George, that helped me
get away."
"What!" exclaimed George; "not Ethel?"
"Yes. She was on the Waunakee road with her motor car----"
George scowled.
"The governor would put twenty-five hundred in a runabout for sis," he
growled, "and wouldn't scrip up when I wanted a motor boat. Is that
right? Is----"
Voices were heard outside, accompanying a slushy crunch of wet gravel.
Matt leaped for the light and blew it out.
"Not a word!" he whispered. "That must be Ollie Merton, and we don't
want him to see us. There's an overturned catboat--get under it."
Lorry tried to protest, but Matt caught him by the arm and hustled him
toward the overturned boat. The boat had been lying under the boys'
eyes during their talk. Barely had they secreted themselves when the
door opened and two persons walked in, followed by a whirling gust of
rain.
"Whoosh!" called a familiar voice, "I'm glad to get out of that, Ollie."
"Big John!" whispered Matt in Lorry's ear. "He's come here with Merton.
Keep quiet, now, and listen."