A BLUNDER IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION.
Ping had felt certain that his move in touching off the Roman candle
had not been seen. It was a disagreeable surprise to him, therefore,
when Bill Wily told Carl just who was responsible for the fireworks.
Ping and Carl were trying hard to be pards. Their hearts were not in
the attempt, for deep in the spirit of each one slumbered a latent
animosity against the other. But they had to try to fraternize. Motor
Matt had issued an edict to the effect that, if they did not become
pards, he and McGlory would cut them out of the motor boys' combination.
So the lads did their utmost to appear friendly. They wandered around
together, and whenever Matt or McGlory was in sight they locked arms
and addressed each other in terms of endearment. When they were away
from Matt and McGlory they still kept up the pretense, but in a manner
that was more subdued.
Ping could not resist the temptation to touch a match to the Roman
candle. He had not expected to cause such a disturbance, and the fact
that chaos had reigned in the side show, and that his culpability had
become known, filled him with apprehension.
Carl would tell Matt, and Matt would sidetrack his Chinese pard. Ping
worried, and had no desire to see Matt, or any one else. The show
was to be at Reid's Lake for three days, and there was no Sunday
performance. Ping, therefore, could flock by himself until Monday
afternoon.
Ping's work consisted of watering the steam calliope, and in helping
the aëroplane take its running start for the flights. Owing to the
wind, there would be no morning flight, and--very likely, as he argued
to himself--no afternoon ascension, either. And Ping knew Motor Matt
would not work on Sunday.
Taken all in all, this was a most propitious time for Ping to absent
himself from the show grounds. With the idea that he would go into
Grand Rapids and hunt up some of his countrymen, he left the grounds
and made his way around the concert garden to the car-line loop.
Here his nerve began to fail him, and he allowed two or three cars
to come and go without getting aboard. Finally he bolstered up his
tottering resolution and climbed into one of the cars.
Looking through the open window, after he had taken his seat, he saw
Wily Bill swing up by the hand rails.
Ping was asking himself what this could mean when the car pulled out.
A little worried, he knew not for what reason, he got up from his seat
and walked to the forward platform, thinking it well to keep out of
Bill Wily's sight.
Suddenly he became aware of something. A voice, from far behind, was
shouting for the car to stop. The passengers, thrusting their heads
from the windows, were looking back, and some of them were talking
excitedly.
Ping, hanging out from the lower step, turned his gaze rearward, and
what he saw caused his heart to thump wildly against his ribs.
One of the little two-wheeled devil wagons was rushing along the road
that paralleled the track, coming like a limited choo-choo train, and
Motor Matt was in the saddle!
Ping had but one thought. The Dutch boy had told Matt about the Roman
candle, and Matt was chasing the street car in order to remove his
Chinese pard, read the riot act to him, and cast him adrift.
What a turn Ping had! He crouched down on the step, and the clatter of
the gong, as the conductor gave the motorman the bell from the rear
platform, sent a shiver of dread through his nerves.
Rather than face Matt and be cut out of the motor boys' combination,
Ping would have done almost anything. The only thing that suggested
itself at that moment was to jump and run. His original intention to
lie low until the Roman-candle incident blew over grew stronger in his
mind.
The car was beginning to slow down, but it was still proceeding at a
lively gait when Ping threw himself straight out from the lower step.
The Chinese boy did not know the proper way to alight from a swiftly
moving trolley car, and the result of his leap can be imagined.
The passengers who were looking out from that side of the car had a
vision of a small Chinaman in the air, pigtail flying. The next instant
the Chinaman touched ground, but found it moving too fast for a secure
foothold. Ping bounded into the air again, his slouch hat going in one
direction, his sandals in another, and he himself describing what is
technically known as a parabola. The Le Bons--the best "kinkers" in the
Big Consolidated--could not have twisted themselves into more fantastic
shapes than did Ping during that stunt of ground-and-lofty tumbling. He
landed on the ground like a frog taking to the water from the top of
a toadstool, and he wound up his performance by throwing a number of
choice cartwheels and then sitting up in the dust and looking around in
considerable mental perturbation.
About the first thing he saw and was able to realize was that another
besides himself had made a jump from the car. The other was Wily Bill,
and he must have dropped from the rear platform a little before Ping
dropped from the platform forward.
Wily Bill, however, must have known how to jump from a swiftly moving
car and yet keep his balance, for he was on his feet and making a dash
for a brushy bank at the roadside.
Motor Matt had swerved his motor cycle and was making in the "barker's"
direction, calling loudly the while for him to stop.
The light that dawned on Ping, just then, was a good balm for his
bruises.
Matt was not chasing him, after all, but had been hot on the trail of
Wily Bill!
While Ping sat there in the dust, hat and sandals gone, his clothes
torn and awry, and himself more or less disorganized, he saw Wily Bill
scramble up the steep bank and vanish among the bushes on the top of
it. Possibly thirty seconds later, Matt sprang from the motor cycle,
leaped up the ascent like an antelope, and likewise vanished.
"By Klismus!" murmured Ping, rubbing his knees. "Velly funny pidgin! My
no savvy. One piecee queer biz, you bettee. Wow! China boy all blokee
up! Motol Matt no wanchee pullee pin on China boy. Hoop-a-la!"
Between his physical pain on account of his bruises and his rejoicing
over the discovery that Matt had not been following him, Ping failed
to observe that the street car had stopped and backed up to the place
nearest the spot where he was crooning to himself and rubbing his
bruised limbs. It was not until the conductor and the motorman faced
him that Ping realized that he was the object of their consideration.
"Didju fall off?" asked the conductor.
"No makee fall," answered Ping, cocking up his almond eyes, "makee
jump."
"Blamed wonder yu didn't break yer neck!" growled the motorman. "Chinks
don't know nothin' anyhow."
"Hurt?" asked the conductor, animated by a laudable desire to avoid a
damage suit in behalf of the company.
"Heap sore," chattered Ping, "no bleakee bone. Hoop-a-la!" he
jubilated, a wide grin cutting his yellow face in half. "Woosh!" he
added, as the grin faded and a look of pain took its place.
"Well, I'm stumped!" muttered the conductor. "Is he crazy, or what?" he
added, looking at the motorman.
"Pass it up," snapped the motorman. "Chinks is only half baked, best
you can say for 'em. Let's snake 'im aboard and go on. We've lost
enough time."
One got on either side of Ping and lifted him to his feet. They would
have dragged him to the car had he not resisted.
"Leavee 'lone!" he shouted, squirming.
"Oh, snakes!" ground out the exasperated motorman. "Ain't you fer the
Rapids?"
"No wanchee go Glan' Lapids!" declared Ping. "Why my makee jump my
wanchee go Glan' Lapids?"
"That's so," said the conductor. "What did he jump from the car for if
he wanted to go on with us? We'll leave him, Jim. I thought, when I saw
him hit the ground, we'd have to take him to the hospital, but he seems
to be all right."
Jim, with an angry exclamation, let go of Ping and hustled back to
his place at the front end of the car. The conductor mounted the rear
platform, and the starting bell jingled.
As the passengers looked back, they saw the Chinese boy attempt a war
dance in his stocking feet, then suddenly cease and reach down to clasp
his right shin.
"He's got out o' some lunatic asylum," thought the conductor. "Well,
it's none o' my funeral," he added, and went into the car and began
collecting fares.
Ping, when the car was out of sight, limped around collecting his
scattered wardrobe. While he was about it, he was wondering, in his
feeble way, why Motor Matt was chasing Bill Wily.
Probably, he reasoned, Wily had cut up so rough with Carl that Matt had
thought best to pursue the man and call him to account.
Ping was not in very good condition to take part in the chase, but if
he could manage it, and proved of some assistance to Motor Matt, such
a move would go far toward making his peace with the king of the motor
boys.
"My makee tly," groaned Ping, limping to the place where the motor
cycle had been left.
With infinite patience he crawled up the steep slope. One of his legs
felt as though it didn't belong to him--it seemed more like a cork leg
than anything else, and was numb from ankle to thigh. But, somehow, he
managed to get up the bank with it. Pausing there, he called aloud for
Motor Matt. His voice echoed weirdly in the scant timber of the rocky
ground in front of him, and the shout brought no response.
"My findee Motol Matt," declared the Chinese lad to himself, as he
limped into the timber. "My ketchee Motol Matt, mebby ketchee Wily
Bill. Woosh! Hoop-a-la!"