ANOTHER RESCUE.

Matt fell in behind the big ferryboat as she moved out of the slip and churned up the water in the direction of San Francisco. Drawing back far enough to be clear of the steamer's troubled wake, he jogged along, and tried out the Sprite with various manoeuvres calculated to test her motor and her rough-weather qualities.

A keen delight ran tingling through every nerve as he handled the steering wheel and manipulated the levers. The engine worked perfectly; and, by flinging the little craft ahead into the rough water thrown up by the steamer, he was surprised and delighted at the easy work she made of the big waves.

For a while, McGlory and Ping grouped themselves aft and watched him. Every now and then the cowboy would wave his hat and shout something which the distance between the boats rendered indistinguishable to Matt.

A tug came towing a two-masted ship in from the Gate. Matt allowed the Sprite to fall off, so that the tug and its tow would pass between him and the ferryboat. As he headed westward in order to round the stern of the sailing ship, Matt became suddenly aware that sailors were running about the deck of the towed vessel, shouting back and forth, and some of them hurrying to pick up coils of rope. Abruptly the excitement ceased. The sailors dropped their ropes, and two or three of them ran up on the poop deck, waved their hands to Matt, and pointed southward, along the track of the ferryboat.

Matt could not hear what the sailors shouted to him, but from their gestures he knew there was something demanding his attention on the other side of their vessel. As the schooner gurgled and lurched past, Matt saw a human form bobbing about in the water, and he also saw that the ferryboat was in the act of putting about.

Waving a reassuring hand to the captain of the boat, Matt forced the Sprite to her best speed, and laid a direct course toward the struggling form. The captain of the ferryboat, no doubt assuming that the launch would easily effect a rescue, signaled his wheelman to keep on across the bay.

As Matt steadily diminished the distance that separated him from the form in the water, the form suddenly vanished. With his eyes on the spot where it had gone down, the young motorist was just making ready to shut off the power and dive overboard when the form once more shot to the surface.

"Keep afloat!" shouted Matt encouragingly, "I'm almost alongside."

It was a young fellow, Matt could see that, and there was despair in his face as he turned his head in response to the call.

He tried to say something, but the words were lost in a watery gurgle. His arms were working feebly, and it was evident that he was nearly at the last gasp.

Coaxing the last ounce of speed out of the Sprite, Matt laid her bow within a foot of the youth, then swiftly shifted the wheel in order to bring the side of the launch as close as possible.

Hanging to the wheel with one hand, Matt leaned outward and downward, grabbing the collar of the youth's sweater with his disengaged hand.

"Steady!" cried Motor Matt; "you'll be all right in a minute."

Then, with a heave that caused the little boat to dip at a dangerous angle, he hoisted the young fellow aboard and dropped him splashing against the stern thwarts.

There was plenty of life in him, and Matt felt, just then, that the boat required more attention than he did. After getting the Sprite back on her proper course, Matt slowed her speed and looked around.

The young fellow was sitting up in the bottom of the boat, leaning back against the rear thwarts. He was about Matt's own age, his hands were slender and white, and his sweater, trousers, and shoes were of the most expensive material.

"Did you ship much water?" asked Matt.

"Not much," was the answer.

"Fall off the boat?"

"Yes."

The youth did not seem inclined to go into particulars. When he answered Matt's question, he leaned over the gunwale to peer around Matt and get a look at the ferryboat.

"She's going right on," he said, as though to himself; "she won't stop to take me aboard."

"It won't be necessary for the ferryboat to stop," spoke up Matt. "I've got you aboard, and that's enough."

The youth started, stared, and lifted one hand tremblingly to his head.

"How did you happen to drop overboard?" inquired Matt.

"I—I don't know," was the indefinite rejoinder. "I just happened to, that's all. Where are you going?"

"To San Francisco—where you must have been going."

"Can't you put about and take me to Sausalito?"

The request surprised Motor Matt.

"Changed your mind about going to 'Frisco?"

"I don't want to go there. I want to go to Sausalito. It don't make any difference to you where you land me, does it?"

There was an arrogant, domineering air about the youth, even in his present half-demoralized condition, that struck the wrong kind of note in Matt's ears.

"It just happens," returned Matt, "that I'm to meet a friend at the foot of Clay Street, and he'll probably be waiting for me when I get there. I don't see how it makes very much difference to you, when it's certain you must have been going to the city when you dropped off the ferryboat."

"Well," was the ungracious response, "it does make a difference to me—a whole lot of difference. Will you take me to Sausalito after you meet your friend?"

"I guess the ferryboat can do that for you," answered Matt stiffly.

The strange youth had not had a word of thanks to say to his rescuer, on the contrary, he was acting as churlish as possible in the circumstances.

"I'm in a nice fix to ride on a ferryboat," grumbled the young fellow, looking down at his soggy clothing and his water-logged shoes.

"What's your name?" asked Matt.

"What do you want to know that for?"

"Curiosity," was the cool response. "I'd like to chalk it up in my memory as belonging to a young chap who couldn't even be civil to the fellow who saved him from drowning."

A tinge of color ran through the youth's pale face.

"The captain of the ferryboat would have saved me, if you hadn't," said he.

"He couldn't have got there in time. You were about to sink as I grabbed you."

There was a silence, broken at last by the youth.

"My name's Thompson," said he, "and I live in Sausalito."

"You got on the boat at Tiburon?"

Thompson was recovering his normal condition by swift degrees. He flashed a strange look of suspicion at Matt.

"Well, yes," he answered. "I've been staying there for a while; but I live in Sausalito. Give me a cigarette."

"You've come to the wrong shop for cigarettes, Thompson. I'm beginning to understand why you couldn't keep yourself afloat in the water better than you did—too many paper pipes. They play hob with a fellow's endurance."

The Sprite, by that time, was abreast of the docks, and off the unsavory quarter known as the "Barbary Coast."

Thompson paid little attention to Matt's remarks, but fixed his eyes gloomily on the shipping as they glided past.

There was something at the bottom of Thompson's mind, and Matt wondered what it could be.

"I suppose," Thompson continued, tiring of looking at the ships and the sweating stevedores, "that it's a lucky thing for me you happened to be around to pick me up."

"You might call it that," returned Matt dryly.

He had his back to his passenger, so that he might pick a berth for the Sprite somewhere in the vicinity of the foot of Clay Street. When he spoke he did not look around.

"Well, I'm obliged to you," proceeded Thompson. "I guess you needn't take me to Sausalito, after all. I'll get out and go to a hotel. There's a lot of hotels on the 'Front.'"

"Stay away from the hotels on the 'Front,' Thompson; that's my advice to you. They're not the right sort of place for a fellow like you to stop, even for a short time."

"I guess I can take care of myself," was the haughty rejoinder.

"I guess you think you can, Thompson. You seem to have a pretty large opinion of yourself."

"Are you trying to insult me?"

"Great spark plugs, no! Why should I want to do that?"

"I don't like the way you talk, that's all. You act as though you didn't believe what I said."

"That's where your imagination is working overtime. What is it to me, one way or the other, whether you're telling the truth or not?"

Matt saw the berth he was looking for, and turned the Sprite into the slip. Two minutes later he was alongside the dock, and had his painter fastened to a post. As he faced about, after making the painter secure, he saw that Thompson had gained the dock, and was starting off toward the street, his feet sluicing around in his wet shoes, and his trousers slapping about his legs as he walked.

He was intending to leave without any further talk with Matt, and the latter leaned against a post and watched him with half-humorous, half-wondering eyes.

Before he reached the street, however, McGlory and Ping Pong dodged around the end of a loaded dray and came face to face with him.

McGlory stopped short, and stared. So did Thompson. Then McGlory jumped forward with a whoop, countered the half-hearted blow Thompson aimed at him, and grabbed him around the waist.

"Sufferin' Joseph!" cried McGlory, "if it ain't Cousin George! Speak to me about that, will you? Cousin George Lorry, that I've been bushwhackin' all over 'Frisco to find! Easy, George! You couldn't get away from me in a thousand years, and you know it. Whoop-ee, Matt! Come this way, and come a-running!"