M'GLORY'S RUN OF LUCK.

Joe McGlory, judging from the way fortune had turned her back on him during his whole life, was positive that he had not been born "under a lucky star." It was more likely, he thought, that he had been born under the Dipper, and that the Dipper was upside down at the time. Yet, be that as it might, luck had never had much to do with McGlory. Whatever he got came to him always by hard knocks and persistent grubbing. But there was a bright lining to the cloud, and this lining was making ready to show itself.

He sat impatiently on the stern thwarts of the Sprite, while Matt was doing his reconnoitring on the house boat, waiting impatiently for him to return and report. Ping was forward at the steering wheel of the launch, feeling casually and with a certain amount of awe of every lever that manipulated the motor and the gear.

The little Sprite was completely dwarfed by the larger boat alongside of which she cuddled, like a young duck under the lee of its mother, and the gloom of the higher bulwarks overshadowed McGlory and Ping.

From time to time, the cowboy stood up and looked across the cockpit of the San Bruno toward the house boat. He saw Matt's head silhouetted in the light from the cabin window, and finally he saw him move away and vanish from sight behind the raised forward deck of the larger motor boat.

After that, McGlory champed the bit, and waited. As is usual in such cases, the seconds dragged like minutes, and the minutes were like hours. The cowboy finally made up his mind that something had gone wrong, and that he ought to investigate.

This feeling grew upon him until he could stand it no longer. Creeping forward to where Ping was caressing the steering wheel, he paused beside him for a moment.

"Motor Matt's been gone so long, Ping," said he, in a low tone, "that I'm afraid he has struck on a snag. If that's so, it's up to me to flock over to the house boat and do my little best to get him out of trouble. Savvy?"

"Heap savvy," replied Ping. "By Klismus, China boy go 'long. Mebbyso you makee fall in tlouble, China boy savee you, savee Matt, savee evelbody. Huh?"

"Never you mind about Matt and me, Ping," returned McGlory. "You stay right here—and stop fooling with that machinery, too. First thing you know you'll have the Sprite turning a summerset, and that would be about the worst thing that could happen to us. Stay right here, mind, and wait until you hear from Matt or me before you budge."

"Awri'," said Ping meekly.

McGlory crawled over the hood, got aboard the San Bruno, and then stepped softly to the deck of the house boat.

A quick look around revealed the fact that Motor Matt was not in evidence. Slipping forward along the port alley, the cowboy took a hasty look through the lighted window. The three men were smoking, and in close converse, but McGlory was more interested in locating Motor Matt, just then, than in anything else.

Instead of returning toward the after end of the house boat, he passed on to the patch of deck at the forward end—and was thus out of the whirl of excitement that was turned on at the rear of the craft.

The yell given by Kinky when he lifted the trap in the floor of the cabin and caught a glimpse of Matt reached McGlory's ears almost as soon as he had gained the wider deck at the end of the boat. Almost immediately he heard the scramble inside the cabin, and then the rush of feet aft.

He hesitated for a few seconds, not knowing what to do. Matt had got into trouble, all right, but had he gotten out of it?

Stepping quickly to a door which led directly into the lighted front room of the cabin, McGlory softly turned the knob and pushed the door open. The room was empty. A trap in the floor was open, and also a door leading into a dark room beyond. From somewhere farther aft came angry voices and more sounds of scuffling.

"That means me, I reckon," thought the cowboy, rushing across the lighted room and into the darker chamber farther on. It was his intention to keep going and find out just what the struggle he had been hearing might mean, and to do what he could for Motor Matt; but he heard a sound behind him, just as he gained the darkness of the rear room, which caused him to halt, turn cautiously, and peer backward.

A tall, gangle-legged individual, with a mustache the color of dried buffalo grass, a nose like a wart and eyes that looked like a couple of wilted cactus blossoms, had entered the door which McGlory had left open.

The manner of this person aroused the cowboy's interest and curiosity. If he was one of the gang, what was he doing there? And why was he acting in such a stealthy manner, as though in a hurry and fearing to be apprehended?

McGlory, for a moment, curbed his desire to hurry on to the rear of the house boat and stood and watched the stranger from the safe screen of darkness.

The man was looking for something, that was plain. Dropping to his knees, he reached under a bench at one side of the room. What he wanted wasn't there. He turned to the bench on the other side and gave an exultant grunt as he pulled a satchel from under it.

After flashing a wary look around him, he opened the satchel with trembling fingers and drew forth a package of banknotes that made McGlory stagger.

Money! George Lorry's money!

That is what the cowboy thought on the instant. With another jubilant grunt, the stranger snapped the satchel shut and faded through the front door. McGlory was about two seconds making up his mind, and then faded after him.

The man was out of sight when the cowboy reached the deck at the forward end of the boat. Heavy feet were coming through the dark room of the cabin, and McGlory knew it was hardly safe for him to stand in the exposed position where he had placed himself.

Wondering where the man had gone with the satchel and the money, he stepped around the corner of the cabin into the starboard passage—and saw the man just dodging around the opposite corner, on the after deck.

"That's where I nail him!" thought McGlory, moving softly and swiftly along the alley.

As he passed the lighted window on that side of the cabin a curtain was jerked down, and a door was slammed. Following this, a key grated in a lock. Then another door was slammed and another key grated.

The cowboy hesitated, trying to guess whether all that had anything to do with the man who was making off with the satchel. Unable to reach any conclusion, and convinced that his duty lay in following the man, McGlory moved noiselessly onward.

The light on the upright staff of the houseboat cast a faint glow on the after deck, and here McGlory saw the man he was following again on his knees and examining the packet of bills.

In two jumps the cowboy was on the man's back.

"Steady!" he hissed in the man's ear.

The fellow began to struggle; and then, in a flash, the cowboy remembered the revolver he had snatched out of his cousin's hand and slipped into his pocket. In a twinkling he had the weapon out of the pocket—and commanded the situation.

"Don't shoot!" whined the man. "Great guns, I ain't done anythin' to you."

"Put that bunch of green goods back into the grip," ordered McGlory.

"Thar she goes," said the man, letting the packet fall into the satchel.

"Now give the grip a shove," continued McGlory, "so it'll be closer to where I'm standing. That's the idea," he added, as the bag came sliding toward him. "Now, pardner, I've got the money and you've got the experience, and things are looking real fine. Who are you, anyhow?"

"Landers," said the man. "I'm in charge o' this boat for Big John."

"Big John, eh? I wonder if that's my friend, Mr. Smith, otherwise Red-whiskers?"

"That's him," answered Landers, "but you ain't no friend o' his, I'll gamble."

"Ain't I?" queried McGlory humorously.

"You're a detective, an' you've come here to bag Big John an' them other coves. But you don't need to bag me. I was only gettin' the money to turn it over to the police."

"Oh, speak to me about that!" chuckled McGlory.

"Look out behind ye!" whispered Landers hoarsely. "Big John is——"

McGlory turned. As he did so, Landers fell off the house boat and into the cockpit of the San Bruno.

"Ain't I easy?" grumbled McGlory, marking a half run across the deck in the direction of the launch. "No," he muttered, "I won't do that, either. I've got the ten thousand plunks belongin' to Uncle Dan, and I guess I'll freeze onto 'em. Matt needs me, I reckon. With the grip in one hand and George's pepper box in the other, I'll walk through the cabin and see what I can do for this new pard of mine."

The rear door of the cabin was unlocked. McGlory passed through it and groped his way in the dark to the other door.

He had barely reached the door when another commotion assailed his ears, accompanied by loud voices. The voices were so loud, in fact, that the cowboy could hear distinctly all that was said.

Big John had just discovered the loss of the satchel, and a violent scene was threatening. Then came the popping of the motor, and the rush to get out of the cabin and pursue Landers.

McGlory, beginning to understand what had happened and how the thieves had been fooled, leaned against the wall of the cabin and sputtered with merriment.

"Speak to me about luck, will you?" he gasped. "This is once, anyhow, that I've got the winning number. I reckon it's because I'm hooked up with Motor Matt."

He tried the bulkhead door, but found it locked. With a sudden thought, he returned to the other door, took the key he found there from the lock and tried it in the lock of the bulkhead door. It worked like a charm, and McGlory, satchel in one hand and revolver in the other, pushed into the lighted room.

At the very least, he was expecting to find Motor Matt on the floor, tied hand and foot. McGlory's astonishment was great, therefore, when he discovered that Matt was not in the room. A form stood just outside the door, on the forward deck, vaguely outlined in the darkness.

It was Matt, there was no doubt about it. Thoughts of the way events had shaped themselves to befool the thieves rushed over the cowboy again, and once more he dropped against the side of the cabin. He exploded a laugh that brought Matt into the room at a double quick, and held him, just inside the door, staring as though at a ghost.

"McGlory!" muttered Matt, rubbing his eyes.

"Keno, correct—and more, much more. It's McGlory, Matt, and McGlory's got the dinero. Come to me, put your little hand in mine for a good shake, and let's felicitate. This will be happy news for Cousin George!"