WAITING AND WORRYING.

"In the name of all that's good, Joe," cried Matt, as he and the cowboy shook hands, "where did you come from?"

"From the Sprite, pard," grinned McGlory. "But that was some sort of a while ago. I've been on the house boat for quite a spell."

"Where did you get that satchel?"

"It's got the bundle of money in it, Matt—Uncle Dan's money sabe?"

"Yes, yes, I know! I saw the red-whiskered man take the money out of the satchel, then put it back again and push the satchel under that bench. But how did you get hold of it? That's what I want to know."

McGlory dropped the satchel and collapsed on the bench.

"Oh, that's the best ever," he laughed. "Those old hardshells were fooled at their own game. Queer about that money of Uncle Dan's. It's been in a good deal of a taking ever since it left Madison. George takes it from Uncle Dan, Red-whiskers takes it from George, Landers takes it from Red-whiskers, and now here's me taking it from Landers."

"Landers?" queried Mitt. "Did he take the money?"

"Took it the length of the boat. By then I was close enough to get hold of it myself. But you cut loose and tell me what went crossways with you—I've been worried a heap about that—and then I'll even up by tellin' how I jumped into the game."

Matt made short work of his end of the explanation, and McGlory consumed but little more time. While McGlory was talking, Matt was not only listening but also putting two and two together in his own mind.

The cowboy finished with another jubilant laugh, but Matt suddenly became grave and got up from the bench.

"Let's go outside, Joe," said he, "where we can keep an eye on our surroundings."

"What's there in our surroundings to worry us? We've got the money, haven't we?"

"Yes, but the 'taking' you mentioned a few minutes ago may keep up—unless we're on the alert. Suppose Big John, Kinky, and Ross come back here in the San Bruno? What would happen then? We haven't any Sprite to take us off, remember."

"That's a fact," and McGlory went suddenly grave himself. "What ever came over that chink to run off? Say, I'll bet he got to tinkering with the motor, and that it started on him and he couldn't stop it. Consarn these chinks, anyhow!"

"Don't be too quick to blame Ping, Joe," remonstrated Matt. "I don't think that's what happened."

"What then?"

"Landers thought you were a detective, didn't he?"

"That's what he said."

"Well, he was afraid of being arrested and jailed for helping Big John and the other two. That's the reason he played a trick and tumbled off the boat."

"Well? Go on, pard, and give me the rest of it."

"Don't you think it's likely that he climbed aboard the Sprite, took her away from Ping, and then rushed her across the cove to the nearest landing?"

"Oh, tell me!" muttered McGlory. "And I never, no, I never once let that drift into my head! And yet, why not? Wasn't it the natural thing for Landers to do? Any day you can find in the almanac, pard, I'm shy something when it comes to headwork. But here's the point: Can Landers run the Sprite fast enough to keep her away from the San Bruno? If he can't, I can see what will happen to Ping and Landers when that outfit of fire-eaters come up with them. Oh, shucks! This ain't turnin' out so pleasant as I thought. Suppose we hike for the deck and keep our eyes peeled. It may save us something, although I'm a heathen if I see what we could do if the San Bruno came back."

"If we have to," said Matt, "we'll take the money and swim to the nearest house boat."

"It will be a damp roll of bills we take ashore with us if we have to do that."

"Better a lot of wet money, Joe, than no money at all."

"Right, exactly right, as per usual. I've got this pop-gun of Cousin George's. It looks like one of those toy Fourth of July things that make a noise and let it go at that. Still, maybe the sight of the thing would scare somebody."

Together they left the cabin, and, in order that their view might be more extensive, climbed the steep stairs to the house boat's upper deck. Here there were comfortable chairs, and the boys sat down and allowed their eyes to wander about them over the shadowy surface of the cove.

The lights of the house-boat settlement were still gleaming in every direction, but every sound had died away and a dead silence reigned.

"If a launch was coming," said McGlory, "we could hear her a mile off—which is three times as far as we could see her."

"That's right," said Matt, "and I'm hearing one now. Listen! Unless I'm away off in my reckoning a boat is bearing this way from the direction of Tiburon."

McGlory bent his head.

"You've made a bull's-eye, Matt," said he. "A boat's coming, but is it the Sprite or the San Bruno?"

"It's the San Bruno," averred Matt.

"How do you make that out?" queried the wondering cowboy.

"Why, a bigger volume of sound, distance considered, than the Sprite makes. I noticed that particularly when we were chasing the San Bruno across the bay."

"Well, you've got me beat, plumb. We've got to swim, I reckon, going off one side of the house boat as the launch ties up at the other?"

"We'll not take to the water until we have to, Joe. Wait until we can get a good look at the boat."

Standing on the upper deck, the two boys faced in the direction of the approaching launch, and waited and worried.

Slowly, and after a period of time that seemed interminable, a blot of shadow came gliding toward them from among the clustered lights of the house boats.

Matt whirled to grip McGlory's arm.

"What's to pay now, pard?" asked the startled cowboy.

"Why," answered Matt, "two boats are coming!"

"Two?" echoed McGlory, squinting in the direction of the moving blot. "I can't make out more than one, and it's plenty hard to see that."

"One is chasing the other—I can tell by the sounds, alone."

"Good ear—remarkable. Put a lot of bronks on a hard trail and I can shut my eyes and tell you how many there are, up to five, by listening. But a boat's a different proposition. How do you know one is chasing the other, though? That's what gets me."

"Because," answered Matt, "the boat ahead is the Sprite and the one behind is the San Bruno!"

"Sufferin' whirligigs!" exclaimed McGlory. "How far ahead is the Sprite?"

"We can tell in a minute. Both boats are close—and the San Bruno has put out her light. Ah, look!"

Matt leaned over the rail and pointed. By that time the boats could be easily distinguished. The Sprite was pounding along in a distressing way that proved there was something wrong with her sparking apparatus or her fuel supply, but, in spite of that, she was doing nobly.

"It can't be that Ping is doing the work on the Sprite," muttered McGlory.

"It sounds as though it might be Ping," said Matt.

"But he can't run the boat! Didn't we see him try, at the Tiburon landing?"

"He's been watching me, and I think he's learned what to pull and push and turn in order to keep the boat moving. A Chinaman is a good imitator, Joe. The San Bruno is giving our launch a close race, and we'd better go down and stand ready to leap aboard the moment Ping stops for us."

Hurrying down the steps, the two boys placed themselves at the edge of the house boat's after deck, ready to jump the moment the Sprite came close enough.