PICKEREL PETE'S REVENGE.

For several moments neither Pete nor Ping was able to reply to Matt's question. The darky was busy getting the fishhook out of his trousers, and the Chinese was hopping up and down on one foot, shaking the perch out of his flapping garments. Both the fish and the fishhook were extricated at about the same time.

"Say, boss," cried Pete, "yo' all ain't done passed me up fo' dat yaller trash, has yu? Ah's workin' fo' yu yit, ain't Ah? Dat 'ar slant-eye hefun was er sayin' dat he had de job, but Ah 'lows yo' wouldn't go en cut me offen yo' pay-roll fo' de likes ob him."

"My workee fo' Motol Matt," clamored Ping, "allee time. Blackee boy no workee. Me one piecee fine China boy. Lickee blackee boy allee same Sam Hill."

"Yo' nebber!" whooped Pete. "Ah kin git yo' on de mat wif mah eyes shut, en——"

"Stand right where you are, Pete!" cut in Matt sternly. "I'll not have any more rowdying. You and Ping ought to be ashamed of yourselves."

"You ketchee boat my sendee by expless, Motol Matt?" inquired Ping.

Matt had "caught" the boat, all right. Ping, without any instructions, had sent the eighteen-foot Sprite, with engine installed and various accessories in the lockers, from San Francisco to Madison, Wisconsin, by express, charges collect.

At first the king of the motor boys had been considerably "put out" by this unauthorized move of Ping's, but later he had been glad that the Sprite had come into his hands.

"Yes, Ping," said Matt, "I received the boat, and we have now got her in the boathouse down there, making some changes in her to fit her for the motor-boat race next week. Where have you been, Ping?"

"Makee come flom Flisco," answered the Chinese, hunting up his sandals and his hat. "My workee fo' you, so my come findee boss."

"The boat got here quite a while ago. How long have you been in the town?"

"Ketchee town yessulday. Makee ask chop-chop where my findee Motol Matt. Thisee molnin' 'Melican man say, so my come. Blackee boy allee same stone in China boy's load; China boy no see um, takee tumble; blackee boy velly mad, makee fight. Woosh!"

Pete, with snapping eyes, had been standing back listening to this talk. Now he thought it about time that he put in his own oar.

"Ah's brack, boss," said he to Matt, "but Ah ain't yaller. Cho'ly yo' ain't goin' tuh frow me down fo' dat 'ar no-'count hefun, is yo'? Ah's workin' fo' you fo' two dollahs er day. Ain't dat right?"

"Peter," said Matt, "you're not to be depended on. I hired you for two dollars a day to pilot me around the lakes, and I paid you for a day in advance. You went with me through the canal to Fourth Lake, and then up the Catfish to Whisky Creek. I left you to watch the boat, and you deserted, and I haven't seen you since until this minute. Now you bob up, just as though nothing had happened, and want to keep right on working for me. I don't think I need you any longer, Pete. You didn't work for me more than three hours, but you got paid for a full day, so you ought to be satisfied."

Ping puffed himself up delightedly. Pickerel Pete, on the other hand, seemed struck "all of a heap."

"Yo' doan' mean dat, does yo', boss?" he pleaded. "Ah's er good li'l moke, en Ah got testimendations f'om de gobernor ob de State. Yo' ain't gwineter turn down dem testimendations, is yo'?"

"I can't depend on you, Pete," said Matt. "I don't need a boy any more, anyhow; but I'm under obligations to Ping, so I'll have to take him on."

"Den Ah's kicked out?" shouted Pete.

"No, you're not kicked out. I don't need you, that's all."

"We had er contrack, en yo's done busted hit!" flared Pete savagely.

Matt could not restrain a laugh at the little darky's rage.

"You got the best of our contract, Pete," said Matt. "You owe me about a dollar and a half, but I'm willing to call it square."

"Ah owes yo' more'n dat," fumed Pete. "Yo's done kicked me out, en Ah ain't er gwine tur fo'git. Hit's dat yaller trash dat's 'sponsible"—he shook his black fist at Ping—"but Ah's gwine tuh play eben wif yo' all fo' whut yo's done. Jess watch mah smoke!"

"You little rascal!" spoke up Lorry; "what do you mean by talking that way? Get out of here!"

"Ah's gotter right tuh stay anywhere Ah please erround dishyer lake," cried Pete. "Yo' kain't drive me off, nuther. Yah! Dat ole boat you's fixin' up fo' de race ain't worf nuffin'. Ollie Merton he's gotter boat dat is er boat, en he's gwinter beat yo' outen yo' boots, dat's whut he is. Ah wouldn't 'sociate wif no sich fellers as you, en Ah wouldn't work fo' Motor Matt ef he paid me a millyun dollahs er day! Jess yo' watch mah smoke—Ah'll git eben, yassuh!"

With that the angry little rascal turned and ran up the path. But he did not run far. As soon as a bend in the crooked course had hidden him from the eyes of Matt and Lorry, he plunged off along the side of the bank, hiding himself in the undergrowth, and working his way slowly down toward the boathouse.

As soon as Pete had vanished, Lorry turned to Matt with a laugh.

"There's another enemy for us to deal with, Matt," said he.

"If he was bigger," returned Matt, "he might prove dangerous; but Pete's too small to count."

"Blackee boy no good," put in the smirking Ping. "My knockee blame head off!"

"Don't be so savage, Ping," said Matt humorously.

"So this is the chap that sent the Sprite to Madison by express, eh?" inquired Lorry, grinning as he gave the Celestial an up-and-down look.

"He's the fellow. Why did you drop out so suddenly in San Francisco, Ping?" and Matt turned to the Chinese.

"My waitee fo' you by Tiburon landing, you savvy?" said Ping. "Bumby, my see launly boss come down landing likee house afire. Woosh! No likee launly boss. My say 'goo'-by' and lun away. One, two, tlee day, my makee hunt fo' Motol Matt. Him gone. P'licee man say he gone Ma'son, Wiscon', so my gettee 'Melican man boxee boat, shippee Ma'son. You ketchee awri'. Velly fine. Now my workee fo' you. Hi-lee-lee, hi-lo-lo——"

Ping was happy. He had found Matt, and he was back on the job again. Not only that, but the "blackee boy" was cut out for good.

"Do you remember the three men who made us so much trouble in San Francisco, Ping?" asked Matt.

"Allee same. Red-whiskels 'Melican——"

"That's the fellow who's called Big John."

"Sure; him Big John, awri', and big lascal, too. Woosh! My lecollect Kinky and Loss. All thlee makee Matt heap tlouble."

"Big John, Kinky, and Ross, those are the men. Have you seen anything of them, Ping, since you left Frisco?"

"No see um, Motol Matt. My punchee head, me see um. Where Joe McGloly, huh? Him big high boy, Joe."

"McGlory's off around Picnic Point on a motor cycle, trying to find out how fast the boat is that the Sprite has got to beat. As the Wyandotte races through the lake, Joe was to race along the road on the lake shore, just keeping abreast of the boat. Then Joe's speedometer will tell him how fast the boat is going."

"No savvy," murmured Ping, shaking his head.

"Your talk is too deep for him, Matt," laughed Lorry. "Well, let's get back to the boathouse. You were just going to explain the changes you were making in the Sprite in order to make her fast enough to beat the Wyandotte."

"When Joe gets back," said Matt, "we'll know just how fast the Wyandotte can go, and just how fast the Sprite will have to travel."

"Merton may try to fool us, Matt. If he knows Joe is timing him, he'll not let the Wyandotte put in her best licks."

"I told Joe to be careful and not let any one on the Wyandotte see him. We've got to be just as careful. I'd hate to have Merton know what we were doing to the Sprite."

"Sure," nodded Lorry, "it won't do to have our hand tipped at this stage of the game."

Matt and Lorry started back toward the boathouse, Ping following them and looking back up the path on the chance of catching sight of Pickerel Pete.

"All the changes I'm making in the Sprite," continued Matt, "are drawn on that roll of papers I left on the work-bench. We'll go over those diagrams, one at a time, George, and I think I can make everything clear to you."

"Whatever you say, Matt, goes," returned Lorry. "You've got a head on you for such things. I know a good motor launch when I see it, and I can drive such a boat as well as anybody, but I'm no mechanic. All I want," and Lorry's eyes flashed and his words became sharp, "is to get a boat that will beat Merton's. You know how much that means to me."

"I do," said Matt, "and we're going to make a fast boat out of the Sprite. We'll give Ollie Merton a run for that prize, and no two ways about it. When Joe gets back, if he has had any kind of luck, we'll know just what we're up against."

The boathouse was large and roomy, and the doors were open, front and rear. Matt had transformed part of the interior into a workshop, and there was a bench, with a machinist's vise, under an open window at the side of the building. Tools and parts of the boat's machinery were scattered about, apparently in great disorder, but really with a methodical carelessness that left them handily in the spot where they would next be needed.

As the boys entered the boathouse, Matt started directly for the bench to get the roll of drawings. They were not where he had left them, and he turned blankly to Lorry.

"Did you do anything with that bundle of diagrams, George?" he asked.

"Never touched 'em, Matt," replied Lorry, with some excitement, "but I saw where you laid them—and it was right there."

Lorry dropped a hand on the work-bench, close to the open window.

"They've been stolen!" exclaimed Matt aghast. "They were taken while we were up the bank! Who could have done it?"

"Who but Merton and some of those rascally friends of his?" queried Lorry, his eyes flashing.

Matt ran to the other end of the boathouse and stepped out upon the small platform above the water, but, strain his eyes as he would, he could see nothing of any boat on that part of the lake.