FIREBUGS AT WORK.

Sunday was a beautiful and a quiet day at the boathouse by the Point. Mendota, otherwise "Fourth," Lake was never fairer. Across the ripples, glimmering in the sun, the city of Madison lifted itself out of a mass of green foliage like a piece of fairyland.

The lake was alive with motor boats, sailboats and rowboats. Matt and McGlory, sitting in the shade on the little pier in front of their temporary home, idled and dreamed away the afternoon until, about four o'clock, a snappy little launch, equipped with canopy and wicker chairs, untangled itself from the maze of boats out in the lake and pushed toward the cove.

"Visitors!" exclaimed Matt, jumping out of his chair.

"Speak to me about that!" grumbled McGlory. "Now we've got to get into our collars and coats and spruce up. Oh, hang it! I like a boiled shirt about as well as I like the measles."

Mr. Lorry, his daughter, Ethel Lorry, and George were occupying the wicker chairs under the canopy, while Gus, the Lorry chauffeur, was at the bulkhead controls.

George waved his hand. Matt returned the salutation and darted incontinently into the boathouse to fix himself up. Ethel Lorry was a fine girl and a great admirer of the king of the motor boys, and Matt felt it a duty to look his best.

By the time the boat drew up in front of the boathouse Matt and McGlory, in full regalia, were out to welcome their guests.

Lorry, senior, and his daughter were firm friends of Motor Matt. They realized fully how much the young motorist had done for George.

"A surprise party, Matt!" cried George. "I'll bet you weren't expecting the Lorrys, eh?"

"Always glad to receive callers," smiled Matt, grabbing the rope Gus threw to him and making it fast to a post.

"We've got to see the Sprite, Matt," said Ethel. "All our hopes are wrapped up in the Sprite, you know."

"And in Motor Matt," chuckled the millionaire, beside her.

A vivid flush suffused Ethel's cheeks, though just why her emotions should express themselves was something of a mystery.

The party debarked and was conducted into the boathouse. Matt opened the doors at the other end of the building and admitted a good light for inspecting the boat.

All three of the boys were intensely proud of the Sprite. In her fresh coat of varnish she looked as spick and span as a new dollar.

McGlory was a nephew of Mr. Lorry's, and, while he was explaining things at one end of the boat to "Uncle Dan," Matt was performing the same service for Ethel at the other end of the craft.

When Mr. Lorry and Ethel had expressed their admiration for the Sprite, and their confidence in her ability to "lift" the cup, chairs were carried out on the pier. McGlory went across the lake for ice cream, and the party visited gayly until sunset. When the launch departed, George remained behind, having expressed his intention of staying with his friends at the boathouse that night.

Ping was engaged in clearing up the dishes—part of the camp equipment—on which the ice cream had been served, and McGlory was making the doors at the other end of the boathouse secure. Dusk was falling gently, and overhead the stars were beginning to glimmer in a cloudless sky, soft as velvet. It was a time for optimism, and a lulling sense of security had taken possession of all the boys.

"The clouds don't seem to be gathering very much, after all, George," remarked Matt.

"I must have been mistaken about Merton," returned George. "That roll of drawings, I suppose, has convinced him that the changes we were making in the Sprite were not of enough account to worry him."

McGlory came from the boathouse in time to hear the words.

"We've got Merton fooled," he chuckled, dropping down in a chair, "and I ain't sure but that it's the best thing that ever happened to us, the theft of those drawings."

"That's the way it may turn out, Joe," agreed Matt. "Still, even if Merton knew exactly what we had done to the Sprite I don't see how he could help matters any. The Dart, from what I can hear, is supposed to be by long odds the fastest boat on the lakes. How could he improve on her, even if Merton knew the Sprite was a dangerous rival?"

"Merton wouldn't try to improve on the Dart," returned Lorry. "What he'd do would be to make an attempt to make the Sprite less speedy than she is."

"I'd like to catch him at that!" exclaimed McGlory. "That tinhorn would have to hip lock with me some if he ever tried to tamper with the Sprite while Joe McGlory was around."

"He'd make sure there wasn't anybody around, George," said Lorry, "before he tried any of his underhand games. I've been thinking over the loss of those drawings, Matt," he went on, after a pause, "and it strikes me that they weren't stolen by Merton, after all, but by Pickerel Pete."

"What!" cried the cowboy, "that sawed-off moke?"

"I've thought a little on that line myself," observed Matt. "Pete was mad, when he left us up there in the path, and he could have circled around through the bushes and reached the boathouse before we got down to it with Ping."

"That's it!" assented George. "He hadn't any idea what sort of papers were in the roll, but they were handy to him as he looked through the window, and so he gathered them in. Of course, Pete knew that the papers would be valuable to Merton, if to anybody. It's a dead open-and-shut that he carried them at once to the commodore."

"Which may account for the commodore layin' back on his oars and not botherin' us any while we've been jugglin' with the Sprite," deduced McGlory. "We're all to the good, pards, and your Uncle Joe is as happy over the outlook as a Piute squaw with a string of glass beads. I'm feelin' like a brass band again, and——"

"Don't toot, Joe, for Heaven's sake," implored George. "You've got about as much music in you as a bluejay."

"Some fellows," returned McGlory gloomily, "don't know music when they hear it. It takes a cultivated ear to appreciate me when I warble."

"I don't know about that," laughed George, "but I do know that it takes some one with a club to stop you after the warbling begins. When are you going to 'warm up' the Sprite, Matt?" he asked, turning to the king of the motor boys. "Every ship has got to 'find herself,' you know. We've Kipling's word for that."

"Then," smiled Matt, "the Sprite is going to begin finding herself in the gray dawn of to-morrow morning. Glad you made up your mind to stay with us to-night, Lorry. I was going to suggest it, if you hadn't. I want you and Joe to hold a stop-watch on the boat."

"I wish we had one of those patent logs," muttered Lorry. "They go on the bulkhead, and work hydrostatically—no trailing lines behind."

"Too expensive, George," said Matt. "Besides, we didn't have time to bother installing one."

"You're the most economical chap I ever heard of, Matt," said Lorry jestingly, "especially when you're using another fellow's money."

"Sufferin' bankrolls!" mourned McGlory, "I wish some one would be kind enough to ask me to spend his money."

"Dad told me, when we began fixing up the Sprite," went on Lorry, "that he wanted me to be sure and let Motor Matt have free play, no matter what it cost. That's the way the governor feels. There has been a big change in him, Matt, and you're the cause of it."

"That's all the more reason, George," answered Matt, "why I should not abuse his confidence."

"I guess dad knows that, and that it has a lot to do with the way you stack up in his estimation. He'd trust you with a million."

"I'm glad he feels that way. There isn't any sign of a storm, Joe," Matt added to the cowboy, "but we must keep up our guard duty just the same."

"Keno! We're not going to let Merton and his outfit catch us napping, if that's their plan. I'll stand guard to-night."

"I'll divide the duty with you, Joe," put in Lorry. "I'll take the first watch, and will call you at midnight."

"That hits me plumb. I can snooze in good shape for half the night. We'll let Matt put in full time—he needs it."

"Matt ought not to do a thing between now and Tuesday but rest," asserted George. "He's got to be fit as a fiddle for that race."

"I'm generally in shape for whatever comes my way," laughed Matt, getting up and yawning. "Right now's when I'm going to turn in, and you can bank on it that I'll sleep like Rip Van Winkle up in the Catskills. You'll see something surprising in the morning, fellows! If the Sprite, after she gets warmed up, can't do her mile in better than three minutes, I'm no prophet."

"If she does that," jubilated McGlory, "we're apt to have the Dart lashed to the mast."

"Good night," said Matt.

The parting word was returned, and the king of the motor boys followed the wall of the dark boathouse past the well and on by the workbench to his cot.

Inside of two minutes he had turned in, and inside of three he was in dreamless slumber.

How long Matt slept he did not know, but it must have been well beyond midnight when he was awakened. He was half stifled, and he sat up in his cot struggling for breath.

A yellowish gloom was all around him, and a vague snap and crackle came to his ears.

Suddenly, like a blow in the face, the realization came that the smothering fog was smoke, and that the flickering yellow that played through it was flame.

"Fire!" he yelled, springing from the cot. "Lorry! McGlory! Where are you?"

Matt's only answer was the whirring rush of the fire and the weird snapping as the flames licked at the wood. For a moment the heat and the smoke almost overcame him, and he reeled backward against the wall.