SAVING THE "SPRITE."

After a moment of inaction, Matt realized something else besides the fact that there was a fire. Ping and either McGlory or Lorry should be in the boathouse with him; also either McGlory or Lorry ought to be on guard outside.

Why had no answer been returned to his startled shout? What had happened to the guard outside, and what had happened to those inside the boathouse?

In that terrifying moment, when so many dangers threatened him and his friends, Motor Matt had no time to think of the Sprite. First he must get fresh air, and then he must find out about his friends.

The landward end of the boathouse seemed to be completely wrapped in flames. A breeze had come up during the night, and it was driving the fire onward toward the waterfront of the building.

Drawing upon all his reserve strength, Matt staggered to the window over the workbench. Picking up a wrench, he smashed the glass, and a draft of cool night air rushed in. For a moment he hung over the workbench filling his lungs with the clear air; and then, at the top of his voice, he repeated his call for McGlory and George.

Still there was no response. Bewildered by his failure to hear an answering shout from his friends, and dazed by the suddenness of the catastrophe which threatened the boathouse, Matt whirled away from the window and groped through the blinding smoke toward the other cot.

Some one was lying on the cot, breathing heavily. It was impossible to tell whether it was Lorry or the cowboy, but, whichever it was, the form was unconscious from the effects of the foul air.

Making his way to the door, Matt unfastened it and flung it open. The breeze which swept through the building caused the roar of the fire to increase, giving an added impetus to the flames.

Darting back to the cot, Matt picked up the form and staggered with it out into the night, falling heavily when a few yards from the blazing building.

In the glare that lighted up the vicinity of the boathouse Matt discovered that it was Lorry whom he had carried to safety. Lorry! That meant that it was after midnight, and that McGlory had been outside of the boathouse, on guard.

The fire was not accidental—it could not have been accidental. Firebugs must have been at work. What had become of McGlory that he had not interfered?

It was impossible that the cowboy was in the burning building. Ping, however, should be there. The Chinese usually bunked under the workbench.

Whirling away, Matt started again for the burning building; but, before he reached the door, Ping, coughing and spluttering, his arms filled with clothes, reeled out and fell in a sprawling heap on the ground.

Rushing up to him, and thankful to find that he was safe, Matt grabbed him by the shoulders and drew him farther from the boathouse.

"Where's McGlory?" shouted Matt.

It was necessary for him to talk at the top of his voice in order to make himself heard above the roar of the wind and the flames.

"No savvy," panted Ping, lifting himself to his knees, his terror-stricken face showing weirdly in the glare. "My no makee yell when you makee yell," he added, digging his knuckles into his smarting eyes. "My heap full smoke. My blingee clothes——"

"Never mind the clothes," cut in Matt, wildly alarmed on McGlory's account. "You—— Here, stop that, Ping! Where you going?"

The Chinese had abruptly gained his feet and plunged toward the open door. At that moment, the door looked like the opening into a raging furnace.

"My savee Splite!" blubbered Ping. "No lettee Splite go top-side! Woosh!"

The yellow boy was as fond of the boat as were Matt, McGlory and Lorry. He had watched her rebuilding, in his curious, heathen way, and every step toward completion lifted his pride and admiration higher and higher.

Matt had grabbed Ping and was holding him back. His mind, dealing with McGlory, worked quickly.

The cowboy, he reasoned, had been on guard outside. Those who had fired the boathouse must have had to take care of McGlory before they could carry out their nefarious plans. This being true, it could not be possible that the cowboy was in any danger from the fire. It was the Sprite, therefore, that should now claim Matt's attention. McGlory could be looked for afterwards.

"We'll save her together, Ping," cried Matt, "but we can't go into the boathouse that way. We'd be overcome before we got anywhere near the well. We must get into the building by the other end."

The Sprite was in imminent danger, there could not be the least doubt about that. After Mr. Lorry and Ethel had left for home, during the afternoon, the boat had been placed upright on the rollers leading to the incline of the well.

This, bringing her nearer the landward end of the boathouse made the boat's danger greater than if she had been left on the skids which had supported her while the work inside her hulk was going on.

Not only that, but, preparatory to the morning's trial, her tanks had been filled with gasoline. If the flames should reach the tanks——

"We'll have to hurry!" yelled Matt.

Picking up a coat from the heap of clothing on the ground, Matt ran to the edge of the lake and plunged the coat into the water; the next moment he had darted back to the open window, hoping to reach in and get an ax or hammer from the workbench for use in battering down the water-door. This door was secured on the inside, and would have to be broken if entrance was effected from the pier.

Ping, frantically eager to help, but hardly knowing what to do, rushed around after Matt, copying every move he made.

When Matt picked up a coat and submerged it in the lake, Ping followed suit; and when Matt, with the dripping garment in his hand, rushed for the broken window, the Chinese boy was close behind.

As ill-luck would have it, there was nothing in the shape of an ax or hammer lying on the bench within reach of Matt's groping fingers.

The window was perhaps a dozen feet along the wall from the landward end of the building. The fire, apparently, had been started at the extreme end, and, although the flames were driving fiercely through the building, the blaze was not so formidable near the window as it was by the door.

Matt changed his plans about entering the boathouse by the water door. He would make an essay through the window, push the Sprite along the rollers and down into the well, unlock the water door from the inside, and then, under her own power, take her out into the cove.

Not a second was to be lost if this plan was to be carried to a successful conclusion. There was danger, plenty of it, in making the attempt to save the Sprite.

Blazing timbers were already falling from the roof of the doomed building, and if one of those dropped on the barrel containing the gasoline supply, an explosion would result and the flaming oil would be hurled everywhere.

But the king of the motor boys did not hesitate. Hurriedly throwing the coat over his head and shoulders, he climbed through the window and rolled off the bench to the smoking floor of the boathouse.

To see anything between the confining walls was now impossible. The smoke was thick, and the glare that shot through it rendered it opaque and blinding.

Matt, however, knew every foot of the building's interior as he knew his two hands. Holding the coat closely around his head to protect his face, he hurried through the blistering fog and finally stumbled against the Sprite.

Laying hold of the boat, he pushed with all his strength. In spite of his fiercest efforts, she stuck and hung to the rollers. It was not a time to hunt for what was wrong, but to force the Sprite into the well at any cost.

While Matt tugged and strained, the end of the building fell outward with a crash, and a flurry of sparks and firebrands leaping skyward. This released a section of the roof, which dropped inward.

One blazing beam landed on Matt's right arm, pinning it against the rubstreak. A sickening pain rushed through his whole body, and when he had hurled the timber away with his left hand, the injured arm dropped numb and helpless at his side.

"Matt! Motol Matt!"

The shrill, frightened cry came from Ping. He had followed through the window and had been feeling his way about the interior of the boathouse. The crash of the wall and the roof had frightened him, and he would have bolted had not the knowledge that Matt was somewhere in that blazing inferno chained him to the place.

"Here, Ping!" cried Matt, hoarsely. "Lay hold of the boat and help me get her into the water. Lively, now—for your life!"

Their united strength, even through Matt had only his left hand, was sufficient. The Sprite started slowly over the rollers, reached the head of the incline, and her own impetus carried her downward. Matt and Ping sprang into her blindly as she leaped away.

Across the well ran the Sprite, her nose striking the water door and causing her to recoil backward until her stern brushed the incline.

Matt, dizzy and weak, pawed and floundered toward the bulkhead.

Overhead the roof was all in flames. Any moment it might fall bodily, sinking the Sprite and those aboard her under the water of the well—holding them like rats in a blazing trap.

Matt's eyes were of no use to him. They were smarting from the smoke and heat. But he did not need his eyes. He knew the place of every lever on the bulkhead.

A pull started the gasoline, another started the oil, and another switched on the spark. A third lever was connected with the starting device. Two pulls at this and the boat took the push of the propeller.

Boom!

The fire had found the gasoline supply, and shafts of lighter fire shot through the yellower blaze of burning wood.

There was no time to unlock the water door. Already the fire-eaten wreck was swaying.

The Sprite, urged by the automobile engine, must ram the door and break it down.

Grabbing his companion, Matt dragged him down under the protection of the bulkhead, while the Sprite flung herself toward the door, toward the cove—and toward safety.