OUT OF A BLAZING FURNACE.

The cool night air quickly wrought its work, so far as George was concerned. Sitting up on the ground, confused and unable to understand what had happened, he stared at the conflagration at the edge of the cove.

Rubbing his eyes and muttering to himself, he stared again. He remembered calling McGlory, and dropping down into the bunk after McGlory had got out of it. After that he knew nothing until he sat up there on the ground, with the fire dancing in front of his eyes.

The fog was slower getting out of his brain than out of his lungs. Rising to his feet, he started for the path leading up the bank, animated by the hazy idea that he ought to get word to the fire department.

He stumbled over something. Being none too steady, he fell headlong, only to lift himself again as the object over which he had fallen gave vent to a rumbling, inarticulate sound.

"Is that you, Matt?" he asked.

The answer was a desperate gurgle.

By that time Lorry had, in a great measure, recovered the use of his wits. Creeping to the side of the person who was trying so hard to speak, he saw by the glare of the fire that it was McGlory.

"Great Scott!" he murmured, his hands passing over the form. "It's cousin Joe, and he's tied and gagged!"

Lorry was only a moment in freeing the cowboy's jaws of the twisted handkerchief.

"Tell me about this!" fumed McGlory. "I thought I'd never be found. What are you kneeling there for, George, gawping like you were locoed? Get these ropes off me, and see how quick you can do it. Don't you know that Matt's in that boathouse, and that he and Ping are trying to save the Sprite? We've got to lend a hand. Sufferin' blockheads, but you're slow! Cut the ropes with a knife if you can't untie 'em."

"I'm in my underclothes," answered George. "I don't know where my knife is."

"I've got a knife in my pocket. Take it out, but hustle, for Heaven's sake, hustle!"

George was shaking like a man with a chill. The terrors of the moment were dawning upon his bewildered mind. His hands trembled while groping through McGlory's pockets, and they trembled worse when he opened the knife and tried to use it.

"Who—who set the fire?" he mumbled.

"Do you think I'm a mind reader?" stormed McGlory. "I was to blame, for I was on guard and ought to have seen those negroes before they downed me and trussed me up in this fashion. If anything happens to Matt, I'll be to blame for it, and if the Sprite is burned I'll be to blame for that, too. Oh, I've got a lot to think of, I have!"

The cowboy's self-reproach was keen.

"Did some one steal up on you, Joe?" asked Lorry.

"What do you take me for, George? Do you think I laid down and put my hands behind me so the blacks could tie 'em? They got me, right there at the corner of the boathouse, just as I was coming around. A blow dazed me, and before I could let out a yip, they had ropes on my wrists and ankles and that thing between my jaws. I heard Matt calling, and, sufferin' jailbirds! here I lay without bein' able to say a word. Oh, can't you cut those ropes? Take a brace—your nerves are in rags."

George managed finally to saw the blade through one coil of the cord that secured McGlory's hands. With a swift tug from the shoulders the cowboy released himself, then caught the knife from his cousin's hand and slashed it through the ropes at his feet.

The next instant he was up and bounding toward the boathouse.

"Where are you going?" shouted George.

McGlory, rendered desperate by the knowledge that Matt was in the boathouse facing death in a fierce effort to save the Sprite, was heading straight for the door of the building.

The door was merely a riffle in a wall of flame. Before McGlory could reach it, the whole end of the boathouse crashed outward.

He sprang backward, just in time to avoid the blazing timbers, and turned to Lorry with a groan.

"We can't help him!" he cried hoarsely. "Motor Matt's done for, the Sprite's done for—everybody's done for, George. And it was all on my account."

Here it was that Lorry came to the front with a little common sense.

"You were not to blame, Joe," he asserted. "You were set on by some negroes, and you could no more help what happened than Matt or I. Pull yourself together and don't be a fool. Motor Matt knows what he's about. If he's in that boathouse he'll get out of it again. Anyhow, we can't help him from this side. We'll go around by the pier and get the launch. If we can get the launch through the water door, maybe we can hitch on to the Sprite and tow her out."

This talk had a salutary effect on McGlory.

"The Sprite isn't in the water," he answered. "How could we tow her out?"

"Matt will get her in the water," said Lorry confidently. "What do you suppose he's doing in there if he isn't getting the Sprite into the well? We left her on rollers at the top of the incline, and Matt could launch her alone without any trouble. Let's get the launch and be ready to help."

The launch referred to by Lorry was the one he had hired and brought across the lake for Matt's use during the work on the Sprite. The boat was kept at one end of the pier. While the Sprite was on the skids, the other boat was housed in the well at night, but this night she had been left outside so as not to interfere with the launching of the Sprite in the early morning.

Hoping against hope that they could yet do something that would help Motor Matt, the two boys ran alongside the boathouse, jumped to the pier and unfastened the painter of the launch. Just as they tumbled into it and McGlory was turning the flywheel, a loud explosion came from inside the boathouse. A cloud of firebrands and sparks geysered up from the roof.

"What was that?" gasped Lorry.

"The gasoline," answered McGlory, dropping down on the thwartships seat in front of the motor. "I don't know what we can do now, George."

"We'll get into the boathouse," flung back Lorry. "If——"

Lorry was interrupted by another crash. Under the startled eyes of the two in the launch, the water door was ripped and splintered, and through the ragged gap as out of a blazing furnace sped the Sprite.

For a moment she reeled as though undecided which way to turn; then, suddenly, she shot off into the lake. Neither Lorry nor McGlory could see any one aboard her.

"Where's Matt?" cried the cowboy.

The echoes of his voice were taken up by another crash, and the remaining walls of the boathouse flattened themselves with a great hissing as the burning timbers dropped into the well, and off the pier into the lake.

"If he was in there," added the cowboy huskily, pointing to the wrecked building, "then there's——"

"He wasn't in there," cut in Lorry. "He couldn't have been. Do you suppose the Sprite started herself?"

While speaking, Lorry was "turning over" the engine. The motor took up its cycle, and Lorry steered into the lake after the Sprite.

The Sprite was darting this way and that at terrific speed, following a course so erratic that it would be easily inferred there was no guiding hand on the steering wheel.

Away the boat would rush, directly into the gloom that hovered over the lake; then, before she could vanish, she would describe a hair-raising turn and jump to starboard or port.

"But where's Matt if he is in the boat?" demanded McGlory.

"On the bottom, perhaps," replied Lorry. "He started her, and that's all he was able to do. We've got to lay the Sprite aboard, somehow."

"That's easier said than done," said McGlory. "She's jumping around like a pea on a hot griddle, and is just as likely to slam into us and cut us down as to do anything else. Sufferin' sidewinders, look at that!"

The Sprite had made a complete turn and was now headed shoreward and streaking straight towards the boys.

"Here's our chance!" said Lorry. "If the Sprite hangs on as she's coming she'll pass close to us. Will you jump aboard her, Joe, or shall I?"

"I'll do it," answered the cowboy. "Can't you turn the launch and follow the Sprite, side by side with her? She'll travel faster than we will, but it'll make it easier to jump without going into the lake."

This manoeuvre was carried out, and Lorry, who could handle a boat tolerably well for an amateur, brought the launch about and picked up the Sprite as she dashed onward.

McGlory cleared a foot of water at a flying leap and dropped into the Sprite's cockpit. In a few minutes he had checked the boat's aimless racing and had brought her to a halt.

"Is Matt there?" queried Lorry anxiously, working the launch close to the Sprite.

"He's here," answered McGlory, "but he's unconscious. Ping's here, too, and his wits are wool-gathering, same as Matt's. They're both alive, though, and I reckon they'll be all right with a little care."

"Follow me across the lake," said Lorry. "We'll go to the clubhouse. The quicker we can get a doctor, the better."

The first gray of dawn was just glimmering along the eastern edge of the sky as the two boats stood away for Madison.