WHAT ABOUT THE RACE?

Matt opened his eyes in surroundings that were not familiar to him. The room was big and lofty, and the bed he was lying in was a huge affair of brass and had a mosquito canopy. He tried to lift his right arm. The movement was attended with so much pain that he gave it up. He saw that the arm was swathed in bandages.

A sound of whispering came to him from the bedside. Turning his head on the pillow, he saw two figures that had escaped him up to that moment. One was Lorry and the other was McGlory.

"The doctor says he'll have to stay in bed for a week," Lorry was saying.

"Sufferin' speed boats!" muttered McGlory. "Let's kiss our chances good-by. It's glory enough, anyhow, just to know Matt got clear of the burnin' boathouse with his life."

"Don't be in a rush about bidding good-by to our chances," said Matt.

McGlory jumped around in his chair, and Lorry started up and hurried to the bedside with a glowing face.

"Jupiter, but it's good to hear your voice again, Matt," said Lorry.

"We were expectin' you to wake up any minute, pard," added McGlory. "How're you feeling?"

"A one, except for my arm. What's the matter with it?"

"A sprain and a bad burn," replied Lorry.

"I remember, now," muttered Matt. "A blazing timber fell from the roof and pinned my arm against the gunwale of the Sprite. It isn't a fracture?"

"Nary, pard," said McGlory. "You were in a heap of luck to get out of that blaze as well as you did."

"I guess that's right. Where am I?"

"In the Lorry home on Fourth Lake Ridge," smiled George. "We took you across the lake to the Yahara Club, and when I called up dad on the phone, and told him what had happened, he insisted on sending the carriage after you. The doctor was here when we arrived. He has patched you up so you'll be as good as new in a week."

"Is Ping all right?"

McGlory chuckled.

"You can't kill a Chink, pard," he answered. "Ping was unconscious, same as you, when we picked up the Sprite, but he drifted back to earth while we were crossing the lake."

"And the Sprite—did she suffer any damage?"

"She's blistered here and there, but otherwise she's just as good as she was when you hit her the last tap."

"What about the race?"

A glum expression settled over the faces of George and Joe.

"Well," said George, "this is Monday morning, and the race is to-morrow afternoon. The doctor says you ought to keep quiet for a week. Of course, the race can't be postponed, and if the Sprite doesn't come to the line to-morrow, why, the Winnequas keep the cup. Also, Merton and his clique keep the money they wagered. That has been their game all along, and every bet they made was with the understanding that if the Yahara Club failed to furnish a starter in the race the Winnequa fellows were to pull down all the stakes."

A glimmer came into Matt's gray eyes.

"It looks to me," he remarked, "as though Merton and his friends had a feeling all along that something was going to happen to the Sprite."

McGlory scowled, and Lorry looked grave.

"Have you heard anything about who started that fire?" went on Matt.

"The latest comes from Merton indirectly," said Lorry. "We hear that he's spreading a report that we were careless with matches, and that we kept our gasoline in the boathouse."

"Sufferin' boomerangs!" snapped McGlory. "I reckon, if we figure it down to a fine point, people will find that Merton was careless in hiring niggers to do his crooked work."

"Negroes?" echoed Matt. "That reminds me, Joe, that I couldn't find you when I woke up and found the boathouse in flames. Where were you?"

"Speak to me about that!" gurgled McGlory. "Why, pard, I was lashed hand and foot and smothered with a gag. I could hear you callin', but it wasn't possible for me to answer you. That was torture, and don't you forget it. What's more, I could hear you and Ping talking, and by turning my head I could see you getting into the boathouse through the window. It was only when George, half-dazed, stumbled over me, that I was able to let any one know where I was. George got the ropes off me, and I'd have gone into the boathouse after you, only the front of it tumbled and blocked the attempt. Then we went around and got in the launch, thinking we'd get in by the water door and give the Sprite a lift into the cove. Before we could do that the buildin' began to cave in, and the gasoline to let go, and then the Sprite came smashing through the door and began dancing a hornpipe out in the lake. Lorry and I manoeuvred around until we managed to catch her, and then we brought you across to the clubhouse. That's where the Sprite is now, and she'll be well taken care of by the Yahara boys."

"But the negroes!" exclaimed Matt. "You haven't told me anything about them."

"Keno!" grinned McGlory. "I told the last end of my yarn. I reckon the first end was left out because it don't reflect any credit on your Uncle Joe. Lorry called me at midnight to go on guard duty. I slid out, and hadn't been watching the boathouse more than three hours when a couple of black villains nailed me as I was going around a corner. I was dazed with an upper-cut, and before I could get into shape to do any fighting, they had me on the mat. Then I had to lay there and listen to 'em setting fire to the boathouse, with you, and Lorry, and Ping inside, never dreaming of what was going on. I reckon I'm a back number, pard. It was my fault."

"You can't shoulder the responsibility, Joe," answered Matt. "You couldn't help being knocked down, and tied, and gagged."

"Nary, I couldn't," was McGlory's gloomy rejoinder; "but I might have stepped high, wide, and handsome when I went around that corner. If I'd had as much sense as the law allows I'd have seen that black fist before it landed, either ducked or side-stepped, and then let off a yell. All you fellows inside needed was the right sort of a yell. But I didn't give it. When it came to a showdown, pard, I couldn't deliver the goods."

"I still maintain that you have no cause to blame yourself," persisted Matt. "If George or I had been in your place, Joe, the same thing would have happened."

McGlory bent his head reflectively.

"It's mighty good of you, pard, to put it that way," said he finally.

"Would you know those negroes again if you were to see them?" asked Matt.

McGlory shook his head.

"It was plumb dark there in the shadow of the boathouse," he answered. "I could just make out that they were negroes, and that's all. I reckon, though, that Ollie Merton could tell us who those fellows were—if he would."

"I'd be a little careful, Joe," cautioned Matt, "about involving Merton in that fire. If it could be proved against him it would be a mighty serious business—just as serious as for the fellows who set the fire."

"Well, pard, why was Merton and his friends making their bets in that queer way? In case there isn't any race because of the failure of the Yahara Club to produce a starter, the Winnequas take the stakes. That looks as though Merton and his pals knew what was going to happen. If the Sprite was burned, there'd be no boat for the Yaharas to produce."

"Joe's right," declared Lorry.

"Well, keep your suspicions to yourselves," said Matt. "In a case of this kind it's positive proof that's needed, not bare suspicion. Wasn't the fire seen from the city? Didn't any one go across the lake to help fight it?"

"We met a couple of boats going over as we were coming across with you and Ping," replied Lorry. "By that time, though, the boathouse was no more than a heap of embers. It went quick after it got started. But what about the race to-morrow? That's the point that's bothering me. I could take the Sprite over the course, and so could Joe, at a pinch, but we wouldn't get the speed out of her that you would."

"I'll drive her myself," said Matt.

"Speak to me about that!" gasped McGlory. "Why, pard, you've only got one hand—and that's the left."

"A man who's any good at automobile driving has a pretty good left hand. In an automobile race, Joe, the driver's left hand has to do a big share of the work. The racer steers with the left hand, holding the right hand free for the emergency brake. The left hand has to be trained to take full charge at all corners, and in a thousand and one other places as the need arises. I can do the racing well enough."

"But the doctor says——" began Lorry.

"I know what I can do better than the doctor, George," laughed Matt. "I'll be in that race every minute—watch me."

Both Lorry and McGlory studied Matt's face carefully.

"Pluck, that's what it is," muttered McGlory. "It's the sort of pluck that wins. But I don't know whether the doctor will let you——"

Just at that moment a servant stepped into the room.

"What is it, James?" asked Lorry.

"Mr. Martin Rawlins to see Mr. King," was the answer.

Lorry looked bewildered.

"Mart Rawlins!" he exclaimed. "Why, he's one of the Winnequa fellows, and a crony of Merton's!"

"He's here to pump Matt," growled McGlory, "or else to find out what his chances are for being in that race to-morrow. Sufferin' tinhorns, what a nerve!"

"Have him come up, Lorry," said Matt. "It won't do any harm to talk with him. If he's here to pump me, he's welcome to try."

Lorry nodded to the servant, and a few moments later Mart Rawlins entered the room.