Chapter VII: George and M'glory Missing

The hum of the motor was soothing to Matt's troubled spirit, and even the kick of the wheel sent a joyous thrill through his every nerve. There were clouds in the west, and a promise of wind and rain in the air, but if there was to be a storm it would not come before night, and the _Sprite_ would have ample time to nose her way up the Catfish and into the creek.

It was surprising how quickly the kinks of fortune straightened themselves out for Motor Matt whenever he found himself in control of an explosive engine.

The sun was sinking behind the capitol as the _Sprite_ headed toward Winnequa on her way to the Canal. The yellow rays pierced the gathering clouds, and Madison peered from its enveloping greenery like a phantom city.

A number of fishermen were rowing, sailing, and motoring home for supper, and they stared at the dashing little _Sprite_, and some of them yelled a cheerful greeting to the diminutive colored boy perched on the launch's hood.

"Dat's de Gobernor ob Wisconsin," Pete gravely explained, indicating a grizzled fisherman in one of the boats. "Ah knows him as well as Ah knows anybody. De fellah in dat rowboat wif de pipe is Honnerbull Tawm Patterson, en he's done took me by de han' mo' times dan Ah kin count. De lake is full ob notoribus pussuns tuhnight, seems lak."

"Where's the Czar of Russia?" asked Matt soberly.

"Ah reckons he was too busy tuh come out tuhday," answered Pete. "Ah knows him, dough. Ah done took him tuh a good fishin' place ovah by Picnic P'int las' week."

They passed the canal and locks, swept into Fourth Lake, and Pete lined out a westerly course that carried the _Sprite_ past the high bluffs of McBride's Point with the buildings of the asylum in clear view.

Pete's chatter enlivened the trip wonderfully. The little moke was a "notoribus" personage, to take his word for it, and there were very few famous people whom he had not shaken hands with or conducted around the lakes. Matt was surprised to learn that he had dug bait for Julius Cæsar and had shown Napoleon Bonaparte a pickerel hole off Governor's Island.

The Catfish was comparatively easy for the _Sprite_, but Whisky Creek--which, Pete said, was the particular creek Matt was looking for--was too shoal. After they had grounded twice, and backed clear with considerable difficulty, Matt decided to tie up to a tree on the creek bank and go on to the cabin on foot.

By then it was falling dark, and Matt wanted to cover the remainder of his journey as quickly as possible.

"Pete," said he, getting out on the creek bank, "I'm going to leave you with the boat for a short time, while I go up the creek."

Pete immediately had an attack of the "shakes."

"Golly, boss," he chattered, "Ah doan' lak de da'k when Ah's erlone. Hit's spookerous, en white things done trabbel erroun' lookin' fo' brack folks. Where you-all gwine?"

"Not far. I ought to be back in an hour. You're not afraid of spooks, are you, Pete? I should think a chap who was the friend of so many illustrious people would be above such foolishness."

The gathering wind sobbed through the trees, and from somewhere a screech-owl tuned up in a most hair-raising way.

"Br-r-r!" muttered Pete, hugging himself and dropping into the bottom of the boat. "Ah ain't afraid, no, sah," he declared plaintively. "Ah ain't afraid ob anythin' dat walks. Hit's dem white ha'nts whut doan' walk, er fly, but moves erlong in er glide, dat gits me a-goin'. Mebby Ah better go along wif yo' en see dot yo' doan' git lost?"

"I'll not get lost, Pete, and I don't want the _Sprite_ left alone."

"Yo'll be back in er houah, hones'?"

"Yes."

"Den hurry. Ef Ah was lef' in dishyer place twell midnight Ah'd be skeered plumb intuh de 'sylum, sho' as yo's bawn. Hurry up en git back, dat's all."

Pete cuddled up with his back against the stern thwart, and Matt whirled away and vanished into the timber.

As Matt figured it, he was not more than a mile from the cabin. He had landed on the side of the creek where he knew the shack to be, and if he followed the little water course he knew he would soon arrive at the place where he had left George and McGlory.

The timber was broken into by fields of corn, and by cleared pasture land. Matt pushed through the corn and climbed pasture fences, and within half an hour came to the end of his journey.

The cabin, nestling in a clump of oaks, seemed dark and deserted. George had known of the cabin as a rendezvous, in the fall, for duck hunters. It was a quiet and obscure place, and answered admirably the requirements of the boys while working out their plans in Lorry's behalf.

As Matt drew closer to the hut the silence oppressed him with a foreboding that something had gone wrong. The door was open, and he stepped inside.

Still there was no sign of life about the place.

"McGlory!" he called; "George!"

His voice echoed weirdly through the one room of the cabin, but brought no response.

Striking a match, he peered about him.

Empty! There was no one in the room.

The match flickered and dropped from Matt's fingers. Groping his way to a bench, he sat down, alarmed and bewildered.

What had become of McGlory and George? This was the question he asked himself, and his mind framed a dozen different answers, none of them satisfactory.

George was full of whims and unreasonable resolves. Had he suddenly made up his mind that he could not trust Matt to make peace with his father? Had he broken away from McGlory, and had McGlory gone in pursuit of him?

Or was the absence of the boys due to some move against them on the part of Big John?

Or had they gone to some farmhouse after milk and eggs, or to get a hot supper?

That George had not "bolted," Matt was almost sure. Matt's plan for patching up a truce with the elder Lorry had appealed to George too strongly for that.

As for Big John making George and McGlory any trouble, that was possible, although not very probable. Matt did not see how Big John could have any information about the cabin.

And as for the boys visiting a neighboring farmhouse to secure food, it was not in line with their plan for either George or McGlory to show himself until their schemes were further advanced.

Rations had been secured in Waunakee--cold rations, but enough to last all three of the boys for two or three days.

Giving over his bootless reflections, Matt lighted another match, hunted up a candle, and soon had a more dependable glow in the room.

A brief search showed him that George's suit case, McGlory's carpetbag, and his own satchel were missing. This was a staggering discovery. It meant, if it meant anything, that the two boys had left and did not intend to return.

They would hardly go away, it seemed to Matt, without leaving some clue as to their whereabouts, and the cause that had led them to make such a decided change in the general plans. George and McGlory understood that Matt was to return as soon as he had talked with Mr. Lorry.

Matt had expected to get back to the cabin early in the afternoon. Had his failure to return alarmed the two boys?

Matt hunted high and low for some scrap of writing which would let in a little light on the situation, but he could find none.

The rations brought from Waunakee had vanished along with the luggage--another fact that indicated a permanent departure on the part of the two lads.

"Here's a go!" muttered Matt, leaning perplexedly in the open door of the cabin. "About all George and McGlory left behind them was that piece of candle. They might, at least, have tipped me off regarding their intentions, I should think. All sorts of things are liable to happen to a fellow when he's trying to do the right thing by another chap who's too proud and weak-kneed to put himself company-front with his responsibilities. But then, George is an odd stick. He can't be judged by any of the usual standards, and I'm pretty sure that if he's handled right, he'll come out all right. One or the other of them will certainly come back here. I'll return to the mouth of the creek, get Pete, and we'll bunk down in the cabin. It's the only thing to be done."

Perplexed as he was, Matt neglected to put out the candle before starting on his return to the Catfish. On a corner shelf, the feeble gleam sputtered and flickered in the draft that came through the open door.

Matt hastened his steps on the return journey to the _Sprite_. The clouds were slowly mounting and blotting out the stars, intensifying the darkness.

As he came close to the bank where the launch was moored he experienced a feeling of relief when he saw the boat riding to her painter just as she had been left.

The _Sprite_ resembled a black blot on the water. The bank was rather high, at that point, and its shadow covered the boat.

"Hello, Pete!" called Matt.

There was no answer to the call, and Matt began to think that Pete had vanished, as well as George and McGlory.

"Pete!" Matt cried in a louder tone.

"Yassuh, yassuh," came the answer from below, and Matt's apprehension suddenly subsided.

"Come up here, Pete," Matt went on. "We're going to spend the night up the creek. I guess the _Sprite_ will be safe enough. There's a lantern in the port locker, amidships. Bring it up with you."

Matt could see only the blurred outline of a human form moving around in the boat. He heard the lid of the locker as it was lifted.

"Ah kain't find dat lantern," came from the boat.

"I'll get it," said Matt.

The next moment he had climbed into the launch. Hardly had his feet found firm foothold when he was seized and flung roughly backward. Two pairs of hands held him, and a hoarse, mocking laugh echoed in his ears.