The chase, just then, took on a hopeless outlook for Motor Matt. If Martin had only happened along in the automobile, the fleeing Chinaman could have been brought up with a round turn, but Matt, with only his feet under him, could not hope to overtake the galloping mule.
The darky, as Matt came up with him, was gathering in his ragged hat and climbing to an upright position. He wore a look of puzzled astonishment.
"Ain't dat scan'lous?" he cried. "Ah done been slammed into de road by er Chinymum! En he's got mah mu-el! He's er runnin' erway wif mah Gin'ral Jackson mu-el. By golly, whaffur kind ob way is dat tuh treat an ole moke lak me?"
"It was pretty rough, uncle, and that's a fact," replied Matt, smothering an inclination to laugh at the ludicrous picture the old negro presented. "If we had another mule, I could catch the rascal, but it is too much of a job for me with nothing to ride."
"You chasin' dat 'ar Chinymum, boss?" inquired the darky.
"Yes."
"Has he been up tuh somefin' dat he hadn't ort?"
"He has."
"Den yo' lis'en heah, chile," and a slow grin crept over the wizened, ebony face of the negro. "Erbout er mile ahead dar's a bridge ovah a creek, en dat 'ar Chinyman ain't gwine tuh ride Gin'ral Jackson ovah dat bridge."
"Why not?"