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.