Inside of five minutes they had the last flame smothered. While George dipped up water with his cap and deluged the smoking woodwork, McGlory pulled Matt out of his cramped quarters.
"Well, speak to me about this!" gasped McGlory. "He's tied! Say, this would make the hair stand on a buffalo robe. Lashed hand and foot and turned adrift out in the middle of the lake! Sufferin' volcanoes! Who did it, pard?"
"Get the ropes off me," said Matt, "and then I can talk to better advantage. My arms are numb clear to the shoulder."
McGlory pulled a knife from his pocket and groped carefully while he cut the cords.
"It seems like a dream," muttered Matt.
"Nightmare, you mean," returned McGlory. "If I'd been in such a fix I'd 'a' thrown a fit."
"And then to have you fellows come!" went on Matt. "I don't know how you managed it, but here you are, and here I am, and I guess the old Sprite is good for several trips yet. Shake!"
McGlory caught Matt's outstretched hand and gave it a hearty pressure. As soon as the cowboy was through, Matt leaned over and gave Lorry's hand a cordial grip.
"I'll never forget what you have done for me," declared Matt.
"Shucks!" muttered McGlory. "That's what pards are for—to help one another when they're in a tight pinch. And I'm an Injun if this wasn't a tight one. But see here, once, Matt. You called this boat the Sprite."