"All right," returned Matt, dropping down on an overturned bucket and pulling a pencil and memorandum book from his pocket.
Before he could begin to figure, he heard a voice addressing McGlory at the tent door—and it was a voice that brought him up rigidly erect and staring.
"Say, misder, iss dis der shteam cantalope tent?"
McGlory laughed.
"Well, yes, Dutchy, you've made a bull's-eye first clatter. Here's where they keep the 'cantalope.' What's the matter with you? Look like you'd gone in swimming and forgotten to take off your clothes."
"I tropped in der rifer mit meinseluf, und id vas vetter as I t'ought. Say, vonce, iss Modor Matt aroundt der blace?"
"He's inside, and—— Sufferin' whirlwinds, but you're in a hurry!"
A bedraggled form, with a dripping bundle in one hand and a stick in the other, hurled itself through the opening with a yell.
"Matt! Mein olt pard, Matt!"
The next instant Carl Pretzel had rushed forward and twined his water-soaked arms about the king of the motor boys. The Dutchman's delight was of the frantic kind, and he gurgled and whooped, and blubbered, and wrestled with Matt in a life-and-death grip.