[CHAPTER III.]
AN EAVESDROPPER.
Both Carl and Ping tried to explain matters at the same time. Each talked loud, in the hope of drowning out the other, and the jargon was terrific. Finally McGlory got a hand over the Chinaman's mouth, and Carl was able to give his side of the question. After that, Ping had his say.
"There's been no cause whatever for this flare-up," said Matt. "Everybody knows that Carl can't sing, but everybody who's acquainted with him, too, knows that he's got more pluck to the square inch than any fellow of his size. Carl's all right, Ping. He went around South America with Dick Ferral and me on that submarine, and we parted company in San Francisco just before I met up with Joe. Shake hands," and Matt pushed Carl toward the Chinaman.
"My workee fo' Motol Matt," whispered Ping, who had likewise been given a push by the cowboy; "Dutchy boy no workee, huh?"
"You're both pards of mine," said Matt, "and you've got to be friends. Now, shake hands."
The shaking was done—rather hesitatingly, it is true, but nevertheless it was done.
"Now," went on Matt, "you get into your regalia, Ping. Carl, you can get out of your wet clothes and put on Joe's working suit. While you're about it, tell me how you happen to be here. You stay and listen, Joe," the young motorist added. "I want you to like Carl as well as I do."
"That's me, pard," laughed McGlory, taking a seat on one of the buckets. "There's plenty of ginger in the Dutchman, and that's what cuts the ice with me."