"It's all a mistake!" he called. "Come out o' the wet and stop your foolishness. If ye try to do any more fightin', I'll set Delhi onto you ag'in."
The Dutchman labored ashore with his stick and his bundle, and the Chinaman followed with his buckets.
"What do you s'pose Motor Matt would think of this, Ping?" went on the mahout. "If he——"
But what the mahout was intending to say was lost in a roar of amazement and delight from the Dutchman.
"Vat's dot? Modor Matt? Vere he iss, anyvay? Say, I vas his bard, und I peen looking for him efery blace, longer as I can dell. Shpeak, vonce! Vere iss Modor Matt?"
"China boy Motol Matt's pard," spoke up the dripping Ping. "My workee fo' Motol Matt; Dutchy boy no workee."
"Py shiminy, I dell you some more dot I peen Carl Pretzel," shouted the Dutchman, "und dot I vas looking for der show, und ditn't know I vould findt Modor Matt at der same dime. Vere iss he, misder?" and Carl appealed anxiously to the mahout.
"He's travelin' with the show, youngster," answered the mahout, "an' doin' a flyin'-machine stunt twice a day. If ye want to find him, hike for the show grounds."
Without paying any further attention to Ping or the elephants, Carl gathered in his cap—which lay at the water's edge, and was the only thing belonging to him that was not dripping wet—and laid a rapid course for the top of the bank.
Ping, filling the pails, started after Carl, worrying not a little over this new pard of Motor Matt's who had appeared so unexpectedly on the scene.