"It was sure a good play for you. There's your boat. Take her."
The yellow boy ran down to the edge of the wharf, dancing around in his wooden shoes, and crooning ecstatically to himself.
"My gottee boat, my gottee boat! Hoop-a-la! Where row sticks?" he demanded, turning to the man who had been in charge of the raffle.
"That's a motor boat, Charley," grinned the man. "You don't need any row sticks."
The yellow boy, still chattering to himself, slipped from the wharf into the boat. One of the men, alive to the humor of the situation, pulled the painter off the post and threw it into the craft after him.
"How you makee lun?" inquired the new owner of the Sprite, taking his seat at the steering wheel.
The bystanders began nudging each other in the ribs. There was a delightful prospect ahead of them, in watching this guileless Celestial, who knew nothing about motors, trying to run a motor boat.
Half a dozen voices called down directions for switching on the spark, starting the flow of gasoline, and getting the engine to going.
"He'll get into trouble," cried Matt, pushing his way through the crowd.
"What's the diff?" guffawed a blear-eyed individual, with a husky laugh. "It's only a chink, anyhow."