"You Motor Matt?" palpitated Ping. "You wantee——"
"Cast off the rope, Ping," cut in Matt, sliding from the edge of the dock into the boat. "Quick! Get in behind, Joe," he added to McGlory. "We haven't an instant to lose."
"Well, hardly," answered the cowboy, scrambling aboard while Matt started the engine. "Time's plenty scarce for us if we're to overhaul that other boat."
The painter fell into the boat and Ping fell along with it.
"I didn't intend to take you, Ping," said Matt, switching the power into the propeller and turning the nose of the Sprite toward the open bay.
"By Klismus," said Ping, with unexpected firmness, "my workee fo' you! Where you makee go, my makee go, allee same. Me plenty fine China boy."
"Got any sand, Ping?" asked McGlory.
"Have got. Fightee allee same like Sam Hill. Whoosh! Plenty big high China boy, allee same Boxer. You watchee, Motol Matt watchee. My workee heap fine fo' Motol Matt. Workee, fightee—him allee same."
While this brief cross-fire was going on between McGlory and Ping, Matt was driving the Sprite down the slip for all she was worth. The water slithered up along her sharp bow and flung itself in spray over the crouching forms of the cowboy and the Chinese. The launch, because of the weight aft, was very much down by the stern; but this, by throwing the bow high, helped the boat to slip over the water.
After dropping from the dock into the launch Matt had not seen the moving light until, when he was halfway out of the slip, the little gleam danced across the open space between the outer ends of the two piers.