"Did you come to this reservation looking for him?" went on Matt.
"Nary, pard." McGlory faced the boy, and waved his hand toward the life-saving station ahead, and to the left of them, on the shore. "I'm mortal fond of boats," he went on. "Kind of queer, that, don't you think, for a galoot that's passed pretty near his whole life in the mines and in the cattle ranges? Anyway, that's me. I can't cross the ferry without gettin' seasick, but, all the same, everything that floats tickles me more than I can tell. I've been down to the life-saving station looking at the surf boat."
"I'm fond of boats myself," said Matt, "especially motor boats. There's something on the ground that must belong to you, McGlory," he added, pointing to the sand near where McGlory had fallen, the first time.
The young cowboy looked at the object, and then recovered it with a whoop. The object was a small, oblong square of pasteboard.
"It's a ticket for the raffle," McGlory explained. "There's two hundred of 'em out, and I've got sixty."
"Raffle?" queried Matt.
"Sure. A little old motor launch is goin' to be raffled off, over at Tiburon, this afternoon. Say, that boat's a streak! She can show her heels to anythin' in San Francisco Bay. Speak to me about that, will you! I've got sixty chances out of two hundred for baggin' her. Come over with me to the raffle, pard. I've cottoned to you, and you're my style from the ground up. What say?"
"Can you run a motor launch?" asked Matt.
"Don't know the first thing about it."
"What do you want with such a boat, then, if it makes you seasick to ride on the water, and if you don't know how to run a motor?"