Carl would tell Matt, and Matt would sidetrack his Chinese pard. Ping worried, and had no desire to see Matt, or any one else. The show was to be at Reid's Lake for three days, and there was no Sunday performance. Ping, therefore, could flock by himself until Monday afternoon.
Ping's work consisted of watering the steam calliope, and in helping the aëroplane take its running start for the flights. Owing to the wind, there would be no morning flight, and—very likely, as he argued to himself—no afternoon ascension, either. And Ping knew Motor Matt would not work on Sunday.
Taken all in all, this was a most propitious time for Ping to absent himself from the show grounds. With the idea that he would go into Grand Rapids and hunt up some of his countrymen, he left the grounds and made his way around the concert garden to the car-line loop.
Here his nerve began to fail him, and he allowed two or three cars to come and go without getting aboard. Finally he bolstered up his tottering resolution and climbed into one of the cars.
Looking through the open window, after he had taken his seat, he saw Wily Bill swing up by the hand rails.
Ping was asking himself what this could mean when the car pulled out. A little worried, he knew not for what reason, he got up from his seat and walked to the forward platform, thinking it well to keep out of Bill Wily's sight.
Suddenly he became aware of something. A voice, from far behind, was shouting for the car to stop. The passengers, thrusting their heads from the windows, were looking back, and some of them were talking excitedly.
Ping, hanging out from the lower step, turned his gaze rearward, and what he saw caused his heart to thump wildly against his ribs.
One of the little two-wheeled devil wagons was rushing along the road that paralleled the track, coming like a limited choo-choo train, and Motor Matt was in the saddle!