Probably, he reasoned, Wily had cut up so rough with Carl that Matt had thought best to pursue the man and call him to account.
Ping was not in very good condition to take part in the chase, but if he could manage it, and proved of some assistance to Motor Matt, such a move would go far toward making his peace with the king of the motor boys.
"My makee tly," groaned Ping, limping to the place where the motor cycle had been left.
With infinite patience he crawled up the steep slope. One of his legs felt as though it didn't belong to him—it seemed more like a cork leg than anything else, and was numb from ankle to thigh. But, somehow, he managed to get up the bank with it. Pausing there, he called aloud for Motor Matt. His voice echoed weirdly in the scant timber of the rocky ground in front of him, and the shout brought no response.
"My findee Motol Matt," declared the Chinese lad to himself, as he limped into the timber. "My ketchee Motol Matt, mebby ketchee Wily Bill. Woosh! Hoop-a-la!"
[CHAPTER VII.]
THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS.
While making his slow and painful way among the scrub oaks that grew out of the stony earth, Ping was looking in all directions for Matt and Wily. He was listening, too, with all his ears. But he could neither see nor hear anything of the two for whom he was searching.
"My findee!" he said, with dogged determination. "Motol Matt no chasee China boy, him chasee Wily Bill," and again he exulted.