He jumped about four feet, straight up in the air. Matt saw a tongue of flame shoot upward from the car.
The gasoline tank had been smashed. The inflammable contents, dripping upon the hot exhaust pipe leading from the muffler, must have caused the blaze.
Sizz-z-, bang, boom!
The gasoline was vaporizing. As the startled mandarin watched the blaze, paralyzed and speechless by the unexpected exhibition, the yellow cord swung limply downward from his throat. McGlory rushed up behind him, and jerked the cord away. Tsan Ti did not seem to notice the manœuvre—he was all wrapped up in the blaze and the explosions.
The fire shot skyward, and Matt grabbed the Chinaman and hauled him to a safe distance.
"Bring the wheel, Joe," Matt yelled, "the one that came off!"
McGlory had not the least notion what Matt wanted with the wheel, but he got it, and they were all well down the road when a final terrific boom scattered fragments of the wreck every which way and sent little jets of flame from the diffused gasoline spitting in all directions.
"Good-by, you old benzine buggy!" said McGlory, addressing the flame-wrapped car. "You wasn't worth much, anyways, but I bet the mandarin bleeds for twice your value, just the same. What you looking at that wheel for, Matt?" he finished, turning to his chum.
"It was punctured by a bullet," replied Matt, pointing to a clean-cut rent in the shoe.
"Bullet?" echoed McGlory. "Speak to me about that! I didn't hear any shooting."