PICKEREL PETE'S REVENGE.
For several moments neither Pete nor Ping was able to reply to Matt's question. The darky was busy getting the fishhook out of his trousers, and the Chinese was hopping up and down on one foot, shaking the perch out of his flapping garments. Both the fish and the fishhook were extricated at about the same time.
"Say, boss," cried Pete, "yo' all ain't done passed me up fo' dat yaller trash, has yu? Ah's workin' fo' yu yit, ain't Ah? Dat 'ar slant-eye hefun was er sayin' dat he had de job, but Ah 'lows yo' wouldn't go en cut me offen yo' pay-roll fo' de likes ob him."
"My workee fo' Motol Matt," clamored Ping, "allee time. Blackee boy no workee. Me one piecee fine China boy. Lickee blackee boy allee same Sam Hill."
"Yo' nebber!" whooped Pete. "Ah kin git yo' on de mat wif mah eyes shut, en——"
"Stand right where you are, Pete!" cut in Matt sternly. "I'll not have any more rowdying. You and Ping ought to be ashamed of yourselves."
"You ketchee boat my sendee by expless, Motol Matt?" inquired Ping.
Matt had "caught" the boat, all right. Ping, without any instructions, had sent the eighteen-foot Sprite, with engine installed and various accessories in the lockers, from San Francisco to Madison, Wisconsin, by express, charges collect.
At first the king of the motor boys had been considerably "put out" by this unauthorized move of Ping's, but later he had been glad that the Sprite had come into his hands.
"Yes, Ping," said Matt, "I received the boat, and we have now got her in the boathouse down there, making some changes in her to fit her for the motor-boat race next week. Where have you been, Ping?"