"Why," said he, "I got them in a perfectly legitimate manner from the builder of the boat, who lives in Bay City. The name of the builder was easily learned, and a letter did the rest. The Wyandotte can log fourteen or fifteen miles—no trouble to find that out with pencil and paper, since we have all those dimensions. Now, the Sprite, as she was, could do her mile in four-twelve—possibly in four—and Merton knows it. Why, then, is he showing off a boat that is not much better than the Sprite has been all along? Take it from me, Lorry," and Matt spoke with supreme conviction, "the Wyandotte is not the boat the Winnequas will have in the race. There's another one, and I've felt morally sure of it all along."
"You're a wonder!" muttered Lorry. "Why, you never told me you'd written to Bay City about the Wyandotte."
"I intended to tell you at the proper time."
"Well, if Merton is going to spring a surprise boat on us the day of the race, that makes it so much the worse."
"I have other plans for changing the Sprite, but I have been holding them back until I could make sure Merton was holding another speed boat in reserve. Those plans weren't in that roll that was stolen, George; as a matter of fact, they're not down on paper at all. From the drawings and memoranda Merton has secured he can figure the improved Sprite's speed at a little less than sixteen miles an hour. Let him figure that way. The other plans I have will enable her to do twenty."
Lorry bounded off his chair.
"Twenty?" he cried. "Matt, you're crazy!"
Before Matt could answer, Joe McGlory staggered into the boathouse, dragging a motor cycle after him. Both he and the wheel were splashed with mud, and bore other evidences of wear and tear, but the cowboy's eyes were bulging with excitement.
"You've been gone two hours longer than I thought you'd be, Joe," said Matt, studying his chum with considerable curiosity. "What's happened?"