"Oh, by golly!" sputtered the overwhelmed Pete, grabbing at the bill as a drowning man grabs at a straw. "Ah's rich, dat's whut Ah is. Say, boss, is all dis heah money fo' me? Ah ain't got no change."
"It's all yours, Pete," went on Merton; "what's more, if you'll come here and see me Sunday afternoon at four o'clock, I'll give you a chance to earn another five-dollar bill. Will you be here?"
"Will er duck swim, boss?" fluttered Pete, kissing the crumpled banknote and tucking it carefully away in a trousers pocket. "Sunday aftehnoon at fo' erclock. Ah'll be heah fo' suah, boss."
"Then get out."
Pickerel Pete effaced himself—one hand in his trousers pocket to make sure the banknote was still there, and that he was not dreaming.
"Now, then, Ollie," said Martin Rawlins, "tell us what your game is."
"Yes, confound it," grumbled Meigs. "We're all on tenterhooks."
"These papers, fellows," answered Merton, drawing the crumpled sheets from his pocket, "contain Motor Matt's plans for changing the Sprite. Looking over them hastily, I gather the idea that he's making the Sprite just fast enough to beat the Wyandotte."
A snicker went up from the others.
"We've got him fooled, all right," was the general comment.