George managed finally to saw the blade through one coil of the cord that secured McGlory's hands. With a swift tug from the shoulders the cowboy released himself, then caught the knife from his cousin's hand and slashed it through the ropes at his feet.
The next instant he was up and bounding toward the boathouse.
"Where are you going?" shouted George.
McGlory, rendered desperate by the knowledge that Matt was in the boathouse facing death in a fierce effort to save the Sprite, was heading straight for the door of the building.
The door was merely a riffle in a wall of flame. Before McGlory could reach it, the whole end of the boathouse crashed outward.
He sprang backward, just in time to avoid the blazing timbers, and turned to Lorry with a groan.
"We can't help him!" he cried hoarsely. "Motor Matt's done for, the Sprite's done for—everybody's done for, George. And it was all on my account."
Here it was that Lorry came to the front with a little common sense.
"You were not to blame, Joe," he asserted. "You were set on by some negroes, and you could no more help what happened than Matt or I. Pull yourself together and don't be a fool. Motor Matt knows what he's about. If he's in that boathouse he'll get out of it again. Anyhow, we can't help him from this side. We'll go around by the pier and get the launch. If we can get the launch through the water door, maybe we can hitch on to the Sprite and tow her out."
This talk had a salutary effect on McGlory.