Matt was already bounding up the path. Before he had ascended more than fifteen feet he was met by two rolling, plunging, tumbling forms coming down. A tremendous clatter of sliding stones accompanied the descent, and a towed fishpole whacked and slammed in the rear.
Bracing himself, Matt succeeded in laying hold of the two closely grappled forms, and in bringing them to a stop; then, when he recognized who the fighters were, his astonishment held him speechless.
"Pickerel Pete!" exclaimed George Lorry.
"And Ping Pong," added Matt, as soon as he had recovered a little from his amazement. "The sight of Ping pretty near gives me a short circuit."
"My gottee job," whooped the breathless Ping; "Pickelel Pete no gottee!"
"Hit's my job, en Ah ain't er quittin' fo' no yaller feller like you!"
Thwack, thwack!
"Here, now," cried Matt, "this won't do. Stop it, you fellows!"
Pickerel Pete had a firm grip on Ping's pigtail—which is about the worst hold you can get on a Chinaman. Ping had one hand and arm around Pete's black neck, and the other hand was twisted in the fishline.