"You'd hardly think there was a sick person up here," said Mr. Lorry, "from the talk that's been going on. How are you, my lad?" and he stepped toward Matt.
"Doing finely," said Matt.
"I'm glad," said Ethel, drawing close to the bed and slipping her arm through her father's.
"He's going to race the Sprite to-morrow, Uncle Dan," chirped McGlory.
"No!" exclaimed the astounded Mr. Lorry.
"Fact. You can't down him. He's in that race with only one hand—and the left, at that."
"It will be the death of you!" cried Ethel. "You mustn't think of it."
"You know, my boy," added Mr. Lorry gravely, "it won't do to take chances."
"I know that, sir," returned Matt, "but I'm as well as ever, barring my arm. I can't lie here and let the Sprite get beaten for lack of a man at the motor who understands her. I'd be in a bad way, for sure, if I had to do that."
"I think he's a bit flighty," grinned McGlory. "I reckon I can prove that by telling you what just happened."