Dashington stared, then jumped into the air and shook his hat.
"Oh, no, this isn't luck!" he remarked, smothering his hilarity with a tremendous effort. "Not at all! And yet it's as natural as can be. Of course he wouldn't trust the sparks with either Whistler or Bangs. He keeps them himself, and when he goes out hunting for Motor Matt he totes them along. The bag drops out as we roll off the step, and hides itself up close to the wall of the cabin. Carl finds it—and maybe we're not all to the good? Take it from me, we are."
"Are the diamonds in that bag, Dash?" demanded Matt, scarcely daring to credit his ears.
"Nowhere else, cull," exulted Dashington. "I couldn't forget that bag. It has played a big part in my life, even if it hasn't played a long one."
"Well, shiver me!" muttered Dick, dropping down on the step. "If that's not what you call winding this up in handsome style, you can call me a lubber. Motor Matt's luck—that's what did it."
"Hoop-a-la!" fluttered Carl, doing a two-step. "We're der fellers, und don'd you forged dot! Der tiamonts is pack, we haf der tiamonts pack, und eferyt'ing iss so lofely as I can't tell. Hoop-a-la!"
"Stow it, neighbor!" warned Dashington. "We've got our hooks on the sparks, but we're not liable to keep them if you make too much noise. Whistler and Bangs are somewhere in the timber, so don't advertise the fact that we're here and have the stones. Look into the bag, Matt. Make sure it's no counterfeit."
"That's right," said Dick, tempering his glad feelings until a further examination was made. "Open the pouch, Matt, and look into it. If the old hunks has fooled us with a bag of pebbles——"
"He hasn't," cut in Matt. "Look here!"
He pulled one hand from the bag and held up a diamond in the sun. There could be no doubt, after that.