Matt, however, had abundant faith in Townsend. Undoubtedly he was proceeding in the manner that best suited his plans.
"Come on, boys," said the young motorist, hurrying up to Dick and Carl, "we've got to pack, and be in a rush about it."
"Hoop-a-la!" gloried Carl, catching the spirit of Matt's words, although he had not the remotest idea of the underlying cause. "Oof ve are going to pack oop, den id vas a skinch ve're going someveres; und oof ve vas going someveres, den der drouple-pot iss on, und vill pegin to poil righdt——"
"Ease up a bit on that jaw-tackle, mate," interrupted Dick, grabbing Carl's arm and hurrying him off after Matt. "It's as plain as the nose on your face that some kind of word has been received from Townsend, but it's just as plain that there's no time to talk about it. Matt's in a tearing hurry, and it's up to us to pull back into our shells, hustle the stuff into our dunnage-bags, and wait for him to tell us what we want to know."
When Dick and Carl reached their room, Matt was already throwing his belongings into a grip. The sailor and the Dutch boy got busy.
"The girl is a Miss Sadie Harris," explained Matt as he worked, "and she's a niece of Townsend's."
"Vas she a pooty goot looker?" inquired Carl, rolling up his eyes.
"What's that got to do with it?" demanded Dick.
"Nodding, only id vas more romandick oof a pooty girl vas mixed oop in der pitzness."
"My eye!" exploded Dick. "Well, cut out the romance. Unless I'm wide of the course this is nothing but pure business. Eh, Matt?"