Chub told about the miserable hours he and Carl had passed while waiting for Matt to be found, or else to find himself.
"That Dutchman," said Chub, "was as near daffy as a fellow can be and yet have a few lucid intervals. He wanted to fight. He didn't seem at all particular who he licked, but he wanted to be using his fists."
"The little runt!" laughed Matt. "He's a fine fellow, that Carl. His head-work isn't very brilliant, at times, but he's true blue; and when it comes to fist-work, I don't know where you can find his equal for one of his size."
"I've cottoned to him in great shape. How much do you pull down for the winning, Matt?"
"Three thousand."
"That's making money hand over fist!" exclaimed Chub, "and there'll be more coming. A crack driver like you can command his own price."
"You're in for something, too, you know. I never could have won if you hadn't helped me like you did."
"Splash! What's that bell I hear?"
"Supper!"
"Let's run. I'll bet I can eat twice as much as Carl, to-night."