Originally published: July 31, 1909
Genres: Adventure, Children's
Goodreads link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/200520385-motor-matt-s-prize-or-the-pluck-that-wins
Gutenberg link: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/50975
Chapters: 16
Warning: This may include outdated and derogatory language and attitudes.
CHAPTER I
A CLASH IN BLACK AND YELLOW
"Woosh!"
"Fo' de lan' sakes!"
Then followed a bump, a clatter of displaced stones, and sounds of a fall. When quiet once more ensued, two surprised youngsters were on hands and knees, peering at each other like a couple of hostile bantams. Between them lay a string of perch, and off to one side a hickory fish pole, and an old tomato can with a choice assortment of angleworms squirming out of it.
One of the lads was a fifteen-year-old Chinese, in a fluttering blouse, wide trousers, wooden sandals, and straw hat; the other was a diminutive boy, black as the ace of spades, barefooted, and wearing a "hickory" shirt and ragged trousers.
The bank of Fourth Lake, where they had come together so unexpectedly, was an admirable place for such collisions. In this place, the bank was some thirty feet high, steep, and rocky. A narrow path, thickly bordered with bushes, angled from top to bottom. At the foot of the path was a boathouse.
Now, if a Chinese boy, in a good deal of a hurry, went slipping and sliding downward from the top of the path, it will be readily understood that he could not put on the brakes in time to avoid an obstruction appearing suddenly in front of him as he scrambled around a bushy angle.
And if that obstruction happened to be a diminutive black boy, sitting squarely in the path, sunning himself and half asleep, too drowsy to take notice of sounds above and behind him, it would also be understood that a collision was certain.
It happened. The Chinese took a header over the black boy, and when each flopped to his hands and knees, they were looking into each other's eyes with growing animosity.
"By golly!" flared the black boy, "is dem glass eyes en yo' haid? Ef dey ain't, why doan' yu use dem?"
"Why black boy makee sit in China boy's load?" gurgled the other.
"Yo' own dishyer lake?" taunted the little black boy; "yo' gotter mo'galidge on dishyer bank? Go on wif yo' highfalutin' talk! Ah'll sot wherebber Ah wants, en ef yo' comes erlong en goes tuh shovin', by golly, yo'll fin' Ah kin do some shovin' mahse'f."
"My gottee light comee down bank," asserted the Chinese boy, picking himself up. "My makee go allee same boathouse; you makee stay in load, you gettee shove. My plenty same choo-choo tlain, you makee sleep on tlack. Savvy? You makee some mo' shove, my makee some mo' shove, too."
The Chinese boy stood his ground. The black-skinned youngster sat up and pulled his string of fish closer.
"Ah nebber did lak Chinese," he grunted.
"My no likee black boy, all same," averred the Chinese boy.
"Ah reckons Ah kin lick yu' wif one han' tied behin' mah back. Go 'long, yaller trash! Ah's er hurriclone en a cynader, all rolled intuh one, when Ah gits sta'ted. Look out fo' a big blow en a Chinese wreck, dat's all."
"Woosh! Black boy makee plenty blow. Me allee same cannon. My makee go bang, you makee go top-side. No likee your piecee pidgin."
Then a comical thing happened, and if any third person with a humorous vein in his make-up had been around, the proceeding would have been highly enjoyed.
Both youngsters glared at each other. Each had his fists doubled, and each fiddled back and forth across the steep path. The black boy sniffed contemptuously. The Chinese lad was a good imitator, and he also sniffed—even more contemptuously.
"By golly," fumed the little moke, "Ah dunno whut's er holdin' me back. Ef anyone else had done tuh me whut yo' done, Ah'd hab tromped all ober him befo' now. Ah's gwine tuh dat boathouse mah'se'f. Git outen de way an' le'me pass, er Ah'll butt yo' wif mah haid!"
"My makee go to boathouse, too."
A little curiosity suddenly crept into the black boy's hostile brain.
"Whut bizness yo' got at dat boathouse, huh?" he demanded.
"Gottee plenty pidgin. My workee fo' Motol Matt."
"Yo' workin' fo' Motor Matt?" grunted the other. "By golly, he's mah boss."
"Him China boy's boss."
"Naw, he ain't. Yo's talkin' froo yo' hat. Doan' yo' go er prowlin' erroun' dat 'ar boathouse. Ah ain't a-lettin' nobody git dat job away f'om me."
"Motol Matt my boss, allee same," insisted the Chinese boy.
"When you all git hiahed by Motor Matt?" demanded the darky.
"Long time, allee same Flisco."
"Den dat let's yo' out, yaller mug. Motor Matt done hiahed me fo' days ergo, at two dollahs er day. Skun out. Doan' yo' try cuttin' me loose from dat 'ar job."
The black boy took a step downward, but the Chinese boy planted himself firmly and put up his fists. Once more there was a hitch in proceedings, but the affair was growing more ominous.
"Ah shuah hates tuh mangle yo' up," breathed the black boy, "but de 'sponsibility fo' what's done gwine tuh happen b'longs on yo' had en not on mine."
The Chinese lifted his yellow hands and crossed two fingers in front of his face, then, in a particularly irritating manner, he snorted at the black boy through his fingers.
That was about as much as flesh and blood could stand. The colored lad was so full of talk that it just gurgled in his throat.
"Dat's de mos' insulatin' thing what ebber happened tuh me!" he finally managed to gasp. "By golly, Ah doan' take dat f'om nobody. Dat snortin' talk Ah won't stan', dat's all."
"Black boy makee heap talk," taunted the Chinese; "him 'flaid makee hit with hands."
"'Fraid?" cried the black boy. "Say, you, Pickerel Pete ain't afraid ob all de Chinese dat eber walked de erf. Chinese—waugh! Ah eat's 'em."
"Mebby you tly eatee Ping Pong?" invited the Chinese boy.
Pickerel Pete, watching his antagonist warily, stooped to pick up a small pebble. Very carefully he laid the pebble on his shoulder.
"Knock dat off," he gritted, his hand closing on the string that held the perch. "Yo' all ain't got de nerve. Yo's got gas enough fo' er b'loon dissension, but dat's all dere is to yu. Knock de stone offen mah shoulder! Go on, now, you yaller trash."
Ping leaned over and brushed the pebble away. That settled it. There was no retreat for either of the two after that.
Pete gave a whoop and struck at Ping with the string of perch. The string broke, and Ping got a perch down the loose collar of his kimono, while another slapped him across the eyes. For an instant, the air was full of fish, and under cover of the finny cloud, the enraged Chinese rushed at his enemy and gave him a push.
Pete sat down with a good deal of force, and, as it happened, he sat down on his fishhook. A fishhook was never known to lie anyway but pointed up and ready for business, so Pete got up about as quickly as he sat down. The next moment he rushed at Ping, trailing the line and the fishpole after him.
This time the two boys clinched, and the noise they made as they rolled about among the perch and pummeled each other caused a commotion at the boathouse. Motor Matt and George Lorry rushed out of the building and looked up the path.
"Great spark plugs!" exclaimed Matt. "There's a fight going on up there, George."
"It looks that way, that's a fact," answered Lorry. "Let's go up and put a stop to it."
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 fish pole 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.
Every time Pete would pull the queue a sharp wail would go up from Ping, and every time the fishline was jerked Pete would howl and squirm.
"You boys ought to be ashamed of yourselves," said Matt, masking his desire to laugh with all the severity he could muster.
Lorry was leaning against a tree, his head bowed and his whole form in a quiver.
"Leavee go China boy's pigtail!" chirped Ping.
"Stop yo' pullin' on dat 'ar fishline!" howled Pete.
"Let go, both of you!" ordered Matt; then forcibly he pulled the two lads apart. "Here, Lorry," he called, "you hang onto Ping and I'll take care of Pete."
The youngsters were a disordered pair when separated and held at a distance from each other.
"What's the meaning of this?" demanded Matt.
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