CHAPTER VII. AN OLD FRIEND.

Matt hoped that McGlory would be able to follow him; but, if the cowboy found this to be impossible, then Matt would do his best to prevent the report from falling into the hands of the colonel and Levitt. That report was the one thing of vital importance. On it alone hinged the success or failure of the colonel’s gigantic swindling operations. Matt must escape capture at any cost, in order to retain possession of the report.

The course of his flight carried him toward the rear of the Country Club grounds. He heard the colonel’s shout to the young men just in from the golf links, and he knew there would be a pursuit. Of course Matt could explain the situation and perhaps escape legal complications, but if caught he would be compelled to give up the report.

He darted across a tennis court, leaped the net, dodged behind a clump of lilac bushes, and ran toward the edge of a grove that bordered the Country Club grounds on that side. Between the lilacs and the grove was a rustic pavilion. A flower bed was near the pavilion, and an old negro was kneeling beside the bed, his back toward Matt, and industriously pulling weeds. Matt had not much time to give to the negro, but hoped that he was giving his whole attention to his work. As he came around the pavilion Matt heard sounds which indicated that more pursuers were after him--these coming from the direction of the garage and the stables.

To reach the timber without being seen seemed hopeless, and Matt looked hurriedly around for some place in which he could secrete himself.

The floor of the pavilion was elevated some two feet or more above the surface of the ground. The opening between the floor and the ground was filled in with panels of close latticework. One of the panels was broken, and Matt dropped to his knees and crawled through it.

This was not as secure a hiding place as he would have selected, if he could have had his choice, but his emergency was such that he had no time to look farther.

Lying flat on the ground, so that his form would not be visible to his pursuers, Matt watched and waited.

The two young men with the golf sticks broke into view around the lilac bushes. They were closely followed by three others, employees of the club, evidently, for they wore overclothes. Matt recognized one of them as having been in the garage when he and McGlory left the runabout there.

The old negro had lifted himself to his feet and was facing the five pursuers. Freedom or capture for Matt depended upon what the old negro knew. Scarcely breathing, the king of the motor boys listened for what was to come.

“Say, uncle,” panted one of the young men from the links, “did you see a fellow running this way?”

“Ah did, suh,” replied the negro. “Ah was as close tuh him as whut me an’ yo’ is, boss.”

Levitt at that instant rushed around the bushes. He was in time to hear the negro’s answer to the question.

“Which way did he go?” Levitt demanded. “He’s a thief, and we’ve got to capture him and recover some stolen property. Which way did he run? Quick!”

The old darky turned and deliberately pointed away from the pavilion and to a point in the encompassing timber which led toward the road, well to the north of the clubhouse.

“Dat’s de way he went, boss,” said he, “an’, by golly, he went jess a-hummin’.”

“This way, men!” shouted Levitt, leaping off in the direction indicated by the negro.

The six pursuers disappeared at a run, and left Matt gasping with astonishment. Why had the old darky put them on the wrong track? It was preposterous to think that the negro had himself been deceived.

While Matt was turning the matter over in his mind, and puzzling his brain with it, the negro began to whistle softly and to limp in the direction of the pavilion. On reaching the broken panel of latticework, he leaned against the railing of the pavilion.

“How yo’ lak dat, Marse Matt?” he chuckled. “Didn’t Ah done send um on de wrong track, huh? En yo’ all thought Ah wasn’t lookin’ at yo’, en dat Ah didn’t know who yo’ was! Har, har, har!”

The darky laughed softly as he finished talking.

Matt’s wonderment continued to grow.

“Great spark plugs!” he muttered, recognizing an old acquaintance. “Is it--can it be--Uncle Tom?”

“Dat’s who Ah is, marse! Hit’s been a right sma’t of er while since Ah had de pleasuah ob seein’ yo’. De las’ time we was togedder was in Denvah. ’Membah all dem excitin’ times we had in Arizony, dat time dat Topsy gal en me was wif dat Uncle Tom’s Cabin comp’ny? Golly, I ain’t nevah gwineter fo’git dat! Who’s been doin’ yo’ mascottin’ lately, huh? ’Pears lak no one had, f’om de ha’d luck yo’ is in.”

Matt recalled Uncle Tom very vividly. The aged negro had belonged to a stranded company of players, and Matt had helped them out of their difficulties. But that had happened in the Southwest, and here was Uncle Tom about as far East as he could get. The world is not so large, after all, and many strange and unexpected meetings occur.

“I’m more surprised than I can tell, Uncle Tom,” said Matt, “to run across you, here on Long Island, and at a time when I certainly needed a friend. It may be that you can help me even more, but----”

“Ah’s pinin’ tuh do all dat Ah can fo’ yo’, Marse Matt,” interposed the darky earnestly.

“But,” went on Matt, “this is hardly a safe place for me. If the coast is clear I guess I’d better crawl out and get into the woods.”

“Yo’s right erbout dat, marse. Ah’s so plumb tickled tuh see yo’ dat I come mighty nigh fo’gittin’ yo’s bein’ hunted fo’. Wait twell Ah take er look erroun’.”

Uncle Tom stepped away from the pavilion and swept a keen glance over the grounds in that vicinity.

“De coast am cleah, Marse Matt,” he announced, returning to the side of the pavilion. “Yo come out an’ hike fo’ de woods, en Ah’ll foller yuh. Den we can talk a li’l, en you can tell me whut mo’ de ole man can do.”

Matt pushed through the broken lattice and gained the timber line at a point opposite the place where his pursuers had vanished. Here, for a time, he was safe, and he sank down behind a mask of brush. Uncle Tom was not long in reaching his side.

“Golly,” he beamed, looking Matt over, “but hit’s good fo’ sore eyes jess tuh see yo’, marse. Ah nevah expected nuffin’ lak dis. Mouty peculiah how folks meets up wif one anotheh sometimes, dat-er-way.”

“How did you happen to wander in this direction, Uncle Tom?” Matt asked.

“Mascottin’,” answered the old man gravely. “Ah be’n mascottin’ fo’ er prize fighteh. Terry, de Cricket, is whut he called himse’f, en Ah won a fight fo’ him in Denvah, en another in Kansas City; but in New Yawk Terry, de Cricket, done ’spected me tuh do all de wo’k, en he went down wif er chirp, en dey counted ten on him. Ah couldn’t help dat, but Terry he ’low Ah was losin’ mah mascottin’ ability, en he turned me loose. Topsy done got er job in er house in Hempstead, en Ah picked up dis place at de Country Club. But Ah doan’ like hit, marse. Ah’s er ole man, en hit’s backachin’ wo’k. Yo’ needs er mascot bad, en now’s de time tuh take me on.”

Uncle Tom was a humorous old rascal, and professed to believe that he possessed mystical powers as a luck bringer. He declared that he had helped Matt, and Matt humored him by letting him think so, giving him a few dollars now and then to help him keep body and soul together.

“I’m not in shape just now, Uncle Tom,” said Matt, “to hire a private mascot of your abilities. You see, I’m mixed up in a bit of trouble that I’ve got to work through alone.”

“Bymby, Marse Matt, mebby yo’ all can make er place fo’ Uncle Tom?” pleaded the negro. “Jess remembah whut Ah’s done fo’ yo’ in de past. Ah nevah mascotted fo’ anybody dat Ah liked so well as yo’se’f. Dat’s right. Has yo’ got a dollah yo’ can let go of wifout material damage to yo’ own welfare?”

Matt extracted a five-dollar bill from his pocket and pushed it into the negro’s yellow palm. Uncle Tom’s gratitude was so intense it was almost morbid.

“Yo’s de fines’ fellah dat evah was,” he declared, grabbing Matt’s hand and hanging to it. “Dat’s de trufe. Ah’d raddah wo’k fo’ you fo’ nuffin dan fo’ some odders fo’ er millyun dollahs er day. Dat’s right. Yo’s de same ole Marse Matt, en yo’----”

“I haven’t much time to talk, Uncle Tom,” interrupted Matt. “When I left the clubhouse I had to drop from a second-story window. I made it all right, but I left a friend behind. My friend’s name is Joe McGlory. Do you think you could get word to him?”

“Shuah Ah can!” replied the old negro promptly. “What kin’ ob a lookin’ fellah is dat ’ar Joe McGlory?”

Matt described his chum’s appearance, and the darky listened closely.

“Find out,” Matt finished, “whether McGlory is still upstairs in the clubhouse. If he is I don’t suppose you can communicate with him, for you will have to do it privately. Providing you can get word to him, tell him to meet me in the grove at the roadside, a quarter of a mile north of the clubhouse. Got that?”

“Yas, I done got dat, marse.”

“If you can’t get word to McGlory inside of an hour, then you come and tell me, will you?”

“Yo’ knows, Marse Matt, yo’ can count on Uncle Tom. Ah’ll do whut yo’ say, en Ah’ll wo’k mah ole haid off mascottin’ fo’ yo’ while Ah’m doin’ it.”

The old darky slipped away through the edge of the timber, and Matt, none too sanguine, proceeded to lay a course for the spot where he hoped to be joined by his cowboy chum.