Chapter V: Ping and the Bear

Ping Pong, the Chinese boy, had long ago made up his mind that he was going to work for Motor Matt. He wasn't particular whether he got any pay or not; just so Matt gave him enough to do to keep him around.

Ping had followed Matt from San Francisco to Madison, Wisconsin. When Matt was ready to leave Madison, he got Ping a good job. The Chinaman seemed a bit depressed, but he thanked Matt for the interest shown in his welfare, and seemed reconciled with his lot when he bade him good-by.

And now here was Ping, dropping into Jamestown like lightning from a clear sky. The Chinese boy was full of surprises, and his surprises were always dramatic--sometimes tragic.

When Matt burst from the hotel into the street, Ping was hustling for a telegraph pole. The bear was within a couple of lengths of him, and there was nothing for Ping to do but to find something he could climb.

Behind the bear raced a rough-looking man in a buckskin jacket. He was flourishing his arms and yelling, but the roar of the crowd prevented his words from being heard.

The people on the sidewalks were enjoying the spectacle immensely. The bear was muzzled, and the Chinaman was scared. It did not seem possible that any harm could come to the fleeing Celestial.

"Two to one on the bear!" whooped some one.

"It's the Chink gits my money!" guffawed some one else. "He's goin' like a limited express train, an' that telegraph pole's too handy."

The crowd surged into the street and toward the pole. Ping was already climbing, but the pole was slippery, and when he had got up about twelve feet, he lost his "clinch" and slid downward. The bear was standing erect and reaching upward with its front paws. Ping slid down just far enough for the paws to reach for him and close on one of his feet.

He gave a yell of fear, and once more began frantically climbing. One of his wooden sandals was left behind. The bear dropped it with a sniff, and once more straightened up along the pole.

Again the slippery surface proved more than Ping could manage, and down he came with a rush. The bear got the other sandal before Ping could check his sliding, and the crowd went wild with delight.

The man in the buckskin coat had come close to the pole, but he made no move to interfere with proceedings.

Matt was not able to extract much fun from the situation. The bear's claws were sharp, and if they once came in contact with the Chinaman's body, the consequences might prove serious.

Quickly as he could, Matt forced himself through the edge of the crowd.

"Is that your bear?" he demanded of the man in the buckskin coat.

"Waal," drawled the man, with a scowl, "I reckon it ain't no one else's b'ar."

"Why don't you chase him away, then?" asked Matt indignantly. "Do you want him to kill the Chinaman?"

"It won't be much loss if the critter takes a chunk out o' him. He's only a Chink, anyways, an' he desarves all he'll git."

This line of reasoning did not appeal to Matt. The man was leaning on a heavy club. That club was the only weapon handy, and Matt made a grab at it and pulled it out of the man's hands. With his support thus suddenly removed, the man fell flat in the street, striking his head against the stone curb at the edge of the walk.

No serious damage was done, and the man got up, swearing luridly. Matt gave no further attention to him, but turned toward the bear and Ping.

The Chinaman, tiring with his useless efforts, had started for the third time to slide down the pole. Before the bear could use its paws, Matt whirled the club and struck the brute a heavy blow on the head. The bear was dazed, and dropped down on all fours, blinking at Matt.

Ping dropped to the foot of the pole, rolled off to one side, bounded erect, and continued his flight down the street.

Barely had Ping got away when Matt felt himself grabbed from behind.

"I'll l'arn ye ter rough things up with me!" snarled a hoarse voice.

Then, before Matt could make a move to defend himself, he was hurled backward so fiercely that he lost his footing and fell sprawling in the dust.

The man, beside himself with rage, caught up the club, which had fallen from Matt's hand, and would have attacked the lad with it had McGlory not interfered.

While the club was still poised in the air, the cowboy hurled a stone. The missile struck the man's arm, and the uplifted hand fell as though paralyzed.

There was now another vent for the man's seething anger. With a furious oath, he pushed his left hand under his buckskin coat, and jerked a revolver from his hip pocket. One of the bystanders caught the weapon away from him.

Just at that moment a policeman showed himself, stepping briskly between the man and McGlory.

"What's the trouble here?" asked the officer. "What are you trying to do, Siwash Charley?"

"I'm er peaceable man," roared Siwash Charley, "but I ain't a-goin' ter be tromped on!"

"Who's been tramping on you?" inquired the officer soothingly.

"Fust off, it was er Chink. I was bringin' that tame b'ar inter town fer delivery ter Hank Bostwick, at the ginmill he runs, an' I sot down ter rest. I was ca'm, an' the b'ar was ca'm, but erlong comes the Chink an' sets off a big firecracker he had left over from the Fourth, I reckon. Anyways, the blasted thing went off like er cannon, an' I was blowed clean over the b'ar. When I got up an' looked around, the b'ar was goin' after the Chink, allymand-left an' all sashay. I took arter the b'ar. Seein' as how Bostwick is goin' ter gi'me twenty-five dollars for the brute, I wasn't wantin' him ter git loose. When I got hyer, that feller"--Siwash Charley nodded toward Matt--"pulled a stick I was kerryin' out from under me. I sailed inter him an' then that other feller"--he indicated McGlory--"let loose with a rock an' purty nigh busted my arm. I ain't goin' ter stand fer no sich doin's--that ain't Siwash Charley's stripe, not noways."

"Did the Chink throw the firecracker in the first place?" asked the officer.

"He must er done it. If he hadn't, the b'ar wouldn't have took arter him. I'll fix that Chink if I ever git hands on him; an' I'll fix you fellers, too," he added, scowling at Matt and McGlory.

"The Chinaman was trying to climb the telegraph pole and get away from the bear, officer," spoke up Matt, "but every now and then he'd slip down the pole, and the bear would slap at him with his claws. Siwash Charley, as you call him, stood by and never made a move to interfere. I grabbed the club and struck the bear, and the next thing I knew I was caught from behind and thrown on my back."

"I'd 'a' welted you good, too," snarled Siwash Charley, "if that rock hadn't landed on me."

The officer looked around. Three men had caught the bear by the chain and were holding the brute warily. The bear seemed to be recovering its good nature, the Chinaman had escaped, and little damage had been done.

"Let the matter drop, Charley," said the officer. "You haven't any proof that the Chink threw the cannon cracker, or----"

"B'ars hes got sense," blustered Siwash Charley, "an' this un wouldn't hev chased the Chink if he wasn't guilty."

"Well, you go on to Bostwick's and let the matter drop. Scatter," the officer added sharply to the crowd, "the fun's over with, and there's nothing more to see."

Matt beckoned to McGlory, and the two started back toward the hotel. A roar from Siwash Charley caused them to turn their heads.

"I'll saw off squar' with ye, yet," shouted Siwash Charley, shaking his fist.

"Say moo and chase yourself!" taunted the cowboy. "You're more kinds of a fake and false alarm than I know how to lay tongue to."

The officer gave Siwash Charley a push in the direction of his bear, and Matt caught his chum by the arm and drew him into the hotel.

Annexing himself to the bear by means of the chain, Siwash Charley shook his head angrily, rubbed his forearm up and down the front of his buckskin coat, and proceeded on toward Bostwick's.

When he got clear of the crowd, a man stepped out into the street. It was Murgatroyd, and there was an ominous gleam in his eyes.

"I've got a job for you, Siwash," said the broker.

"Is thar any money in it, Murg?" demanded Siwash. "It's got ter be spot cash an' good pickin's, er we don't hitch."

"You'll get your pay before you begin. Come to my office at five o'clock."

"I'll be thar," and the ruffian continued on toward Bostwick's, still rubbing his aching forearm up and down the front of his greasy buckskin coat.

Murgatroyd, muttering to himself, faded away into the building known as Brown's block.