tell by ze smoke," repeated the woman; "I read heem in ze smoke."

"What sort of a place is this, anyhow?" muttered Dick to Matt uncomfortably. "Is the old lady a fortune teller? I never took much stock in that sort of thing, you know."

"Yamousa ees ze Obeah woman," chirped the hag, her ears having evidently been sharp enough to overhear what Dick had said: "I am ze voodoo queen. I know t'ings ozzers don't know, an' ze people come from ever'where to see Yamousa—from New Orleans, oui, and from Algiers, Plaquemine, St. Bernard—all up and down ze river an' ze coast—zey all come to haf Yamousa tell zem t'ings zat zey don't know. I tell you ze same. You are my franes—mes amis—an', I do planty mooch for you. Where is ze ozzer of you? In ze smoke I see t'ree, all in ze flying boat zat come to Bayou Yamousa."

"She means Carl," muttered Dick, "and how the old Harry she knew anything about him is a fair dazer."

"In ze smoke I see heem," replied the hag, again catching Dick's words.

"I think I'm beginning to see through this a little, Dick," said Matt. "In some way, Jurgens and Whistler got off that island in the Bahamas and——"

"Zey hide in a cave till you go 'way," broke in Yamousa, "an' zen zey come out an' bymby ze boat come from ze Great Bahama an' pick zem off. Oui, hé, zey ees bot' ver' bad an' haf ze bad heart."

"How did you find that out, Yamousa?" asked Matt.

"Not in ze smoke, not zat, non. Whistler tell me."

Yamousa's knowledge, which, for the most part, seemed to be derived from unusual sources, filled Matt and Dick with growing bewilderment.

"Sink me," muttered Dick, "but my nerves are beginning to bother me. Go on, though, matey. What about Whistler?"

"Why, he's still after the iron chest, he and Jurgens. They got away from that turtle back in the Bahamas, landed in this vicinity, and Whistler came here to get this voodoo priestess to tell him where he could locate the chest."

"All my eye and Betty Martin, that! Just as though Yamousa could tell him!"

"Anyhow, Whistler must have thought so or he wouldn't be here. We saw and heard enough to convince us that what Yamousa said about his designs was true. We got here in time to drive him off and——"

Just there occurred a startling interruption. A frantic yell came from the clearing—a yell that was plainly given by Carl.

"More trouble!" boomed Dick, leaping from the bench, "and it's Carl that's flying distress signals now."

Matt did not reply, but he led the way to the door and through it into the dying glow of the fire on the bayou bank.

CHAPTER III.

THE ATTACK ON THE CAR.

Carl was having a fight. Matt and Dick were able to discover that much as they rushed from the house. And the fight was against hopeless odds, for at least a dozen men could be seen in the faint glow of the fire. They were pressing around the car, and Carl, standing in Matt's chair, was laying about him with a long-handled wrench, keeping the attacking force temporarily at bay.

"Keelhaul me!" cried Ferral, as he raced after Motor Matt. "What does that gang mean by making a dead-set at the Hawk? They're negroes, the lot of them!"

"There's one white man, Dick!" answered Matt. "Whistler is there. He must have recognized us in the woods and he's setting the negroes on to smash the air ship, or else capture it."

"The confounded swab! He'll not find it so easy, I warrant you."

Whistler, leaving the negroes to get the better of Carl, was working at one of the mooring ropes. This made it look as though he was trying to steal the air ship rather than to destroy it.

Carl, sweeping his makeshift weapon in a fierce circle about him and now and then bowling over a negro who came too close, caught sight of his two chums hustling for the scene.

"Hoop-a-la!" Carl bellowed. "Here comes my bards, und now you fellers vas going to ged more as you t'ought. Dere vill be doings now, und don'd forged dot! Slide indo der scrimmage, Matt, you und Tick! It vas going to be some hot vones, I dell you dose."

Just then the wrench hit a negro and knocked him off his feet.

"Dot vas me," yelped Carl, "und I gif you some sambles oof vat you vas to oxpect! I peen der olt Missouri Rifer, py shinks, und ven I shvell my banks den it vas dime peoples took to der hills! I vas der orichinal Pengal diger, fresh from der chungle und looking to gopple oop vatefer geds in my vay! Ach, vat a habbiness! Sooch a pooty fighdt vat it iss!"

It was perhaps a sad thing, yet nevertheless true, that Carl Pretzel loved a fist fight better than he loved a square meal; and that was saying a good deal—for Carl.

While he was fighting it was his custom to waste a good deal of valuable breath boasting about his own prowess and taunting his foes. Just now he was the old Missouri River and the original Bengal tiger, both rolled into one. But he had hardly finished introducing himself to the negroes before one of them hit him with a stone. The wrench dropped from Carl's hand and he turned a back somersault over the rail of the car. Before he could get up, half a dozen husky negroes had piled on top of him and he was helpless and unable to make a move.

Matt and Dick, bearing down with all speed upon Whistler, saw their chum as he tumbled out of the car. They could not do anything for Carl at that moment, however, as Whistler had straightened erect and flung a hand to his hip.

The boys knew what that motion meant. Whistler was a desperate man, and as quick to use a revolver, when he had one, as he was to use his fists when he hadn't.

"Land on him—before he can shoot!"

As Dick yelled the words, Matt cleared the distance separating him from Whistler with a wild leap. His body struck Whistler's squarely, and with a terrific impact. Both went down and rolled over and over on the ground.

The revolver, which Whistler had just drawn from his pocket, fell from his hand. Dick saw it and was less than a second in grabbing it up.

"We've drawn Whistler's fangs, mate," he shouted to Matt, who had regained his feet. "He'll not trouble us, and this piece of cold steel will give the negroes something to think about. Break away, there!" and Dick, flourishing the weapon, jumped for the crowd that had laid hold of Carl.

The negroes, from what Matt could see of them, appeared to be laborers from some neighboring plantation. Nearly all of them were big and powerful, but ran to brute strength rather than to science.

The attack on the car, there was no doubt, had been engineered by Whistler. He recognized in Matt and his friends a source of peril, and by capturing the Hawk and injuring one or more of the boys, he would be able to reduce the peril to a minimum.

It had been strange, indeed, that the boys should have encountered their old enemy there on the bank of that Louisiana bayou. But Whistler, either acting for himself or in conjunction with Jurgens, was scheming to regain possession of the iron chest. Inasmuch as the chest was presumably still in the hands of Townsend, the man whom Matt and his friends were going to New Orleans to meet, there was a reason for Whistler and the boys being in that part of the country at the same time. So their meeting was not such a remarkable coincidence, after all.

The sight of the revolver threw the blacks into a panic. Those who had captured Carl sprang away from him and retreated warily toward the edge of the timber. At the same time, the others began to draw back from the car.

"Go for 'em, you cowards!" yelled Whistler, scrambling to his feet. "You're getting a dollar apiece, all around, for this, but by thunder you've got to earn it."

"Keep away from this air ship," shouted Matt sternly, posting himself near the end of the car. "The man who lays a hand on the Hawk does