Glen was seized with a paralyzing terror. This constable or sheriff or whatever he was had only to reach around the corner to lay hands right on him. He forgot all about revenge on Matt—what he now wanted was to get away.
Then he heard the officer's next question.
"This Glen Mason fellow you speak about—is he one of your regular scouts?"
Glen waited in breathless suspense to hear how Judas would betray him. The answer left him high and dry, gasping with surprise.
"Yes, he's a regular scout," said Matt. "He's a tenderfoot. I suppose it isn't such a very uncommon name."
After all, Matt was a scout—a scout and a patrol leader. He might be conceited, he might be supercilious, he might and did need a lot of nonsense sweated out of him. But he was a scout, and—a scout is loyal! He would have loved dearly to see Glen Mason sent back to the reform school and thus removed from disputing his preeminence. But he was no Judas—his should not be the tongue to betray a fellow scout.
Glen straightened the fist that he had clenched so fiercely at his side, and drew a deep breath as he settled himself down more closely into the protection of his pillar.
"I'd like to see the feller that seen the robbers an' took the ride in their car. I'd like to see the car. I didn't see it when they went through here yestiddy." It was the rough voice again.
"Why not go now and see it?" asked Matt. "The bridge where the boys hid it is only a couple of miles away."
"No good," replied the man. "Them boys wasn't as smart as they thunk. We sent up to get the car fust thing after yore chief sent the word to us last night, but all they was left of it was tracks."