Matt was "stumped." The longer Hawley talked the more astounded Matt became. Just what Hawley wanted to do with him the boy did not know, but he gleaned enough to understand that he'd have to turn his back on a whole bunch of cherished "principles" if he fell in with the gambler's desires.
"I guess you've got into the wrong pew, Mr. Hawley," remarked Matt. "I haven't any desire to help you shake plum-trees, and if I ever went into racing for a business you're the last man I'd pick out to see me through."
"Ain't my money as good as anybody else's?" flared Hawley, losing some of his amiability.
"I'm not talking about money. What I want to say is that you and I can't hitch up worth a cent."
"That's how you stack up, is it?" returned Hawley. "Well, look here"—he drew a roll of bills out of his pocket—"there's five hundred in that roll and it's all yours if you go to Denver to-morrow and stay there for a month."
Matt had a thought just then that touched him like a live wire.
"You're trying to keep me out of that Phœnix-Prescott contest, Mr. Hawley," said he, with a square look into the gambler's eyes. "What sort of an ax have you got to grind, anyhow?"
Dirk Hawley got up, shoved the roll of bills into his pocket, and moved to the door.
"You're too wise for your own good, my bantam," he sneered. "Perry pretty near hits it off in what he tells me about you. If you think you're going to ride in that bicycle-race you've got another guess coming. Just paste that in your little hat and keep your eye on it."
Then, with an angry splutter, Dirk Hawley let himself out of the room and slammed the door. A few moments later Matt heard his big motor-car puffing away from the curb.