Matt laughed.
"Never trouble trouble," he admonished, "till trouble troubles you."
"Fine!" exclaimed McGlory; "but it's like a good many of these keen old saws—hard to live up to. I'll bet the inventor of that little spiel died of worry in some poorhouse. I'm always on my toes, shading my eyes with my hat brim and looking for miles along the trail of life to see if I can't pick up a little hard luck heading my way. Can't wait till I come company front with it. Well, maybe it's all right. Life would be sort of tame if something didn't happen now and then to make us ginger up. But we're for New York at eleven o'clock, no matter what happens!"
A few minutes later they finished their breakfast and went out into the office. As Matt pushed up to the desk to ask the amount of his hotel bill, and settle for it, the clerk shoved a yellow envelope at him.
"Telegram, Matt. Just got here."
"Shock two," groaned McGlory, grabbing at the edge of the desk. "Now what? Oh, tell me!"
Matt tore open the envelope, read the message, stared at it, whistled, then read it again.
"Somebody want us to run an air ship or go to sea in a submarine?" palpitated McGlory. "Sufferin' tenterhooks, pard! Stop your staring and whistling, and hand it to me right off the bat."
Matt caught McGlory's arm and conducted him to a corner where there were a couple of easy-chairs.
"It's from the mandarin," he announced.