The cowboy, apparently discouraged with the outlook, dropped down into his chair and leaned back in weary resignation.
"Matt!" exclaimed Martin, "you're just the fellow I want to find."
"What's wrong, Mr. Martin?" inquired Matt.
"A three-thousand-dollar car was stolen out of my garage last night. The night man was attacked, knocked over the head, and then bound hand and foot. It was a most brazen and dastardly piece of work."
"Too bad," spoke up McGlory, "but things like that will happen occasionally. Think of Matt and me getting done out of those two motor cycles of yours."
"But I'll have to put up ten times what you fellows did for the motor cycles—that is, if we can't get the car back."
"We!" boomed McGlory, starting forward in his chair. "If we can't get the car back! Are Motor Matt and Pard McGlory mixed up in that 'we'?"
"Well, I thought when you knew the circumstances that——"
"Don't hem, and haw, and sidestep," cut in McGlory keenly. "You're in trouble, and whenever anybody in the whole country stumbles against something that's gone crosswise, then it's 'Hurrah, boys,' and send for Motor Matt. I wish I had words to tell you how inexpressibly weary all this makes me. Didn't you ever stop to think, Martin, that, off and on, the motor boys might have troubles of their own?"
"But listen. You haven't heard the facts."