Leaning over the steering wheel, the cowboy gazed like one in a trance.
"Matt!" he shouted at last, "is this a dream, or the real thing? Say something, you old hardshell. Sufferin' tenterhooks! I can't tell how nervous you make me."
[CHAPTER XIII.]
BAITING A TRAP.
"Is that the New York man's automobile, Joe?" asked Matt, "the one that was stolen from Martin's garage last night?'
"It's the one, pard," jubilated the cowboy. "I've come through a-smoking with it from that place where Grattan had me pocketed with the mandarin. It's queer I stopped here, although I'm off my bearings, haven't the least notion where I am, and this is the first farmhouse I've seen for a dozen miles; but it won't seem quite so queer when I tell you that I saw those machines leaning against the corncrib, and that the familiar look of 'em brought me in to stir up the natives and ask a few questions."
McGlory pointed toward a corncrib off at the rear of the barn. The two motor cycles were leaning against the structure, just where the farmer had left them.
"I see," said Matt.
"Are those motor cycles the ones that belong to Martin, that were stolen from us and that we bled a hundred and fifty apiece for?"