FOOLING THE COWBOYS.
"If you're bound to make Motor Matt take you to the ranch, Spearman," said McGlory, "that means that the chink and me'll have to wait here till you get back."
"Which is what I was expectin'," answered Spearman. "I don't want ter feel cramped in that thar machine."
"The rest of you will have to give the machine a start down the hill," went on McGlory innocently. "When the craft gets a start, and is in the air, you'll have to watch your chance, Spearman, and jump aboard."
"Jump on when she's goin' sixty miles an hour?" howled Spearman. "Say, what d'ye think my scalp's wuth?"
"It won't be going sixty miles an hour," parried McGlory.
Matt had already taken his seat in the Comet.
"Why kain't I git in thar with him," asked Spearman, "an' travel with the machine right from the start?"
"Sufferin' centipedes!" exclaimed McGlory, in well-feigned disgust. "Say, I reckon you don't savvy a whole lot about flyin' machines. She's got to have a runnin' start, as light as possible; then, when she begins to skyhoot, you climb aboard. I guess you don't want to take a trip aloft."
"Guess again," cried Spearman. "I kin jump some, if it comes ter that, only"—and here he turned to Matt, who was quietly waiting—"fly low an' slow."