Twomley cast a glance around him. The odor from the animal tent, of which the calliope house was only a lean-to, was strong and disquieting. A lantern, tied to one of the tent poles, shed a murky light over the litter of buckets and ropes that strewed the tent floor. Matt had made ready for bed by kicking off his shoes and removing his coat and hat. It was all very primitive. In Washington Twomley looked as though he might have been of a fastidious nature. But, whatever he was at Washington, he was "game" at Reid's Lake.
"Go you," said he briefly. "Just where is that cot, my dear sir?"
McGlory dragged it out for him and opened it up.
"I'll pull it away from the wall of the animal top," said the cowboy. "Rajah, the bad elephant, is just on the other side of that piece of canvas, and he has the habit of snooping around in here with his trunk."
"I don't fancy Rajah will bother me," and Twomley shucked out of his low patent leathers.
"I could almost make a pard out of you," remarked McGlory.
"Nice work you've mapped out for Sunday," was Burton's sly fling as he paused at the door on his way out. "Motor Matt, who refused to make flights on Sunday for me for an extra hundred a week, lays out to pull off a go like this! Well, I'm surprised."
"Fate is no respecter of the calendar, Burton," Matt replied, with some show of feeling. "I'll work all day to-morrow if I can accomplish anything for Margaret Manners."
"Shake again," said the attaché.