Matt started for a man who was sitting in a canvas chair smoking a cigar and nursing a golf club on his knees. McGlory trailed after him.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Matt, halting beside the chair, "but have you been here long?"
"Two weeks," was the answer with a hard stare. "I come to the Mountain House every summer, and spend my va——"
"I mean," interrupted Matt, "were you sitting here when my friend and I were brought in?"
"Brought in? You weren't brought in. You two rode in on those motor cycles, leaned them against the tree, and preëmpted the hammocks."
"Sufferin' lunatics!" breathed McGlory. "I reckon we'd better call somebody in to look at our plumbing, pard."
"What appears to be the trouble?" went on the stranger, politely curious.
"It just 'appears,' and that's all," rambled the cowboy. "If we could only get a strangle-hold on the trouble, and hog-tie it, maybe we could take it apart, and see what makes it act so."
The stranger sprang up, grabbed his golf stick, and looked alarmed.
"Never mind my friend, sir," said Matt reassuringly; "we're just a little bit bothered, that's all."