"Don't think it, pard. That would be too much luck to come at a time when we're hocussed crisscross and both ways."
By seven the boys were up, had overhauled their grips, and got into fresh clothes, and were sitting down to breakfast at the first call. By seven-thirty the touring car was at the door for them, freshly groomed and shining like a new dollar.
It was a sixty horse-power machine, and a family carryall for the personal use of the proprietor of the garage. Not having been used for hackabout purposes, the car was more dependable than one that had been hammered about over the rough roads by anybody who could tell the spark plug from the magneto and had five dollars an hour to pay for a junket.
The proprietor, who was a good fellow at heart and wanted to do everything possible to help the boys recover the stolen motor cycles, made this concession. So, with Matt in the driver's seat, the native who knew the way beside him, and McGlory with the tonneau all to himself, the touring car flashed out of Catskill Landing and took to the hills.
Of the drive Motor Matt made that morning, the driver on his left entertained the most enthusiastic recollections. Never had he seen a car handled so cleverly; and when the car balked—which the best of cars will do now and then—the way the king of the motor boys located the difficulty and adjusted it was something to think about.
At nine-thirty the touring car landed its passengers in front of the general store. Two men were sunning themselves on the bench in front, and a sleeping dog looked up lazily, snapped at a fly, and then went to sleep again.
"Where's Mr. Pryne?" asked Matt, stepping up to the two men on the bench.
"I'm Pryne," answered one of the two, measuring Matt with an expectant light in his faded blue eyes.
"Look at this," said Matt, and presented the letter from Grattan.
The man, who was roughly dressed and certainly had nothing to do with the store, studied the writing carefully.