The box flew open as it fell and Matt caught a glimpse of broken glass fragments flying out of it, and of something white lifted to the faces of Grattan and Bunce. All was turmoil in the room. Grattan rushed at Goldstein and tried to recover the cane. Matt flung at him the ball—the last conscious act the king of the motor boys could remember.
The pungent odor arose to his nostrils, choking him, blinding his eyes and robbing him of his strength. He crashed down from the bench, and then a mighty hand seemed to sweep over him and drop a black pall of silence.
Motor Matt opened his eyes. He was lying out in the sun, the bare boughs of the maples over him, and McGlory kneeling at his side.
"You had a rough time of it, old pard," said McGlory, "but you didn't stop a bullet—and that's some satisfaction."
Matt groped around in his mind to pick up the trend of events. Suddenly all the details flashed through his brain.
"What became of Grattan and Bunce?" he asked, sitting up.
"They smashed through a boarded-up window, pard," replied McGlory.
"And got away?"
"Like a couple of streaks. They used our motor cycles."
"Why don't you follow them?"