"Well," answered Matt, taking the package, "no great harm has been done. It's an hour and a half, yet, before the New York boat gets here, and I have the package."
The clerk went back into the hotel and Matt examined the package under the light.
"What do you reckon it is, pard?" queried McGlory curiously.
"You can give as good a guess as I can, Joe," Matt answered. "I'm not expecting anybody to send me anything. It's addressed plainly enough to Motor Matt, Catskill, New York, in care of this hotel."
"And covered with red sealing wax," added McGlory. "Rip off the cover and let's see what's on the inside. Sufferin' tenterhooks! Haven't you got any curiosity?"
Matt cut the cord that bound the package and took off the wrapper. A small wooden box was disclosed, bound with another cord.
The box was opened, and seemed to be filled with cotton wadding. Resting the box on his knees, Matt proceeded to remove the wadding. Then he fell back in his chair with an astounded exclamation.
A round object, glimmering in the rays of the electric light like a splash of blood against the cotton, lay under the amazed eyes of the motor boys.
"Buddha's Eye!" whispered McGlory.
Around the end of the veranda, in the wavering shadows, a face had pushed itself above the veranda railing—a face topped with a sailor cap and fringed with "mutton-chop" whiskers—a face with a green patch over one eye.