From his talk with Bunce, the night before, Matt had been under the impression that the stolen car was an automobile, and he had made up his mind to return the car to its owner—if the man's name could be learned—after it had been used for running down Philo Grattan. Now, that he had discovered that the car was a track speeder, he was no less resolved to hand it over to the railroad company on the return to Catskill.
The speeder performed fairly well, considering that it must have been knocked together in the company's shops by men whose knowledge of their work was not extensive. A secondhand automobile engine had furnished the motor.
"This isn't so bad," remarked McGlory, as they ducked around the shoulder of a hill, still on the up grade, with the motor fretting and pounding. "A motor ride's a motor ride, whether you're on an aëroplane, or rubber tires, or steel rails."
"This is what they call a joy ride, Joe," called Matt, from the rear. "The owner of the car doesn't know we're out with it. I'll return it to the railroad company when we're through with our morning's work."
"That's you. I hope the railroad company don't find out we've got it before we give it back. Gee, man, how she's workin'!"
"Fine day an' clear weather for fillin' the bill," remarked Bunce. "Did ye come armed, mateys?"
"Sufferin' hold-ups!" exclaimed McGlory. "Did you think for a minute, Bunce, we'd jump into this without being heeled?"
The cowboy, as he spoke, reached behind him and drew a short, wicked-looking six-shooter from his hip pocket.
Bunce recoiled.
"Where'd you get that, Joe?" asked Matt.