"Motor Matt?" interrupted Bronson, whirling squarely around in his swivel chair. He had suddenly developed a great interest in the interview.
"Yes," laughed Matt, "I'm called that more often than I'm called by my last name. This is my chum, Joe McGlory," and he nodded toward the cowboy.
"I've heard of both of you," smiled Bronson. "That was great business of yours, over near Purling. But what in the world have you got to tell me about the stolen speeder?"
"Then you haven't heard about what happened this morning?"
"Haven't heard a thing about the speeder to-day. Why?"
"Well, Joe and I and another fellow were chasing down a grade with it, a few miles out of town, and a section gang from Tannersville saw us coming and put a tie across the rails."
"That stopped you, did it?"
"Did it!" echoed McGlory. "Why, it stopped us so hard and quick that one of the passengers was scattered all over the right of way."
"We hadn't anything to do with stealing the machine," went on Matt, "and we didn't——"
"Of course not!" struck in Bronson. "But where did you get it, and what were you doing with it?"