"First-rate," said Tomlinson; "almost as good as ever. Where's the Dutchman?"
"He spent the night in my room."
"Who is he? A friend of yours?" Tomlinson spoke carelessly, but it was clear to Matt that the question had more significance than he cared to make it seem.
"Yes, he's a friend," Matt answered. "He's been playing in hard luck lately. He and a man named Pringle were doing a turn in vaudeville. Pringle got out between two days, when he and his partner were in Flagstaff, and took about everything Carl had."
"Hard lines!" muttered Tomlinson. "Well, he helped me, and I'm glad to be able to do something for him."
Carl was coming down-stairs just as Matt and Tomlinson entered the hotel office. He seemed surprised to see Matt and the owner of the car together, but was clever enough to keep his feelings from Tomlinson.
All three went into the dining-room and ate a hurried meal. When it was done, Matt brought down a grip which contained all his reserve wardrobe, packed his bundle of laundry away in it and stowed it in the bottom of the tonneau. The rest of the tonneau Tomlinson appropriated for his own use.
It was seven o'clock when the Red Flier, guided by Matt's skilful hands, swept out of Ash Fork and pointed for Flagstaff. Carl, more "jeerful" than he had been for a long time, occupied the seat on Matt's left. Matt was not familiar with the road, but Tomlinson furnished him with a road-map and Carl kept the map open and followed the course with his eyes, from time to time giving Matt directions.
They had left Ash Fork no more than a mile behind when Tomlinson, braced in a corner of the tonneau, broached a subject which was vastly interesting to both boys.