"Dere id iss," said Carl, pushing the note in front of Pringle's eyes. "Look him ofer, den you know ve don'd make some pluffs."
"You answered the letter from Flagstaff," went on Matt, "and sent it to Brockville, saying you were glad the pearls were on the way and that you would meet Trymore at that place."
"Und dere iss dot vone, too—only ve don'd got it," put in Carl. "Dot's der vone vere you say someding aboudt Wienerwurst, vich iss me."
"No," said Pringle, "I know you don't got it. Hank got it. You're real cute in that red vest. It's almost like we were in the lime-light, doing the sketch. Quite a line you lads have got on me. But I wouldn't linger around here. That other benzine buggy is coming back, and Hank's up front. Spang's behind, too, and they're reaching out for us."
Pringle was turned partly around in the tonneau, so that his eyes could command the road in the rear. Matt took a quick glance toward the point of the mountain.
Pringle was right! The runabout was charging along the trail like a thunderbolt. The big man in the dust-coat had vanished. In his place sat Hank, and behind Hank was Spangler.
Hank had a revolver in his hand and was pointing it at the driver, holding him to his work.
"Ach, du lieber!" whooped Carl. "Pull avay, Matt! Dey're afder us."
Matt turned over the engine in record time, jumped for his seat and started.