It was the form of a youth about Matt's own age, wearing a dingy sweater and frayed corduroy trousers. At the first glance each recognized the other.
"King, or I'm a Reub!"
"Great spark plugs! The fellow that played that dodge on Townsend!"
Matt cleared the distance separating him from the youth at a leap; but the other had jumped backward, at the same time pulling a weapon from his pocket.
"Don't you go and make a sucker play, Motor Matt!" cried Dashington warningly.
"Put up that revolver!" ordered Matt, staring sternly at the youth and taking a fresh grip on the handle of the club.
"You've got a picture of me making a funny play like that—I don't think. Throw away your club and I'll throw away this pepper box. Gee, but wouldn't it uppercut you, the way we resemble each other? Say, you ought to be delighted to see me instead of trying to make a pass at my block with that stick. I wasn't looking for you to drop in on me so soon."
"I doubt if you were expecting me to drop in on you at all," said Matt sarcastically. "Where are Jurgens, and Whistler, and Bangs?"
"Close by, cull. Don't make too much noise or they'll get next to you and me and blow in on us."
"Where are those diamonds?" asked Matt.