"I head one whistlin' every mornin' about six-thirty or seven, but whether it's goin' or comin' from Ottawa I don't know. Anyhow, I couldn't leave. My boy's away an' I got to stay home an' do the work."
"All right," said Matt; "much obliged."
"Sure you ain't from the Ossawatomie Insane Asylum? You talk kinder queer, seems like."
"I don't know but I ought to be in Ossawatomie," answered Matt as he started off down the road.
The window closed with a bang.
"Well," murmured Matt, striding along the road toward the hill, "what do you think of that! I've lost two whole days—haven't a notion what I've been doing in all that time. Wonder what's been going on in Ottawa? I was to meet Trueman Sunday morning for a talk. What'll he think? And Carl! Great Scott! I wonder if they'll get the idea I've run away? The race starts at eight o'clock, and I'll have less than four hours to get to Ottawa! What if I can't catch a train?"
The possibility of missing the race bothered him more than the cause of his predicament.
As he strode along the quiet country highway the cool night air beat against his face and freshened his wits. He began wondering if Sercomb and his gang hadn't had something to do with his mysterious departure from Ottawa? That was the only way he could account for what had happened.
A steely resolution arose in his breast. He would get to Ottawa, and he would get there in time to drive the Jarrot car. If Sercomb had plotted against him, then he would beat the scoundrel at his own game.
It was nearly five o'clock when Matt reached the Lawrence railroad station. There was no train to Ottawa, the nightman told him, until half-past nine in the morning—neither passenger nor freight.