“This afternoon.”
“That’s you. I’ve lost a fortune, pard, but I didn’t let you get away from me. We’re pards, same as per usual, and in spite of what happened at the Country Club?”
“Sure we are. That couldn’t make any difference, Joe.”
“It would have made a big difference with some fellows, but Matt King’s of a different calibre.”
“That’s what pards are for, Joe,” whispered Matt as he let go his chum’s hand, “to stand by each other.”
“Like you hung to me,” returned the cowboy, “and not the way I stood by you. Well, I’ve had my lesson, and we’ll let it go at that. Adios!”
Matt turned and left the ward, and the hospital. There were a lot of people in New York, but it seemed like a mighty lonesome place now that McGlory was laid up for repairs.
The colonel, being a wise man, considered it good policy to get away from New York, and head for his favorite stamping grounds in the Southwest, for neither Matt nor Joe ever saw him again.
When Joe got well Matt had found something in his favorite line of motors to engage their attention, and with such a team of hustlers to drive things, the business could not be anything but a success.
THE END.