Billy told him he had borrowed it at Krug’s.
“We’ll leave it there,” said Matt, “on our way past the Corner.”
“You may never get to Krug’s,” answered Billy, in extreme dejection.
“Pile in, Joe,” said Matt, “and we’ll throw in the clutch and scoot.”
McGlory, it must be admitted, climbed into the runabout in a way that proved his lack of confidence. Matt cranked up, listening with deep satisfaction to the smooth singing of the engine, and then got into the driver’s seat.
Billy, in the touring car, watched tremulously and waited. From his appearance, he was plainly expecting that the white car would turn a few cartwheels and perhaps land upside down in the middle of the road with Matt and McGlory underneath.
But nothing of the sort happened. Car No. 1313 moved off in the direction of Krug’s as nice as you please—moved on a hair line, with none of the distressing wabbling which characterized its previous performance with its owner at the wheel.
The cowboy gathered confidence. Looking behind, he waved his hat at Billy.
“Don’t whistle till you’re out of the woods!” yelled Billy.
He shouted something else, but his words faded out in the increasing distance.