[CHAPTER IV.
THE MANILA ENVELOPE.]
“Sufferin’ doom! I’m beginning to think Billy had a bean on the right number, pard, when he said this car would have to kill somebody before it settled down and acted as though it was civilized.”
Matt looked up and saw his cowboy chum. McGlory was rubbing a bruise on the side of his face and was carrying the long manila envelope in his hand.
“Why didn’t you let the car go to blazes?” demanded the cowboy. “What did you want to hang on to it for? The best place for the blamed thing is the junk pile.”
“I couldn’t let go without getting run over,” explained Matt, rising to his feet.
“Well, you’d feel a heap more comfortable under a pneumatic tire than you would under a train of box cars!”
McGlory’s face was white, and his voice trembled. The strain he had been under was just beginning to tell on him.
“The owner of the runabout,” he went on, “showed his good sense when he cut loose from it. The car’s like a broncho, Matt, and you never can tell when its fiendishness is going to break loose. If we had a keg of powder, I’m a Piegan if I wouldn’t scatter that sizz wagon all over this part of Long Island.”
McGlory glared savagely at the white, innocent-looking machine.