“You’ll deal with me first, Kelly,” said Matt.
“Oh, you!” grunted Kelly. “Git back upstairs. It won’t take more’n a minute to wind up your clock!”
The garage man drew a revolver. That he happened to have the weapon spoke volumes for the responsibility he felt as the jailer for Motor Matt.
“Put up that revolver!” ordered Matt sternly.
“Here’s the way I put it up,” answered Kelly, lifting the weapon and pointing it full at Matt. “Up them stairs with ye, an’ no more ifs nor ands about it.”
“Look here, Kelly,” expostulated Matt, “you’re getting yourself into mighty deep water, and——”
Matt was talking for a purpose—and the purpose was to give him an opportunity to use the wrench. Suddenly he found his chance, and the heavy instrument shot forward and struck Kelly on the wrist of his lifted arm. A cry of pain escaped the man, and he reeled back, dropping the revolver.
Matt tried to spring past him, but Kelly, writhing with pain though he was, pulled himself together and struck out viciously with his left fist. Matt dodged quickly and evaded the blow. The next instant he had used his right fist with terrific force, hurling Kelly out of his way and depositing him on the floor in a heap.
How long Kelly sat on the floor, piecing together his scattered train of thought, he did not know; but when his faculties returned to him, Matt was gone.
Kelly, muttering to himself and with both hands groping about his bruised forehead, staggered to the door and looked away in the direction of the road.