“Perhaps he got tired waiting for you,” suggested Random, “and went away?”
“Nary, he wouldn’t,” returned the puzzled McGlory, “I reckon he’s talking with an aviator, upstairs, and has lost track of the time. I’ll go find Lafitte, and, ten to one, my pard will be with him. Wait here for a brace of shakes, Mr. Random, and——”
Just then a man pushed forward from the entrance to the cigar store. The man wore a cap and gloves, and looked like a chauffeur.
“I beg your pardon,” said he, addressing McGlory, “but are you Motor Matt’s chum?”
“That’s me,” answered the cowboy.
“McGlory’s your name, isn’t it?”
“Joe McGlory, that’s the label.”
“Well, Motor Matt had a hurry-up call into the country. It’s a long ride, and he went by automobile. He wants you to follow him, and he hired me to wait for you and then take you after him. That’s my chug cart,” and the man pointed to a red touring car at the curb.
“Speak to me about this!” cried McGlory. “What’s to pay? Do you know?”
“Motor Matt didn’t say. All he wanted was for me to follow him with you in my car.”