“If you haven’t any objections, Mr. McGlory, I’d like to ride with you and make sure.”
“The shuffer says it’s a long trip.”
“I don’t care how long it is, just so I can assure myself that nothing is going crossways with the ‘Pauper’s Dream.’”
“All right, neighbor. If that’s how you feel about it, you’re welcome to one corner of the bubble-wagon.”
The three of them climbed into the touring car, Random in front with the driver, and McGlory in the tonneau. As soon as they were seated, the car began working its way through the crowded streets toward a section less congested with traffic. As the way cleared, the speed increased. Once on the Pelham Road, the chauffeur “hit ’er up,” and the red car devoured the miles in a way that brought joy to McGlory’s soul.
When they passed a taxicab, with its nose rammed into a stone fence, the chauffeur remarked that the taxi was a good ways from home. Mr. Random looked thoughtful, but he made no request that the red car slacken its speed. McGlory saw a young fellow sitting on a bowlder, but the spectacle afforded by the taxicab and the supposed youth meant nothing to him. His mind was circling about Motor Matt.
[CHAPTER VI.
ON THE BOSTON PIKE.]
Motor Matt, helpless and half stifled among the bushes, felt lashings being put on his arms and legs; then, while some one laid a hand on the cloth and pressed it tightly over his lips, a bit of conversation was wafted to him from the road. Because of the smothering cloth, the voices seemed to come from a great distance, although the spoken words were distinct enough.
“What’re you tryin’ to do with that chap?”