This was the driver of the taxicab. His curiosity, as was quite natural, had been aroused by the treacherous attack on Matt.
“That’s all right, my friend,” replied a voice—a voice Matt had not heard before.
“Maybe it’s all right, but it looks mighty crooked to me. Two of you threw a cloth over that chap’s head, downed him, an’ dragged him into the brush. I got a warm notion of goin’ on to Rye and gettin’ a constable.”
The other man laughed.
“You’d be making a fool of yourself, if you did. I’m from Matteawan, and the young fellow is an escaped lunatic. He’s a desperate chap to deal with, and we had to take him by surprise in order to capture him.”
A long whistle followed those words.
“Great Scott! Say, he didn’t look like he was dippy.”
“Some of ’em never look the part—until they find you’re after ’em.”
“Why didn’t you nab him in New York, instead o’ bringin’ him ’way out here?”
“He’s armed, and he’d have put up a fight. In a crowded street, some one would have been hurt. It was better to lure him off here, into the country.”