Matt stepped over to McGlory.
“It won’t do any good to hang out, Joe,” he counseled, in a low voice. “They’re too many for us. Let them go ahead with their plan—we can’t stop that part of it—but there may be something else we can do.”
“They’ve treated us like a couple of wooden Indians,” sputtered the cowboy, “and——”
“And we’ve acted like a couple,” finished Matt. “Why, we never guessed what their scheme was until Tibbits told us. Take everything out of your pockets, and let them have your clothes. I’m going to do the same.”
With that, he began stripping his pockets of personal property and laying it on the table. McGlory followed suit. Then coats, trousers, and hats were thrown in a heap, and the boys got into the garments Tibbits had brought.
In point of quality, the clothes the boys now put on were far and away better than the ones they had taken off. And the fit of them, too, was passably good; but it chanced that McGlory’s outfit was a full dress suit, and Matt’s was a Norfolk jacket outfit—a get-up he cordially detested.
Tibbits remained until the boys were decked out in their borrowed gear.
“I didn’t use much discrimination, in McGlory’s case, and that’s a fact,” said Tibbits, with a laugh, “but I brought what I could find in uncle’s wardrobe that looked as though it would fit. I trust,” he added, with a regret that was undoubtedly feigned, “that you lads won’t cherish any hard feelings?”
“We’ll do all we can to block you,” answered McGlory, “and will be tickled to death to see you behind the bars. That’s the way we stack up.”
“You can’t get out of here, remember that,” proceeded Tibbits, the clothes over one arm. “Try the windows, and you’ll stop a bullet; break down the door, and you’ll run into the same sort of trouble.”