“Averaging up the chances,” Matt answered. “Come here, Joe.”
McGlory got up and went to his chum’s side. Matt pointed to the red touring car.
“If we could get out of here and get hold of that,” he murmured, “we might do something.”
“The boy with the gun looks sort of fierce,” reflected the cowboy; “still, you never can tell just what a fellow’s going to do with a revolver. If——”
The key rattled in the lock. Matt dropped quickly down on the couch and pretended to be asleep. McGlory, taking his cue from Matt, resumed his place on the floor.
A man, in white cap and apron, entered the room with a tray of steaming food. The door was closed and fastened behind him. Without trying to waken the boys—whom he must have supposed to be asleep—the man picked his way around McGlory, placed the tray on the table, and began collecting the scattered remnants of the supper. His back was toward Matt.
Noiselessly as a gliding serpent, Matt arose and slipped across the space separating him from the man; then, leaning forward, he caught him about the middle with his left arm, at the same time covering his lips with his right hand.
The man began to squirm, kicking out with his feet and fighting fiercely to get away.
McGlory, who had been watching the progress of events, and wondering what Matt was trying to do, went to his chum’s aid. The man was forced to his knees, and then to the floor. Lying on his back, Matt’s hand still over his mouth, he stared upward with frightened eyes.