A HOT STARTER.
Motor Matt disliked any further entanglements with Tsan Ti and the
fateful ruby fully as much as did his cowboy pard, and he was greatly
perturbed over the unexpected developments which had again drawn
him and McGlory into the plots and counterplots hovering around the
valuable gem. But it was impossible for the king of the motor boys to
turn his back upon an appeal from any one in distress when it was in
his power to be of help. Nevertheless, Matt might have cut loose from
the mandarin, for he did not like his Oriental methods, but his temper
was stirred by that half-veiled threat in the note from Grattan.
Matt and Grattan had been at swords' points ever since the motor boys
had been in the Catskills. It was largely a battle of wits, with now
and then a little violence thrown in for good measure, and up to that
moment neither Matt nor Grattan had scored decisively.
Through Matt's intrepid work, Tsan Ti had recovered the stolen ruby,
but, as in the case where he had lost the counterfeit gem, Matt's
success had been merely a fortunate blunder. On the other side of the
account, Grattan could be charged with a theft of the two motor cycles
and with sundry other sharp practices which had gone too much "against
the grain" for Matt to overlook. The daring theft of the automobile
from the garage pointed the way not only for Matt to help Martin
recover the machine, but perhaps, also, to recover the motor cycles, to
worst Grattan, and to be of some assistance to Tsan Ti.
On the way to the garage with Martin, Matt explained these matters to
McGlory.
With the whistle of the New York boat still sounding in his ears, the
cowboy listened to his chum, at first, with intense disapproval; but,
at the back of McGlory's nature, there was as intense a dislike for
being worsted by such a crook as Grattan as there was at the back of
Matt's.
Cleverly the king of the motor boys harped on this chord, and aroused
in his chum a wild desire to do something that would curb, finally and
effectually, the audacious lawlessness of Philo Grattan. To such an
extent did Matt influence McGlory that the latter began to wonder how
he could ever have thought of leaving the Catskills while Grattan was
at large.
"Sufferin' justice!" exclaimed the cowboy. "Grattan is trying to bluff
us out of helping the mandarin. That's as plain as the pay streak in a
bonanza mine. He must have been with Bunce when the bubble was lifted,
and if we chase the chug cart we can hand the boss tinhorn a black eye
by getting back the machine and landing the thieves in the skookum
house. Say, that would be nuts for me! The mandarin and his idol's eye
can go hang--it's Grattan we're after this trip."
Matt left his chum with that impression, well knowing that if Grattan
could be captured, the affairs of the mandarin would adjust themselves
satisfactorily.
The night man at the garage, his head bandaged, was lingering in the
big room, watching one of the day men give a final wipe to the lamps
of a six-cylinder flyer that was to take the trail after Grattan. The
night man's face flushed joyfully when he saw Matt and McGlory.
"Good!" he exclaimed. "I guess there'll be something doing in these
parts, now that Motor Matt is going to help in the chase."
"You're the man who was on duty when the automobile was stolen?"
inquired Matt.
"Don't I look the part?"
"Martin says you identified one of the men as the old sailor who wears
a green patch over one of his eyes."
"Seen him as plain as I do you, this minute."
"What did the other thief look like?"
"Didn't have a chance to tell, the attack was that sudden an'
unexpected."
"You are sure there were no more than two of the thieves?"
"I could take my solemn Alfred on that."
"All aboard!" called Martin, from the car. "I'm going to let you do the
driving, Matt. You can forget more about automobiles than I ever knew."
Matt stepped to the side of the car and drew on a pair of gauntlets
that lay in the driver's seat; then he climbed to his place, McGlory
got in behind, and the car was backed around and glided out through the
wide door of the garage.
With Martin indicating the way, the machine slipped rapidly out of
Catskill and darted off on the Gardenville road.
"What sort of clue is taking us to Gardenville?" asked Martin, as they
weaved in and out among the tree-covered hills, catching occasional
glimpses of the sparkling waters of the Hudson.
Matt informed Martin briefly of Tsan Ti's predicament and of Grattan's
persistent attempts to get hold of the ruby.
"You think Grattan has gone to Gardenville to intercept Tsan Ti?" asked
Martin.
"It would be like Grattan," Matt answered, "to hire Sam Wing to steal
the ruby from the mandarin. I don't know that Grattan has done that,
but it would be like him. If he did, then he would travel toward
Gardenville to pick up Sam Wing."
"This looks too much like guesswork," muttered Martin, "and not very
bright guesswork, either."
"I think the same way, Martin; but it's the only clue we have. Grattan
and Bunce certainly had an object in view when they stole the motor
car. The theft, happening at the time it did, rather inclines me to
think that Grattan is beginning a swift campaign to recover the Eye of
Buddha."
"Since half-past two he has had oceans of time to reach Gardenville and
pick up Sam Wing and the ruby--if that was his game."
"Exactly," returned Matt. "I was telling you the same thing back at the
hotel. What sort of a car was it that was stolen?"
"It was a blue car, six cylinder, and had a tonneau and top. It
belonged to a man from New York. He's been telegraphing and telephoning
all through the mountains. If the thieves didn't get away last night,
they'll have a hard time doing it to-day."
Matt was watching the road. It was a popular highway for motor-car
owners, and the surface bore evidence of the passage of many pneumatic
tires. Half a dozen cars passed them, going the other way, and
inquiries were made as to the blue car. The stolen automobile had not
been seen or heard of. At least two of the passing drivers had come
from Gardenville, and their failure to have seen anything of the stolen
machine promised ill for the success of the pursuers when they should
reach their destination.
"I guess I'm up against it, all right," growled Martin. "This Grattan
is a clever scoundrel, and he'll know what to do to keep from getting
captured."
"What's that place ahead there?" asked Matt.
What he saw was a spot where the road curved a little to one side in
a valley between two hills. There were two or three hitching posts
planted beside the road, and from one of the posts swung a tin bucket.
"That's a spring," said Martin, "and it furnishes ice-cold water in
the very hottest part of the summer. People stop there to water their
horses--and to get a drink themselves if they're thirsty."
"Let's stop, pard," called McGlory, from the tonneau. "I'm dryer than a
sand pile and my throat's full of dust."
"We're only three miles from Gardenville," spoke up Martin, his words
significant of the fact that there would be plenty of drinking water to
be had in the town without delaying the journey at the spring.
"We'll only be a minute," said Matt, swerving to the side of the road
and bringing the car to a halt.
All three jumped out, and Martin led the way to a small pool, shaded by
overhanging trees. From beyond the pool came a tinkle of falling water.
"Horses are watered from this basin," remarked Martin. "The water
falls from the rocks, farther on, and we'll find a cup there."
A well-worn path followed the rill that supplied the pool, and the
three continued onward along the path in single file. Half a dozen
yards brought them to the rocky side hill where the water welled from a
crack in the granite and fell in a miniature cataract to a bowl-shaped
depression at the foot of the wall.
A man was standing beside the spring when Martin, Matt, and McGlory
emerged from the tangle of brush and vines. The man was just lifting
himself erect after filling a tin cup that was chained to the rocks.
Startled into inaction, the man stood staring at the three newcomers,
the filled cup in his hand.
The surprise, it may be observed, was mutual.
The man by the spring was a Chinaman--a lean, hatchet-faced individual
whose blouse and baggy trousers gave evidence of rough work in the
undergrowth.
"Sam Wing!" yelled McGlory.
Yes, it was the treacherous Celestial, there was not the slightest
doubt about that.
Simultaneously with his shout, McGlory leaped forward, closely followed
by Matt. Sam Wing awoke to his peril not a second too soon. Casting the
cup of water full in the cowboy's face, the Chinaman gave vent to a
defiant yell, whirled, and vanished among the trees.
McGlory sputtered wrathfully as he shook the water out of his eyes.
Matt bounded on in frantic pursuit of the fugitive.
"Come back!" cried Martin, thinking of nothing but the stolen car.
"What's the use of chasing the chink?"
"You freeze to the automobile, Martin," the cowboy paused to answer.
"Matt and I will put the kibosh on this yellow grafter and then we'll
rejoin you. We'll not be gone long."
The words faded in a rattle and crash of violently disturbed bushes,
and McGlory had vanished along his chum's trail.