BETWEEN THE EYES.
The wagon road which the boys were following led them into Catskill
near the railroad station. The motorcycle tracks, after holding a
straight course toward town for a long time, had finally vanished at an
elevated point from which the motor boys had secured their first view
of the river.
"We might just as well call on the superintendent," suggested Matt,
when they were close to the station, "and explain about the speeder. By
doing this now, we may dodge trouble later."
"Good idea," assented McGlory.
They found the superintendent in his office, and he gave them an
immediate hearing.
"We called to tell you about that speeder, Mr. Bronson," began Matt,
having caught the super's name off the painted window in the door.
"You mean Mulvaney's speeder," returned Bronson, "the one that was
stolen two days ago?"
"Yes. My name's King, Matt King, and I'm stopping at the----"
"Motor Matt?" interrupted Bronson, whirling squarely around in his
swivel chair. He had suddenly developed a great interest in the
interview.
"Yes," laughed Matt, "I'm called that more often than I'm called by
my last name. This is my chum, Joe McGlory," and he nodded toward the
cowboy.
"I've heard of both of you," smiled Bronson. "That was great business
of yours, over near Purling. But what in the world have you got to tell
me about the stolen speeder?"
"Then you haven't heard about what happened this morning?"
"Haven't heard a thing about the speeder to-day. Why?"
"Well, Joe and I and another fellow were chasing down a grade with it,
a few miles out of town, and a section gang from Tannersville saw us
coming and put a tie across the rails."
"That stopped you, did it?"
"Did it!" echoed McGlory. "Why, it stopped us so hard and quick that
one of the passengers was scattered all over the right of way."
"We hadn't anything to do with stealing the machine," went on Matt,
"and we didn't----"
"Of course not!" struck in Bronson. "But where did you get it, and what
were you doing with it?"
"You heard how the great ruby was recovered, and how the thieves got
away?"
The superintendent's eyes sparkled.
"Everybody around here has heard about that," he answered.
"We thought we had a chance to capture one of the thieves," proceeded
Matt. "The crook's pal came to us and offered to show us where Grattan
was, and when we joined the fellow this morning, he had the speeder
tucked away among the bushes. We knew the speeder had been stolen, and
were intending to bring it back as soon as we had finished our work;
but the section gang made things so warm for us we had to change our
plans."
"And now you're fretting for fear the section men will send in word,
and that I'll have you pinched!" laughed the superintendent. "I guess
I'd think twice before I had Motor Matt arrested for stealing an old
speeder like that. Mulvaney, our track inspector, made it himself. He's
rather choice of it, and that's why I sent out word to have the thing
found, if possible. But, tell me, did you capture Grattan?"
"No, sir. We found where he has been staying, but he had got away
before we reached the place."
"Hard luck! By the way, they've got a moving picture in one of the
nickelodeons here, that tells the story of a ruby called 'Buddha's
Eye.' Everybody is going to see it. Is that the same story as the one
connected with the 'Eye of Buddha?'"
"It's the same, Mr. Bronson, even down to the minor detail of the
identity of the thieves."
Bronson whistled.
"How in the dickens does that happen, eh?" he asked.
Matt could see no harm in explaining that point, as Bunce had covered
it, and told how the thieves, needing money in Chicago, had suggested
the idea for the picture, and how at least one of them had volunteered
to play a leading part.
The superintendent was astounded at the audacity of a thief who, after
perpetrating such a successful robbery, and with the ruby then in his
possession, could publish his crime through the medium of a moving
picture.
"It merely goes to prove," said the superintendent, "what a clever and
daring scoundrel this fellow Grattan is. Too bad he escaped at the time
the ruby was so cleverly recovered. More than likely, Motor Matt, he'll
make trouble for you."
"I guess he'll be too busy looking out for himself," laughed Matt, "to
pay any attention to me."
"I hope so, certainly."
Matt and McGlory got up to leave.
"Don't bother your head about the speeder," the superintendent went
on. "I'm glad your report reached me ahead of the one from the section
gang. I'll know how to handle the matter, now, when I hear from the
section boss. Good-by, my lads, and good luck to you."
"It didn't take long to fix that up," said McGlory, when he and Matt
were once more on their way to the hotel.
"I knew it wouldn't," returned Matt, "just as soon as we could get to
some one who would be willing to take our word for what happened."
"What the super said about Grattan trying to get back at you, Matt, for
what you did in the old sugar camp, near Purling, sounded to me like it
had a lot of good horse sense mixed up in it."
"What I told the super had a little horse sense in it, too, didn't it,
Joe?"
"You mean about Grattan having so much to do to keep out of the
clutches of the law that he won't find any time to hit up your trail?"
"Yes."
"I don't know about that. Grattan is a tinhorn who is in a class all by
himself. He seems to have all kinds of nerve, and to be willing to take
all sorts of chances. That moving-picture deal gives us a pretty good
line on him."
When the boys got to the hotel, McGlory stumbled into a chair on the
veranda.
"Gee, man, but I'm tired!" he exclaimed. "A cowboy is built for
riding, and not for this footwork. It sure gets me going. Sit down
here for a while, Matt, and let's palaver about New York, and what the
chances are for our getting there."
"They're pretty slim, I guess," answered Matt, dropping into a seat at
his chum's side, "if we're to wait until Grattan is captured. Tsan Ti
says, in his letter, that he won't come on until Grattan is behind the
bars, or safely off his trail."
"Which means to hang on here until--we don't know when. We're rid of
Bunce, but there'll be something else to hit us between the eyes before
we're many minutes older. You can bet your moccasins on that. As long
as we're tangled up with that ruby, we'll find hard luck flagging us
all along the pike."
At that moment the clerk emerged from the hotel office and crossed the
veranda. He wore a troubled look, as though something had happened to
worry him.
"That man came, Motor Matt," said he, "and I gave him the box."
McGlory fell back as though some one had struck him.
"What man? What box?" he roused up to inquire wildly.
The clerk caught the alarm in the cowboy's voice and manner.
"Why, don't you know?" he cried, appealing to Matt. "It was the small
box you left with me early this morning."
"And--and you gave it up?" gasped McGlory huskily.
"What else could I do?" protested the clerk. "I had the written order
from Motor Matt. The man brought it."
McGlory was too dazed to answer. His jaw fell, and he stared at the
king of the motor boys.
"Let me see the order," said Matt.
The clerk pulled a letter from his pocket.
"I hope there's nothing wrong?" he asked, handing the letter to Matt.
"I've been thinking there might be something wrong, but I didn't see
how there could be. The handwriting of that letter matches your fist on
the register--I was careful to look that up before I gave the man the
box."
"Read it, pard," implored McGlory, in a mechanical tone.
"'Please deliver to bearer the small box which I left with you for
safe-keeping, early this morning,'" Matt read. "'I need it at once,
and find that I can't come for it in person.' That's all of it, Joe,"
said Matt, "and I must say that it's a pretty good imitation of my
handwriting. The name is a tremendously good forgery."
The clerk nearly threw a fit; and McGlory nearly helped him.
"Then the letter is a forgery?" cried the clerk. "The man didn't have
any right to the box?"
"How could he have any right to the box," stormed McGlory, "when the
letter asking you to turn it over to him was never written by Motor
Matt? Corral your wits. Sufferin' hold-ups, it's come! We no sooner get
out of one raw deal, than we tumble headfirst into another. Now----"
"Take it easy, Joe," cut in Matt. "Wait a minute." He turned to the
clerk. "Don't get worked up about this," said he; "you're not to blame.
When did the man call and deliver the forged letter?"
"Not more than an hour ago," answered the clerk, wiping the
perspiration from his forehead. "Was there anything very valuable in
the box?"
"What sort of looking man was he?" proceeded Matt.
"Slim, and dark, and undersized. Fairly well dressed."
"Well, never mind. Don't let it worry you."
The clerk, visibly distressed, in spite of Matt's reassuring words,
went back into the office. As soon as he had vanished inside the hotel,
the king of the motor boys gave vent to a low laugh.
McGlory peered at him.
"Pard!" he murmured, leaning over to drop a hand on Matt's knee. "Have
you gone off the jump on account of that confounded ruby? It's a blow
between the eyes, all right, but, for heaven's sake, don't let it get
you locoed."
"Locoed!" and Matt pulled himself together, reached inside his vest and
brought out a knotted handkerchief. Untying the knotted ends of the
handkerchief, he opened it out on his knee. "See here, Joe!" said he;
"that's how badly I am locoed."
What McGlory saw was the ruby, glowing redly against the white linen.