Motor Matt, helpless and half stifled among the bushes, felt lashings
being put on his arms and legs; then, while some one laid a hand on
the cloth and pressed it tightly over his lips, a bit of conversation
was wafted to him from the road. Because of the smothering cloth, the
voices seemed to come from a great distance, although the spoken words
were distinct enough.
“What’re you tryin’ to do with that chap?”
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.”
“I guess you know your business. Who’s the other young chap?”
“He’s the lunatic’s brother.”
“I see.”
“You needn’t say anything about this, driver. The family wouldn’t like
to have it known. You’ve been put to a little extra trouble, and here’s
a ten to make up for it.”
“That’s han’some, an’ I’m obliged to you.”
It can be imagined, perhaps, what Matt’s feelings were as he listened
to this. He tried frantically to burst the cords that secured his arms,
but the tying had been too securely done. He made an attempt, too, to
call out and inform the driver of the taxicab that the tale he was
listening to was false, but the hand over his face pressed the cloth
more firmly down upon his lips.
Resigning himself to the situation, Matt listened while the purr of a
motor came to his ears and died away in the direction of New York. A
friend who might have saved him was gone, and Matt was completely at
the mercy of his captors.
Some one came through the bushes; there were two of them, it seemed,
and they talked as they approached.
“I was up in the air when I heard Motor Matt say he was to stop at
Rye,” said the voice that had talked with the taxi driver. “What was
the matter, Pearl?”
It was the girl who answered, and she told briefly how the driver
had fallen from the seat of the taxicab, how Matt had discovered her
disguise, and how his suspicions had been aroused.
“I was up in the air myself, dad,” finished the girl, drawing a deep
breath of relief. “But we’re all right, now. The way you pulled the
wool over the eyes of that taxicab man was splendid.”
“Doing the right thing at the right time, Pearl, is your father’s long
suit. Where were you when Tibbits went past in the red car?”
“Sitting on a stone at the roadside.”
“Where was Motor Matt?”
“Back along the road in the brush, looking for the driver.”
“And those in the red car never saw him!”
“No, but he saw them and recognized McGlory.”
“Oh, well, this is our day for luck, and no mistake. Watch the road,
Pearl, while we’re getting out our own car. We don’t want to be seen
lifting a bound man into it.”
“I’ll watch,” the girl answered.
Matt was still further impressed with the comprehensive nature of the
plans launched against him and McGlory. Three motor cars had been used
in the game, and there must be at least four men in the plot besides
the girl. But what was the purpose of the plotters? What end were they
seeking to gain by all this high-handed, criminal work?
From off to the left Matt could hear the pounding of a motor as it
took up its cycle. After the engine had settled into a steady hum, the
crunching of the bushes indicated that a heavy car was being forced
through them into the road.
“All right, Dimmock!” called a voice.
“Is the road clear, Sanders?” answered Dimmock.
“There’s not a soul in sight.”
“Then come here and help me. We’ll take this coat from Motor Matt’s
head and replace it with a gag--a twisted handkerchief will do. The
quicker we can get him into the car, now, the better.”
The next moment the smothering cloth was jerked from Matt’s head and
shoulders. He had just time to gulp down a deep breath of air when the
twisted handkerchief was forced between his teeth and knotted in place.
He saw a slender, wiry man, soberly but richly dressed, and another,
short, thick-set, and wearing a long dust coat and cap.
“Take him by the feet, Sanders,” said the slender man, who, from this,
Matt knew to be Dimmock.
Between them Matt was lifted, carried out to the road, and shoved into
the tonneau of a touring car, while the girl held the door open. There
was a top to the car, and Matt was made to sit on the floor and lean
back against the seat.
By every means in his power Matt tried to let his captors know that he
wanted to talk with them, but they either could not understand him, or
else had no intention of letting him relieve his mind. The girl and
Dimmock seated themselves on either side of Matt, and the same coat
that had been used in effecting Matt’s capture was dropped over him.
In this manner the strange party started away along the road, the
prisoner unable to see anything of the route they were taking.
Matt was sensible of the swiftness of their flight, and of the driver’s
perfect mastery of the machine. The explosion in the cylinders was
unfailing, the mixture of air and gasoline was perfect, and the coils
hummed their beautiful rhythm to the well-timed spark.
Gradually there was forming, in Matt’s mind, an idea that these
desperate plotters had made some huge mistake. He could not account, in
any other way, for the execution of such a plan as they were carrying
out.
He and McGlory were not being kidnapped to be held for ransom. Such an
idea was preposterous. Matt had no relatives, so far as he knew, rich
or poor; and neither had McGlory.
Yes, Matt was sure that Dimmock, and his daughter, and Tibbits, the
man who had dashed past with McGlory in the red car, were blundering
in some way. At the end of the journey, wherever that might be, the
mistake must be discovered, and the motor boys would be released.
The point that troubled Matt a little was the fact that his cowboy pard
was not a prisoner. He appeared to be traveling in the red car of his
own free will. Was that because he had been lured away, and had not yet
had his suspicions aroused?
There was little talk between Dimmock and his daughter, and Sanders
was attending strictly to his driving. Now and then, however, a word
was dropped as the car slowed down which gave Matt an inkling as to the
course they were taking.
“Stamford,” and “Bridgeport” were on the line of their flight, and
this proved conclusively that they were proceeding in the direction of
Boston.
The day was warm, and Matt, crouched uncomfortably under the coat, was
having anything but an enjoyable ride. By twisting about, however, he
managed to give some relief to his cramped limbs.
Hour after hour the car swept on. Once they halted at a filling station
to replenish their supply of gasoline, but the man in charge of the
supply tank was kept adroitly in ignorance of the fact that there was a
prisoner in the tonneau.
By degrees a numbness crept along Matt’s limbs, and a drowsiness
enwrapped his brain. He slept, in spite of his many discomforts, and
was awakened, finally, by a rattle from somewhere forward of the
tonneau.
The car was at a stop.
“What was the trouble, Sanders?” called the voice of Dimmock.
“Nothing much,” answered Sanders. “It’s fixed now.”
“Why not let Motor Matt sit up here on the seat between us?” suggested
the girl. “It’s so dark no one could see him--even if we happened to be
passed by another car.”
“We might as well give him a little comfort, I suppose,” answered
Dimmock.
Thereupon the coat was pulled away, and Matt found that it was night.
Dimmock reached down and helped him up on the seat.
“We’re doing this for your comfort, Motor Matt,” said Dimmock. “I hope
you’ll appreciate it, and not try to make any trouble for us.”
Matt moved his cramped joints and stretched his legs the full width of
the tonneau. There were shadowy bluffs on each side of the road, and a
tracery of boughs lay against the lighter background of sky. From the
fragrant odor, Matt gathered that they were in the depths of a pine
forest. He gurgled ineffectively behind the gag.
“He wants to talk, dad,” said the girl. “Why not let him? If any one
comes you can prevent him from calling out.”
“You’ve got too much heart, girl, for this kind of work,” returned
Dimmock. Nevertheless, he fumbled with the knots at the back of Matt’s
head, and removed the handkerchief.