“Softly, Joe, softly!” whispered Matt, stifling his own heavy
breathing. “Twist a couple of napkins into ropes. Be quick!”
McGlory had not the least notion what Matt was trying to accomplish,
but he knew it was something which might help their escape.
“Be quiet,” hissed Matt, in the man’s ear, “and you’ll not be hurt, but
if you move, or try to call out”--his voice grew menacing--“you’ll wish
you hadn’t!”
McGlory dropped to his knees with the two napkins and began tying one
of them about the prisoner’s ankles. He followed this by knotting the
other around the servant’s wrists.
“What next?” he asked breathlessly.
“Put on the white cap and apron,” instructed Matt, “then pick up the
tray and rap on the door. When the door’s opened, throw the tray in the
face of the fellow in the hall. There’ll be a commotion, and perhaps
the guard outside will leave the windows. If he does, I’ll get out and
make for the red car. Meet me somewhere along the drive, this side the
gate. It’s a desperate chance, Joe, but it’s all we have.”
The cowboy chuckled delightedly as he removed the apron from the
prostrate prisoner and tied it about his waist; then, picking up the
cap, he set it on his head, and grabbed the tray.
“I’m ready,” he whispered, stepping toward the door. “Bravo, pard! It’s
the reckless things that win!”
“Sometimes,” qualified Matt; “if you can’t----”
The guard in the hall shook the doorknob.
“Why are you so long, Paul?” he called.
It was not Dimmock’s voice--proof that Dimmock had really gone, and
that another guard had taken his place. The question put McGlory in
a quandary. He and Matt both recognized the dilemma, in a flash. The
cowboy was about to speak, presumably in an attempt to imitate the
servant’s voice, but Matt restrained him with a gesture.
“Tell the man outside you’re coming--tell him to open the door!”
Matt King hissed the words in the prisoner’s ear, and lifted the hand
he was using for a gag.
One word from the servant would ruin every chance. Was the fellow
frightened enough to do Matt’s bidding? McGlory looked over his
shoulder and glared savagely at the man on the floor.
“Paul!” cried the guard, once more rattling the door.
“I’m coming,” said the man, but with a shiver of dread in his voice.
“Open the door, Miles!”
“What’s the matter with you, anyhow?” grumbled Miles. “You’ve been in
there more’n five minutes.”
As the door opened, McGlory temporarily deceiving Miles with the tray
and the white cap and apron, stepped out.
“Are they asleep,” began Miles, “or----Thunder!” the guard broke off;
“you’re not----”
The cry was interrupted by a smash of dishes. There came a yell from
Miles, a snarling shout from McGlory, and then the impact of a heavy
blow. After that, running feet could be heard, and the opening of a
door.
“Help!” roared Miles; “this way, Barney! The prisoners are on the hike!”
Matt, paying no more attention to the servant, jumped for the door.
He saw a mess of food and broken crockery in the hall, and daylight
entering through the open door. Miles was just vanishing in pursuit of
McGlory.
It was now Matt’s turn to see what he could do. Was “Barney” the man on
guard below the windows? If he was, and if he had answered Miles’ call,
then the way was clear in that direction. But there was not a second to
be lost. If McGlory got away, he would need the red car. And so would
Matt, for that matter. If the automobile was left behind, the baffled
guards would use it in giving pursuit.
In two leaps Matt was at the window and looking out. Barney’s chair was
empty!
To throw up the window and leap to the ground took only a moment, and
Matt immediately laid a straight line for the automobile.
He was not long in covering the distance that separated him from the
car, but many doubts flashed through his mind while he was on the way.
If the switch plug had been removed, if the gasoline or oil was low,
if----
But he was hoping for the best, and the best came his way, then, when
the smiles of fortune were so grievously needed.
Whether there was any one in his vicinity, or not, he did not take time
to discover. Reaching the front of the car--which, by good luck, was
pointing in the direction of the pike--he grabbed frantically at the
crank, and gave it a heave.
_Chuff, chuff, chuff-chuff!_ The sputter died impotently. Manipulating
the switch, and the lever controlling the fuel supply, he tried again.
This time the engine was successfully “turned over,” and took up its
cycle.
“Hi, there!” called a voice from the direction of the stables. “Stop, I
tell ye!”
Matt had no time for the approaching man, but leaped into the car, and
was off. A detonation sounded above the noise of the laboring motor,
and something whistled viciously past Matt’s ear.
But, by then, the lad’s blood was hot for success, and he would have
dared anything.
Like a thing of life the red car leaped around the corner of the house,
taking a sharp curve with two wheels in the air. Only a short distance
separated the fleeing car from the gate, but between the gate and the
car was one of the guards. Matt knew at a glance it was not Barney. The
chances were that it was Miles.
“Halt!” yelled the man.
“Get out of the way,” shouted Matt, “or I’ll run over you!”
The man got out of the way, hurling himself from the road barely in
the nick of time. He did not appear to be armed; at any rate, no lead
followed Matt.
But where was McGlory? Matt had no sooner begun to worry about his chum
than the cowboy, breathless from running, staggered from behind a clump
of lilac bushes and flung up his hands.
With a hasty look behind, Matt slowed the machine.
“It’s all up with us,” puffed McGlory, hanging over the edge of the
car. “We’ll have to leave the machine and take to our heels.”
“Why?” flashed Matt.
“The gates are locked.”
For an instant Matt was stunned. The gates--locked! Of course, they
would be locked! Why had he not thought of that when he was planning to
use the red car for their escape?
“We’ll never get away if we trust to our heels, Joe,” said Matt grimly.
“Get in--be quick!”
By that time, Miles had been joined by Barney, and by the man who had
called to Matt from the stables. The three, feeling sure that they had
the car in a trap, were advancing cautiously, watching to see what the
boys would do next.
McGlory did not know what plan Matt had formed; but, nevertheless, he
scrambled into the tonneau.
“How’ll you get past the gates?” cried the cowboy, standing erect in
the tonneau, and clinging to the coat rail.
“Get down in the bottom of the tonneau!” ordered Matt, without looking
around.
Little by little he let the car out, and the iron barriers came
threateningly into view. When a hundred feet away from them the car was
going so fast that the gates seemed to be jumping toward it.
But the purpose of his daring comrade was clear to McGlory, and the
idea left him gasping.
Matt was going to storm the gates! He was hurling the red car toward
them like a cannon ball.
The cowboy fell limply down behind the front seats, wondering vaguely
where he and Matt would be after the smash.
Even as the thought formed in his mind, there came a crash, a jar that
shook the automobile in every part, and made it reel drunkenly, and a
clash of broken glass. After a wild stagger, the car seemed to gather
itself for a spring; then it flung itself onward into the road, turned,
and glided off on the straightaway.
Dazed and bewildered, McGlory lifted himself in the rocking tonneau and
looked at Matt, who was still in the driver’s seat, still bending over
the wheel, and still coaxing the demoralized red flyer to its best gait.
Certainly the car was demoralized--not internally, for the motor was
doing its work nobly--but the bonnet was bent and broken, the lamps
were smashed, and the woodwork splintered and scarred.
“Sufferin’ earthquakes!” gasped McGlory, looking back at the gates.
The gates had been torn ajar, and one of them had been plucked bodily
off the brick pier from which it had swung.
“Are you hurt, pard?” cried McGlory.
“No,” answered Matt, “but it was rather a close call for the tires.”
“Tires? Hang the tires! It was a close call for _you_.”
“Not so close as you’d think. I knew if we could force the gates we’d
get through safely. Each gate would give way in a solid piece, and
there’d be no splinters. We made it, Joe, we made it!”
“But the car has been damaged----”
“We couldn’t help that, Joe! If we keep Tibbits and Dimmock from
carrying out that robbery, we have to get to a telegraph office in
short order.”
At that moment the motor showed signs of distress. First it missed
fire, and then went dead altogether.
“Watch behind, Joe,” called Matt, as he sprang into the road and began
an investigation to discover what was wrong.