Motor Matt and Joe McGlory reached Fall River in the afternoon. They had planned to catch one of the night boats for New York, and there was an hour or two at their disposal. They put in the time to good advantage buying clothes. Mr. Jacobs, the man from Leeville, was familiar with the town and, before going to his daughter’s, was glad to show the boys around and give them all the aid he could.
When he left Matt and McGlory, the lads were completely equipped in new “hand-me-downs,” and feeling more like themselves.
There was a little fear, on their part, that Bill Hawkins might have used the telegraph lines and that they would have trouble in Fall River. But the trouble did not materialize.
“We’re jail-breakers, all right,” laughed McGlory, when they were safely in their stateroom aboard the sound steamer, “but Constable Bill, I reckon, has found out something about Miles and Barney that keeps him from running out our trail.”
“Hawkins and his friend Hiram,” said Matt, “have discovered that they’ve made a mistake. I don’t see how they could have learned this from Miles or Barney, though, and I’m rather inclined to think that the justice of the peace got back from his fishing trip and said a few words in our behalf.”
“What’s the difference, pard, so long as we’re at large? We’ve lost two suits of clothes and collided with a lot of hard knocks, but we got that telegram off.”
“Also,” laughed Matt, “we’ve spoiled a pair of nice iron gates, destroyed some Higbee china, and played hob with one of the finest motor cars I ever handled. I guess the damage isn’t all on one side.”
“I’ll be ‘completely satisfied,’ as Tibbits remarked, when I learn that the bullion has been saved.”
“We’ll discover that to-morrow.”
The motor boys slept their way down the sound, and reached New York early enough to go to their hotel and have breakfast before the bank opened. Immediately after breakfast they took an elevated train for downtown.
“I’ve connected with a good lesson, pard, during this taxicab tangle,” remarked McGlory.
The cowboy was constantly thinking of various matters connected with recent experiences, and entering them on the profit side of his personal account.
“What’s this one, Joe?” asked Matt.
“Never to read an important letter aloud in a public place. That’s the thing that got us into this mix with Tibbits. He happened to be in this hotel, and he happened to hear the letter. After that—well, I reckon the memory of what happened is still pretty green.”
It was with some trepidation that the boys entered the Merchants’ & Miners’ Bank and made their way to the cashier’s desk.
“What can I do for you?”
It was the same brusque query which the cashier put so many times a day that its use had become a habit.
“You can do a whole lot for me, amigo,” said McGlory. “Principally, though, I’m pining to learn whether two gold bars from Tucson, Arizona, are still in your strong box.”
The cashier was interested at once.
“Why do you ask?” he inquired, leaning back in his chair and studying the faces of the boys.
He was a proficient reader of character; as a matter of fact, he had to be. The ability to take a man’s sizing at a glance had saved him from many a pitfall.
“Now you’re hitting me right at home,” said the cowboy. “If that gold is here, I’m the happiest maverick that ever strayed from the Southwest; if it’s not here, I’m due to get unpleasant tidings from the colonel. You see, amigo, I’m the easy mark they call Joe McGlory.”
A slow smile was working its way over the cashier’s face. There was something open and free about Joe McGlory—too free, at times, those who did not know him might have been tempted to think.
“You don’t look much like the Joe McGlory who came here yesterday,” remarked the cashier casually.
The cowboy lopped down on the railing.
“I’m going to ask for a hot flat and a cup of ginger tea in a minute,” he murmured dejectedly. “Friend, was there a yellow-haired stranger here yesterday, in my clothes?”
“Such a person called. Whether he wore your clothes, or not, of course I can’t say.”
“Woosh! Johnny Hardluck is getting ready to hand me one. Stand close, Matt. I’m going to need you, I reckon. Yes, amigo, they were my clothes. Did she give you an order from the colonel for the bullion?”
“She?” echoed the cashier, lifting his brows.
“Of course you couldn’t know that,” said McGlory, “but the fellow who claimed to be me was a moharrie. She gave you the colonel’s order and you handed her the gold?”
“No. I had her sign a receipt and was just about to send for the gold when a telegram arrived. I had——”
“Then—then——”
“Just a minute, please. I had the young woman step into my private room, and instead of sending for the gold I sent for the bank policeman. When he went into the room to arrest the girl, she had vanished. Something, I suppose, had aroused her suspicions. At any rate, she slipped from a window and made good her escape. I’m very sorry it happened. It is a blow at law and order for such a would-be criminal to get away.”
The cowboy stared; then a glow overspread his face, and he grabbed for the cashier’s hand.
“Sorry!” he exclaimed. “Why, pard, this isn’t a time to be sorry about anything! You’ve still got the colonel’s gold in your safe, and I’m the happiest stray in all New York! You hear that, Matt?” and he whirled and caught his chum by both hands. “It was a close shave, but that message of ours did the trick! The gold’s here, and Tibbits has been done—done to a turn! If there weren’t so many people around, I’d yell.”
“You say you’re Joe McGlory?” said the cashier casually, “but I’m from Missouri—after what happened yesterday. You haven’t the colonel’s order, and even that isn’t a safe means of identification. How are you going to prove you’re Joe McGlory?”
“My pard, Motor Matt, will go on record. Matt, am I McGlory, Joseph Easy-mark McGlory?”
“You’re Joe McGlory, all right,” laughed Matt.
“That’s good, as far as it goes,” said the cashier, “but who’s to vouch for Motor Matt?”
“That’s me, pard,” bubbled McGlory. “We vouch for each other.”
The cashier joined in the merriment of the motor boys.
“You’re a team,” said the cashier.
“A whole team and something to spare,” chuckled the cowboy. “Honest, I’m feeling so good over that bullion that I’m nearly locoed.”
“This will help to identify us,” said Matt.
He took from his pocket the letter McGlory had received from the colonel. The conductor, when sending the telegram from Stoughton, had had the message copied on a telegraph blank and had returned the letter to Matt.
The cashier read the letter carefully.
“This also is good—as far as it goes,” he remarked. “The order for the bullion came with this?”
“Yes.”
“And you lads sent me a telegram yesterday?”
“You can bet your roll-top desk against a copper cent we did. If you knew how we had to work to get that telegram off to you, you’d rather think we sent it.”
This, of course, was from the cowboy.
“Where was the message sent from?”
“From Stoughton, Massachusetts. Turn that letter over, neighbor, and you’ll find a copy of the message on the back of it.”
The cashier read the copy.
“That’s good circumstantial evidence, Mr. McGlory,” said he, handing the letter to the cowboy, “and you can have the colonel’s gold whenever you come after it. Will you take it now?”
“The meeting of the syndicate is called for to-night, at the office of Random & Griggs,” said McGlory, “and I don’t want those two bars until the last thing before the bank closes at three o’clock. That bullion has caused trouble enough, and I’m putting up my fences against any more.”
“Very well; come at three and you’ll get the gold.”
The boys turned and slowly left the bank.
“Somehow,” said the cowboy, “I’m glad that girl got away.”
“So am I,” answered Motor Matt.
THE END.
The next number (363) will contain “A Hoodoo Machine; or The Motor Boys’ Runabout No. 1313,” by Stanley R. Matthews.