CHAPTER VI. ON THE BOSTON PIKE.

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.