“Same here. I landed in the road like a thousand of brick. This is my first experience with a crazy automobile, and you can bet your moccasins it will be the last. I didn’t know there was such a thing.” “There isn’t,” said Matt. “How can you put together a lot of machine and have anything but a senseless piece of mechanism?” “I’m by, when you pin me right down, pard, but if this car isn’t locoed, then what’s the matter with it?” “Something must go wrong.” “Goes wrong and then fixes itself,” jeered the cowboy. “If you’d look the blamed thing over this minute, you wouldn’t be able to find anything out of order.” Once more Matt started the car, and once more it acted like a sane and sensible machine, carrying the boys to the shade of the trees and stopping obediently to let them alight. Matt flung himself down on the grass at the roadside and examined his watch to ascertain whether it had been injured. He found the timepiece in good condition. “Ten-fifteen, Joe,” he observed, replacing the watch in his vest and noticing that his chum was still carrying the manila envelope in his hand as he sat down beside him. “What are you holding that envelope for?” he inquired. “I reckon I’ve gone off the jump myself, Matt,” laughed McGlory. “It dropped out of my pocket when I fell into the road. I picked it up, but have been too badly rattled ever since to do anything but hold it in my hand.” McGlory was about to put it in his pocket when Matt suggested that he examine the contents and see if he could discover the name and address of the man who owned the runabout. The cowboy pulled out a couple of papers. Unfolding one of them, he read some typewritten words and gave a gasp and turned blank eyes on his chum. “What’s wrong?” queried Matt. “Listen to this,” was the answer. “‘Private Report on the Pauper’s Dream Mine, by Hannibal J. Levitt, Mining Engineer, of New York City.’ Wouldn’t that rattle your spurs, Matt?” cried McGlory. “The syndicate had an expert go out to Arizona and make an examination of the ‘Pauper’s Dream,’--you remember the colonel told me about that, in his letter. Here’s the report! It drops into our hands by the queerest happen-chance you ever heard of. Mister Man takes a header from a crazy chug cart, unloads the machine onto you, and then hustles for Krug’s, leaving the report behind. He’s not at Krug’s when we get there, so the report is left in our hands. This couldn’t have happened once in a million times, pard!” Matt was rubbing his bruised shins and allowing the amazing event to drift through his brain. It was queer, there was no mistake about it. In fact, all the experiences of the boys that Thursday morning were on the “queer” order. “You say,” said Matt, “that the document is headed ‘Private Report.’ Why should it be a private report if it is for the syndicate?” “Private for the syndicate, I reckon.”