“Sure we are. That couldn’t make any difference, Joe.” “It would have made a big difference with some fellows, but Matt King’s of a different calibre.” “That’s what pards are for, Joe,” whispered Matt as he let go his chum’s hand, “to stand by each other.” “Like you hung to me,” returned the cowboy, “and not the way I stood by you. Well, I’ve had my lesson, and we’ll let it go at that. _Adios!_” Matt turned and left the ward, and the hospital. There were a lot of people in New York, but it seemed like a mighty lonesome place now that McGlory was laid up for repairs. The colonel, being a wise man, considered it good policy to get away from New York, and head for his favorite stamping grounds in the Southwest, for neither Matt nor Joe ever saw him again. When Joe got well Matt had found something in his favorite line of motors to engage their attention, and with such a team of hustlers to drive things, the business could not be anything but a success. THE END. The next number (364) will contain “Pluck Beats Luck; or, Tom Talbot’s Trials and Triumphs.” By John L. Douglas. * * * * * BRAVE AND BOLD WEEKLY NEW YORK, December 4, 1909. TERMS TO BRAVE AND BOLD WEEKLY MAIL SUBSCRIBERS. (_Postage Free._) Single Copies or Back Numbers, 5c. Each. 3 months 65c. 4 months 85c. 6 months $1.25 One year 2.50 2 copies one year 4.00 1 copy two years 4.00 =How to Send Money=--By post-office or express money order, registered letter, bank check or draft, at our risk. At your own risk if sent by currency, coin, or postage stamps in ordinary letter. =Receipts=--Receipt of your remittance is acknowledged by proper change of number on your label. If not correct you have not been properly credited, and should let us know at once. ORMOND G. SMITH,} GEORGE C. SMITH,} _Proprietors._ =STREET & SMITH, Publishers,= =79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York City.= THE MISSING BOATS. Reflecting the hues of the sunset sky lay Lake Menatee like a huge mirror. Not a ripple stirred its placid surface. The fading sunlight lent to its crystal depths the silver of its dying glory. While along its shores the forest like an over-reaching shield outstretched its giant arms to cast weird, fantastic figures first on the white beach, and then out, out over the transparent bosom of the waters, going farther, faster and faster, deeper and darker, until the veil of twilight concealed the beautiful scene. In the background the rugged Adirondacks kept watch and ward over the treasures below, and on their seamed and time-scarred forehead lingered the touch of sunlight long after the shadows of gloom had robbed Lake Menatee of its beauty. Not a living creature was to be seen to give life to the solitude of nature. Three boats drawn up on the white sand lay side by side, or at least within a few feet of each other. They were merely common, flat-bottom rowboats.