MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING
ADVENTURE
MOTOR
FICTION
NO. 32
OCT. 2, 1909
FIVE
CENTS
MOTOR MATT'S
DOUBLE-TROUBLE
OR THE LAST
OF THE HOODOO
_BY THE AUTHOR OF
"MOTOR MATT"_
_STREET & SMITH
PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK_
[Illustration: _"Stop!" shouted Motor Matt laying back on the end of
the rope_]
MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION
_Issued Weekly. By subscription $2.50 per year. Copyright, 1909, by_
STREET & SMITH, _79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York, N. Y._
=No. 32.= NEW YORK, October 2, 1909. =Price Five Cents.=
Motor Matt's Double Trouble
OR,
THE LAST OF THE HOODOO.
By the author of "MOTOR MATT."
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. THE RED JEWEL.
CHAPTER II. ANOTHER END OF THE YARN.
CHAPTER III. SHOCK NUMBER ONE.
CHAPTER IV. SHOCKS TWO AND THREE.
CHAPTER V. A HOT STARTER.
CHAPTER VI. M'GLORY IS LOST--AND FOUND.
CHAPTER VII. "POCKETED."
CHAPTER VIII. SPRINGING A "COUP."
CHAPTER IX. MOTOR MATT'S CHASE.
CHAPTER X. THE CHASE CONCLUDED.
CHAPTER XI. A DOUBLE CAPTURE.
CHAPTER XII. ANOTHER SURPRISE.
CHAPTER XIII. BAITING A TRAP.
CHAPTER XIV. HOW THE TRAP WAS SPRUNG.
CHAPTER XV. BACK TO THE FARM.
CHAPTER XVI. CONCLUSION.
HUDSON AND THE NORTHWEST PASSAGE.
THE DEATH BITE.
MIGRATION OF RATS.
SOME GREAT CATASTROPHES.
CHARACTERS THAT APPEAR IN THIS STORY.
=Matt King=, otherwise Motor Matt.
=Joe McGlory=, a young cowboy who proves himself a lad of worth and
character, and whose eccentricities are all on the humorous side. A
good chum to tie to--a point Motor Matt is quick to perceive.
=Tsan Ti=, Mandarin of the Red Button, who continues to fall into
tragic difficulties, and to send in "four-eleven" alarms for the
assistance of Motor Matt.
=Sam Wing=, San Francisco bazaar-man, originally from Canton, and
temporarily in the employ of Tsan Ti. By following his evil thoughts
he causes much trouble for the mandarin, and, incidentally, for the
motor boys.
=Philo Grattan=, a rogue of splendid abilities, who aims to steal a
fortune and ends in being brought to book for the theft of a motor
car.
=Pardo=, a pal of Grattan.
=Neb Hogan=, a colored brother whose mule, stolen by Sam Wing, plays
a part of considerable importance. Neb himself engineers a surprise
at the end of the story, and goes his way so overwhelmed with good
luck that he is unable to credit the evidence of his senses.
=Banks and Gridley=, officers of the law who are searching for the
stolen blue motor.
=Boggs=, a farmer who comes to the aid of Motor Matt with energy and
courage.
=Bunce=, a sailor with two good eyes who, for some object of his
own, wears a green patch and prefers to have the public believe he
is one-eyed. A pal of Grattan, who is caught in the same net that
entangles the rest of the ruby thieves.
CHAPTER I.
THE RED JEWEL.
Craft and greed showed in the eyes of the hatchet-faced Chinaman. He
seemed to have been in deep slumber in the car seat, but the drowsiness
was feigned. The train was not five minutes out of the town of Catskill
before he had roused himself, wary and wide-awake, and looked across
the aisle. His look and manner gave evidence that he was meditating
some crime.
It was in the small hours of the morning, and the passenger train was
rattling and bumping through the heavy gloom. The lights in the coach
had been turned low, and all the passengers, with the exception of the
thin-visaged Celestial, were sprawling in their uncomfortable seats,
snoring or breathing heavily.
Across the aisle from this criminally inclined native of the Flowery
Kingdom was another who likewise hailed from the land of pagodas and
mystery; and this other, it could be seen at a glance, was a person of
some consequence.
He was fat, and under the average height. Drawn down over his shaven
head was a black silk cap, with a gleaming red button sewn in the
centre of the flat crown. From under the edge of the cap dropped
a queue of silken texture, thick, and so long that it crossed the
Chinaman's shoulder and lay in one or two coils across his fat knees.
Yellow is the royal color in China, and it is to be noted that this
Celestial's blouse was of yellow, and his wide trousers, and his
stockings--all yellow and of the finest Canton silk. His sandals were
black and richly embroidered.
From the button and the costume, one at all informed of fashions as
followed in the country of Confucius might have guessed that this stout
person was a mandarin. And that guess would have been entirely correct.
To go further and reveal facts which will presently become the reader's
in the logical unfolding of this chronicle, the mandarin was none other
than Tsan Ti, discredited guardian of the Honam joss house, situated
on an island suburb of the city of Canton. He of the slant, lawless
gleaming eyes was Sam Wing, the mandarin's trusted and treacherous
servant.
A Chinaman, like his Caucasian brother, is not always proof against
temptation when the ugly opportunity presents itself at the right time
and in the right way. Sam Wing believed he had come face to face with
such an opportunity, and he was determined to make the most of it.
Sam Wing was a resident of San Francisco. He owned a fairly prosperous
bazaar, and, once every year, turned his profits into Mexican dollars
and forwarded the silver to an uncle in Canton for investment in the
land of his birth. Some day Sam Wing cherished the dream of returning
to Canton and living like a grandee. But wealth came slowly. Now, there
in that foreign devil's choo-choo car such a chance offered to secure
unheard-of riches that Sam Wing's loyalty to the mandarin, no less
than his heathen ideas of integrity, were brushed away with astounding
suddenness.
Tsan Ti slept. His round head was wabbling on his short neck--rolling
and swaying grotesquely with every lurch of the train. The red button
of the mandarin's cap caught the dim rays of the overhead lamps and
threw crimson gleams into the eyes of Sam Wing. This flashing button
reminded Sam Wing of the red jewel, worth a king's ransom, which the
mandarin was personally conveying to San Francisco, en route to China
and the city of Canton.
Already Sam Wing was intrusted with the mandarin's money bag--an
alligator-skin pouch containing many oblong pieces of green paper
marked with figures of large denomination. The money was good, what
there was of it, but that was not enough to pay for theft and flight.
Sam Wing's long, talon-like fingers itched to lay hold of the red jewel.
With a swift, reassuring look at the passengers in the car, Sam Wing
caught at the back of the seat in front and lifted himself erect. He
was not a handsome Chinaman, by any means, and he appeared particularly
repulsive just at that moment.
Hanging to the seat, he steadied himself as he stepped lightly across
the aisle. Another moment and he was at the mandarin's side, looking
down on him.
Tsan Ti, in his dreams, was again in Canton. Striding through the great
chamber of the Honam joss house, he was superintending the return of
the red jewel to the forehead of the twenty-foot idol, whence it had
been stolen.
While the mandarin dreamed, Sam Wing bent down over him and, with
cautious fingers, unfastened the loop of silk cord that held together
the front of the yellow blouse. The rich garment fell open, revealing a
small bag hanging from the mandarin's throat by a chain.
Swiftly, silently, and with hardly a twitch of the little bag, two of
Sam Wing's slim, long-nailed fingers were inserted, and presently drew
forth a resplendent gem, large as a small hen's egg.
A gasping breath escaped Sam Wing's lips. For a fraction of an instant
he hesitated. What if his ancestors were regarding him, looking out of
the vastness of the life to come with stern disapproval? A Chinaman
worships his ancestors, and the shades of the ancient ones of his blood
have a great deal to do with the regulating of his life. What were Sam
Wing's forefathers thinking of this act of vile treachery?
The thief ground his teeth and, with trembling hands, stowed the red
jewel in the breast of his blouse. He started toward the rear door of
the car--and hesitated again.
Sam Wing was a Buddhist, as the Chinese understand Buddhism, wrapping
it up in their own mystic traditions. This red jewel had originally
been stolen from a great idol of Buddha. In short, the jewel had been
the idol's eye, and the idol, sightless in the Honam joss house, was
believed to be in vengeful mood because of the missing optic. The idol
had marshalled all the ten thousand demons of misfortune and had let
them loose upon all who had anything to do with the pilfering of the
sacred jewel.
Who was Sam Wing that he should defy these ten thousand demons of
misfortune? How could he, a miserable bazaar man, fight the demons?
But his skin tingled from the touch of the red jewel against his
breast. He would dare all for the vast wealth which might be his in
case he could "get away with the goods."
Closing his eyes to honor, to the ten thousand demons, to every article
of his heathen faith, he bolted for the rear of the car. Opening the
door, he let himself out on the rear platform. A lurch of the car
caused the door to slam behind him.
Meanwhile Tsan Ti had continued his delightful dreaming. His
subconscious mind was watching the priests as they worked with the red
jewel, replacing it in the idol's forehead. The hideous face of the
graven image seemed to glow with satisfaction because of the recovery
of the eye.
The priest, at the top of the ladder, fumbled suddenly with his hands.
The red jewel dropped downward, with a crimson flash, struck the tiles
of the floor, and rolled away, and away, until it vanished.
A yell of consternation burst from the mandarin's lips. He leaped
forward to secure the red jewel--and came to himself with his head
aching from a sharp blow against the seat back in front.
He straightened up, and the alarm died out of his face. After all, it
was only a dream!
"Say!" cried a man in the seat ahead, turning an angry look at Tsan Ti.
"What you yellin' for? Can't a heathen like you let a Christian sleep?
Huh?"
"A million pardons, most estimable sir," answered Tsan Ti humbly. "I
had a dream, a bad dream."
"Too much bird's-nest soup an' too many sharks' fins for supper, I
guess," scowled the man, rearranging himself for slumber. "Pah!"
Tsan Ti peered across the aisle. The seat occupied by his servant, Sam
Wing, was vacant. Sam Wing, the mandarin thought, must have become
thirsty and gone for a drink.
The mandarin heaved a choppy sigh of relief. How real a dream sometimes
is! Now, if he----
His hand wandered instinctively to the breast of his blouse, and he
felt for the little lump contained in the bag suspended from his throat.
He could not feel it. Pulling himself together sharply Tsan Ti used
both hands in his groping examination.
Then he caught his breath and sat as though dazed. A slow horror ran
through his body. His blood seemed congealing about his heart, and his
yellow face grew hueless.
The red jewel was gone! The front of his blouse was open!
Then, after his blunted wits had recovered their wonted sharpness, Tsan
Ti leaped for the aisle with another yell.
"Say," cried the man in the forward seat, lifting himself wrathfully,
"I'll have the brakeman kick you off the train if you don't hush! By
jing!"
The mandarin began running up and down the aisle of the car, wringing
his fat hands and yelling for Sam Wing. He said other things, too, but
it was all in his heathen gibberish and could not be comprehended.
By then every person in the car was awake.
"Crazy chink!" shouted the man who had spoken before. "He's gone dotty!
Look out for him!"
At that moment the train lumbered to a halt and the lights of a station
shone through the car windows. The brakeman jammed open the door and
shouted a name.
"Motor Matt!" wailed Tsan Ti. "Estimable friend, come to my wretched
assistance!"
"Here, brakeman!" cried the wrathful passenger who had already aired
his views, "take this slant-eyed lunatic by the collar of his kimono
and give him a hi'st into the right of way. Chinks ought to be carried
in cattle cars, anyhow."
Tsan Ti, however, did not wait to be "hoisted into the right of way."
With a final yell, he flung himself along the aisle and out the rear
door, nearly overturning the astounded brakeman. Once on the station
platform, he made a bee line for the waiting room and the telegraph
office.
There was but one person in all America in whom the mandarin had any
confidence, but one person to whom he would appeal. This was the king
of the motor boys, who, at that moment, was in the town of Catskill.