CONCLUSION.
Whether O'Grady really thought Motor Matt had taken French leave during
the night or not, is a question. Certainly he was as surprised to see
Matt traveling into town as were any of the rest of them.
All those around the hotel flocked to the road.
"Hello, Matt!" called Nugent, reaching up his hand. "It looks like
you'd been accomplishing something."
Matt's acquaintance with the cattleman had been of exceedingly brief
duration, and never before had he been hailed by him in that cordial
tone.
"How are you, Mr. Nugent?" he returned, taking the cattleman's hand.
"How did you happen to come over this way?"
"Got a telegram from you----"
"From me?" echoed Matt.
"I sent it, Matt," put in Legree, "and signed your name to it. When you
disappeared last night I knew something had to be done, and that there
ought to be a man with money to do it. So I sent for Nugent."
"It's all right, my boy," said Nugent, "and I'm tickled to death
because I came. You're bringing in my car, I see, and the two fellows
that took it away from me. Good! If we don't put 'em through for their
crooked work, my name ain't Nugent."
"You'll have to send for a doctor for Brisco," said Matt. "He's been
unconscious for two hours, and I don't know whether he's badly hurt or
not. You see----"
At that moment Brisco proved that he was far from being badly hurt.
With a jump he got out of the tonneau and started at a run toward the
edge of town. Uncle Tom happened to be in his way, and was knocked
heels over head.
"Dere he goes!" yelled Josh excitedly. "Clear out o' de way so I kin
git a shot at 'im!"
But Josh was not allowed to carry out his warlike intentions. Legree
took after the escaping ruffian, overhauled him before he had gone far,
grabbed him by the shoulders, and hurled him to the ground.
O'Grady, rushing to Legree's assistance, lent a willing hand. Brisco
had been a good customer of O'Grady's, but the situation had changed
somewhat since the Uncle Tommers had been staying at the Shamrock Hotel.
"I reckon, Matt," remarked Lem Nugent dryly, "that the fellow ain't
very badly hurt. How did you happen to get hold of the scoundrels?"
"They were chasing us," answered Matt. "We were in the Red Flier and
they were in your car. Brisco ran into the rocks, and he and Spangler
were thrown out. Neither of them seemed very much hurt, and Josh and
I captured Spangler before he had fully got back his wits. Brisco
appeared to be all right, but he was unconscious. I had an idea that he
might be shamming. Probably he came to himself just as we got here, and
thought the best thing for him to do would be to make a break."
"His break didn't help him any," said Legree, as he and O'Grady came
marching back with Brisco between them. "Go up to my room, Josh,"
Legree went on, "and get those two plates. You'll find 'em under the
northeast corner of the carpet. Front room, boy."
"Dat's me," answered Josh, handing Brisco's weapons to his father and
bounding away.
"I'm going to tell you people something," proceeded Legree, "that will
no doubt surprise you. And I think," he finished grimly, "that Brisco
will be as much surprised as anybody."
Josh presently returned with a couple of flat, square packages. Leaving
O'Grady to take care of Brisco, Legree took the packages in his hands.
"A crook by the name of Denver Denny, alias James Trymore," went on
Legree, "escaped from the authorities at Denver and came to this part
of the country. Denver Denny was a clever counterfeiter, and worked
in conjunction with Hank Brisco. At least, following the output of
the 'queer' as it trailed along in the wake of that Uncle Tom's Cabin
Company, I came to that conclusion.
"Denny owned a set of very fine plates for the manufacture of bogus
five-dollar silver certificates. When he was captured in Denver those
plates were nowhere to be found. I conceived the notion that they
might be in Brisco's possession, and in order to make sure, I became
letter-perfect in the part of Legree, and Josh here got the part of
Little Eva by heart, and we arranged to join Brisco's company of
barn-stormers.
"We were with them for some time, watching Brisco all the while. Brisco
was not shoving any of the 'queer' while we were with him, and I was
inclined to think that I had made a mistake in connecting him with
Denny's operations. However, Brisco had a little tin box, of which he
was very choice and careful. His solicitude for that box aroused my
curiosity. When Brisco pulled out between two days in Denver, and left
his company stranded, by some freak of chance he dropped the box. Josh
found it. We opened the box in Ash Fork and found these two packages
in it." Legree lifted the two flat parcels so all could see. "I knew
perfectly well that Brisco would come after his box, so I continued to
play the part of a stranded actor, hoping to get my hands on him.
"Fate was kind to us," and here Legree turned and dropped a friendly
hand on the young motorist's shoulder, "by bringing Motor Matt along.
He came to the front gallantly and helped us. I should have captured
Brisco sooner or later, even without his aid, but he has closed the
affair in hurricane fashion and saved the government lots of trouble."
Everybody, Uncle Tommers, Matt, Carl, and Brisco and Spangler, were
astounded. Nugent was the solitary exception, for Legree had revealed
his identity to the cattleman in the railroad-station.
"These are the plates," went on Legree. "Brisco had them in the tin
box."
"And you are----" began Matt, staring at Legree.
"A secret service man in the employ of the government."
A cry of fierce anger escaped Brisco. He made a fierce attempt to get
at Legree, but O'Grady restrained him.
"Faith," said O'Grady, with cheerful disregard of his past actions, "Oi
knowed yez was a bad egg th' minyit Oi set eyes on yez."
"Dis," remarked Uncle Tom, with immense pride, "is de best job ob
mascottin' whut Ah's done yit!"
"Better give up, Brisco!" called Spangler from the touring-car.
"They've got it on us an' we'll have ter take our medicine."
"Got it on us, yes," stormed Brisco, "but they wouldn't have done it if
it hadn't been for Motor Matt."
"Not so quick, I'll admit," said Legree amiably, "but I'd have caught
you sooner or later, Brisco. In my report I shall have something to
say to the head of the department about Motor Matt. I'd like to hear,
though, just how he happened to make this haul."
"Josh helped me," said Matt.
"Not enough so yous could notice it," returned Josh promptly; "Motor
Matt was de man on de job from start t' finish. Yous take it from
Little Eva, an' no stringin'."
The boy turned to Matt with a wide grin.
"Yous is wise t' why I went off wit' Brisco in dat runabout now, ain't
yous? I wanted t' find out w'ere he had 'is hang-out so dad could turn
a trick fer de gov'ment. But yous cut out dad, Matt."
"Listen, vonce," cried Carl, who had been trying for some time to get
in a few words, "Matt's der pest efer. He prings luck venefer he goes
mit anypody. Yah, dot's righdt. I know, pecause he prought luck mit me."
Uncle Tom was disposed to butt in with an objection, but the cattleman
had something to say.
"There's fifteen hundred of my money goes to somebody for all this,"
said he. "Who gets it, Matt?"
"Divide it up between all of us," answered the boy generously. "The
Uncle Tommers need it."
A shout of delight went up from the actor contingent.
"You can leave Josh in the division," said Legree, "but cut me out of
it. I'm working for Uncle Sam."
Just at that moment the Chinaman stepped to the door and announced
dinner.
"We'll talk all this over while we eat," said Nugent. "Come on,
everybody."
* * * * *
Motor Matt and Carl, having lost more time in Fairview than they could
well afford, started for Albuquerque early in the afternoon.
Eliza, Topsy, and Uncle Tom, now well supplied with money, were to
proceed to Denver by train.
The secret service man and Josh were to remain in Fairview for a few
days with their prisoners, and then to take them to Denver for trial.
"Matt," said Carl seriously, as the Red Flier leaped onward toward
Albuquerque, "I vas a lucky feller to hook oop mit you. Vone oof dose
tays, oof you don'd go pack on me, I vill vear tiamonts!"
"I'll never go back on you, Carl," laughed Matt; "but I'm a little
'juberous' about the diamonds."
THE END.
THE NEXT NUMBER (7) WILL CONTAIN
MOTOR MATT'S CLUE;
OR,
THE PHANTOM AUTO.
A Night Mystery--Dick Ferral--La Vita Place--The House of
Wonder--Sercomb--The Phantom Auto Again--Surrounded by Enemies--The
Kettle Begins to Boil--Ordered Away--A New Plan--A Daring
Leap--Desperate Villiany--Tippoo--In the Nick of Time--A Startling
Interruption--The Price of Treachery--The Luck of Dick Ferral.
MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION
NEW YORK, April 3, 1909.
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(_Postage Free._)
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2 copies one year 4.00
1 copy two years 4.00
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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.
A SNOWBALL FIGHT.
By HORATIO ALGER, Jr.
The snow had fallen to the depth of six inches during the night,
filling in the yards and covering the door-steps, throughout the town
of Conway. Among those who hailed the arrival of the snow with joy was
Frank Taylor, a boy of fourteen, the son of the Widow Taylor, who lived
in a miserable little tenement not far from the mill. Why he was glad
to see the snow will soon appear.
Early in the morning he shoveled a path to the street, and then putting
his shovel over his shoulder, said to his mother:
"I'm going over to Squire Ashmead's to see if he doesn't want me to
shovel paths in his yard."
"He's got a boy of his own," said Mrs. Taylor; "perhaps he will do it."
Frank laughed.
"Sam Ashmead is proud and lazy," he said. "You won't catch him
shoveling paths. I think I shall get the job. I want to earn something
so that you need not sit all day sewing. It is too hard for you."
"I ought to think myself lucky to get employment at all," said the
widow.
"I wish I could get steady work somewhere," said Frank; "but I've tried
and tried, and it seems impossible."
"Willing hands will not want work long," said his mother.
"I hope not, mother. But I must be going, or somebody will get the
start of me."
While Frank is on his way to Squire Ashmead's, a few words of
explanation may be given. His mother had been a widow for two years.
Her husband had been a man of some education, having at times taught
school, but he had never succeeded in laying up any money, and his
widow was left almost penniless. Frank, who was a stout boy, and a good
boy as well, had earned something by doing odd jobs, but had failed
to obtain permanent employment. The burden of their joint support,
therefore, was thrown upon his mother, who was very industrious with
her needle, but was compelled to labor beyond her strength. All this
troubled Frank, who felt that, as a stout, strong boy, he ought to bear
at least half the expense.
In due time he reached Squire Ashmead's, and was glad to see that the
snow remained undisturbed.
He rang the bell, and asked if he might shovel the paths that were
necessary.
Squire Ashmead was absent in New York, to which city he had gone the
morning previous on business, but his wife agreed to employ Frank.
He went to work with a will, and soon had a path dug from the front
door to the gate. A path was also required from the back door to the
stable, which was situated in the rear of the house. This was quite a
distance, and as Frank wished to do the work thoroughly, it required
considerable time.
He was about half through this portion of his task when a snowball
whistled by his ear.
Looking round quickly, he saw Sam Ashmead standing at the corner of the
house, engaged in making a fresh snowball.
"Don't fire any more snowballs, Sam Ashmead," said Frank.
"I shall, if I please," said Sam.
"I haven't time to fire back now," said Frank. "Wait till I get
through, and we'll have a match if you like."
"But I don't like," said Sam scornfully. "Do you think I would have a
match with a beggar like you?"
"I am no beggar, Sam Ashmead," said Frank, "and if I were I don't think
I would beg of you."
"Oh, you're mighty proud," sneered Sam, "considering that you live in
an old hut not half as good as our stable."
"Yes, I am poor, and I live in a poor house," said Frank calmly, "but
that isn't a crime that I know of. Some time I shall live in a better
house, I hope."
So saying, he went back to work, and began shoveling the snow
vigorously. He did not anticipate any further attack from Sam, but in
this he soon found himself mistaken.
In the course of a minute he felt a pretty hard blow in the center of
his back, and looking round saw Sam Ashmead laughing insolently.
"How does that feel?" asked Sam.
"That's the second snowball you've fired at me," said Frank quietly,
but there was a light in his eyes as he spoke. "I advise you not to
fire another if you know what is good for yourself."
"So you threaten me, do you? Suppose I fire again, what's going to
happen?" demanded Sam, with an unpleasant sneer.
"I think you will be sorry for it," said Frank.
Sam hesitated a moment, but only a moment. He was a year older than
Frank, and larger in size. Certainly he ought to be a match for him.
But he did not believe that Frank would have the audacity to touch him,
the son of Squire Ashmead, the richest man in the village. He therefore
deliberately made another snowball, and firing it, struck Frank in the
back of his head.
Frank no sooner felt the blow than he threw down his shovel, and ran
toward his assailant.
"Keep off, you beggar!" said Sam.
"It's too late," said Frank. "I warned you not to fire again."
Sam placed himself in an attitude of defense, but found himself seized
violently round the middle, and before he fairly knew what was going to
happen he was lying in a snow-bank with Frank standing over him.
He struggled to his feet mad with rage, and "pitched into" Frank, as
the boys express it, and endeavored to retaliate in kind. But Frank was
watchful and wary, and evading the attack, seized him again when his
strength was half spent, and Sam found himself once more occupying an
involuntary bed in the snow.
A third struggle resulted in the same way. Sam was furious, but he saw
that Frank was more than a match for him.
Just then a servant called out from the door:
"Master Sam, your mother says it's time for you to be going to school."
To tell the truth, Sam was rather glad of the summons, as it gave him
an excuse for retiring from the contest.
"I'll be even with you yet," he said, shaking his fist at Frank. "I'll
let my father know how you insulted me, you young beggar!"
"If anybody has been insulted, I have," said Frank. "You must remember
that you began it."
Sam scowled vindictively, and brushing the snow from his coat went into
the house. Before Frank finished the path at the back of the house he
was gone to school.
Mrs. Ashmead sent out fifty cents to Frank for his morning's work,
with which he went home, well satisfied, wishing that he might earn as
much every day. He wondered a little whether Sam would tell his father
what had occurred between them. He did not speak of it to his mother,
for she was nervous, and would be troubled by it, as she received
considerable work to do from the Ashmead family which she might fear
would be taken away.
On the afternoon of the next day, however, Frank received a note, which
proved to come from Squire Ashmead. It ran as follows:
"FRANK TAYLOR: Please call at my office to-morrow morning at ten
o'clock. JAMES ASHMEAD."
This note Frank thought best to show to his mother.
"What does it mean, Frank? Have you any idea?" she asked.
Frank thereupon told her the story of his difficulty with Sam.
"It may be about that," he said.
"Oh, dear," said the widow. "I'm afraid he's very angry. I hope you
will apologize, Frank."
"No, mother," said Frank, "I don't see why I should. I only defended
myself from a bully. I should be ashamed to do anything else. I didn't
hurt him, and didn't intend to, but I wanted to teach him that he
couldn't insult me without having to pay for it."
"I am afraid some harm will come of it," said the widow anxiously.
"Don't trouble yourself, mother," said Frank soothingly. "If we do only
what's right, God will take care of us."
Still it was with some anxiety that Frank made his way the next morning
to the office of Squire Ashmead. This gentleman was the agent of a
large manufactory in the town, of which also he was a considerable
owner, so that he received an income of over ten thousand dollars a
year, which made him the most prominent and influential citizen in the
town.
When Frank entered the office, Squire Ashmead was conversing with a
stranger on business.
"Sit down," he said, turning to Frank. "I will be at leisure in a
moment."
"Well," he said, after the stranger had departed, "Sam tells me you and
he have had a little difficulty."
"Yes, sir," said Frank. "I would like to explain how it occurred."
"Very well. Go on."
It will be unnecessary to give the explanation, as it was strictly in
accordance with the facts.
"Do you blame me for what I did?" asked Frank, at the end.
"No, I do not," said the squire. "Sam acted like a bully, and was
properly punished. Let that pass. Now let me ask you how you and your
mother are getting along?"
"Poorly, sir," said Frank. "If I could have steady work, it would be
different, but that I cannot get. It troubles me to see my mother work
so hard all day. I think it is too much for her."
"How would you like to come into my office?"
Frank's eyes sparkled.
"I should think myself very lucky, sir, to get so good a chance."
"I want some boy whom I can trust, who can grow up to the business, and
after a time relieve me of a portion of my cares. I would take Sam, but
I am sorry to say, though he is my own son, that he would not answer
my purpose. I have heard good accounts of you from your teacher and
the people in the village. I will take you at a salary of six dollars
a week, to be increased from time to time if you will suit me. Can you
come Monday morning?"
"Yes, sir," said Frank, "and I will do my best to give you
satisfaction."
"Very well, my lad. Good morning."
Frank left the office, feeling as if his fortune was made. His mother,
who was awaiting the result of the interview anxiously at home, was
overwhelmed with astonishment at the unexpected good fortune of her
son. Sam was disagreeably surprised, and tried to shake his father's
resolution, but Squire Ashmead was a sensible man, and not to be moved.
Frank commenced his duties the next Monday. He was so faithful that
he was rapidly advanced, and at twenty-one was receiving twelve
hundred dollars a year. At twenty-five, on the sudden death of Squire
Ashmead, he succeeded to his agency, and now lives with his mother in
the mansion at which he once thought himself lucky to be permitted
to shovel the paths. As for Sam, he squandered the handsome property
received from his father, and died at thirty from the effects of
intemperate habits.
SECRETS OF TRICK SHOOTING.
When a champion rifle shot fires blindfolded at a wedding-ring, or a
penny held between his wife's thumb and finger, or, seated back to
her, shoots, by means of a mirror, at an apple upon her head or on a
fork held in her teeth, the danger of using a bullet is obvious. None,
of course, is needed; the explosion is enough. The apple is already
prepared, having been cut into pieces and stuck together with an
adhesive substance, and a thread with a knot at the end, pulled through
it from the "wings," so that it flies to bits when the gun is fired, is
"how it is done."
Generally, the more dangerous a feat appears the more carefully is all
danger guarded against. In the "William Tell" act the thread is often
tied to the assistant's foot. When, again, the ash is shot off a cigar
which the assistant is smoking, a piece of wire is pushed by his tongue
through a hollowed passage in the cigar--thus thrusting off the ash at
the moment of firing.
A favorite but simple trick is the shooting from some distance at an
orange held in a lady's hand. Great applause is invariably forthcoming
when the bullet drops out on her, cutting open the fruit. It is
inserted by hand earlier in the evening.
Another popular trick is that of snuffing out lighted candles. Half
a dozen are placed in front of a screen in which as many small holes
are bored, one against each candlewick. At the moment of firing, a
confederate behind the screen sharply blows out each candle with a pair
of bellows. This trick was accidentally exposed one evening by a too
zealous assistant. The lady in the gallery pulled the trigger, but the
rifle failed to go off; the candle, however, went out just the same.
In most instances, where a ball or other object has to be broken on a
living person's head, blank cartridge is used and the effect produced
by other means. A special wig, with a spring concealed in it, worked
by a wire under the clothes, is generally used, the confederate
manipulating the spring simultaneously with the firing of the rifle. As
the ball is of extremely thin glass, a mere touch suffices to shatter
it.
In these exhibitions some of the rifle "experts" invite gentlemen from
the audience to testify that the weapon is indeed loaded. The cartridge
shown looks very well, but it is a shell of thin wax blackened to
resemble a leaden bullet. It would not hurt a fly.
REELFOOT LAKE.
The physical history of Reelfoot Lake, of night-rider fame, is not
without a certain interest of its own. The lake came into existence as
the result of a series of earthquakes, which began in December, 1811,
and continued until June, 1812.
Some authorities say that the earthquakes merely heaved up a great
ridge of land across the path of the Reelfoot River, which runs
into the Mississippi, and that this dam caused the water to back up
and broaden out and form a lake; but the favorite account in the
neighborhood is to the effect that the ground sank, springs were opened
up, neighboring creeks diverted from their course, and the overflowing
water of the Mississippi rushed in during the flood season of the
spring of 1812.
It is said that for an hour and a half the waters of the Mississippi
flowed up-hill while filling up the depression caused by the
earthquakes. Both accounts likely have this much of truth in them that
the entire configuration of the ground was changed by the earthquakes.
Big Lake, west of the Mississippi, in Arkansas, is said to have been
formed in the same way at the same time.
Reelfoot Lake is sixteen or eighteen miles long, very irregular in
shape, and covers from 35,000 to 40,000 acres of land. It varies in
width from a mile in some places to four or five miles in others.
The northern end is extended by a series of sloughs and bayous into
Kentucky.
The most distinctive feature of the lake's appearance, the feature
which first impresses and stays longest with the observer's fancy, is a
certain grotesque effect, as if a set of crazy men had been operating
a pile-driver there for the last century, for the trunks, stumps, and
stark branches of dead trees stick out of it everywhere in desolate
parody of some such human handiwork; far below the surface the fish
dart among the boles and branches where the squirrels frolicked a
hundred years ago.
There are beautiful spots here and there, but the effect, as a
whole, is not beautiful; at its best, when the mist rises and myriad
protruding tree trunks are white and ghostly in the moonlight, it is
weird; the general remembrance is of something uncouth. It is a kind
of sloven lake that has preferred to sit down with its hair uncombed
all day long, but at night it does manage to achieve a touch of wizard
dignity.
A FLOATING SLUM.
Stand beside the imperial custom-house at Canton and let the eye
range down the river toward Hongkong. As far as the sight can reach
lie boats, boats, and again boats. These are no ordinary craft, mere
vessels of transport plying hither and thither, but the countless homes
of myriad Chinese, in which millions of human beings have been born,
have lived, and have died. They are the dwellings of the very poor, who
live in them practically free from rent, taxes, and the other burdens
of the ordinary citizen.
The Tankia--which means boat-dwellers--as the denizens of these
floating houses are called, form a sort of caste apart from the rest
of the Cantonese. The shore-dwellers regard them as belonging to a
lower social order; and indeed they have many customs, peculiar to
themselves, which mark them as a separate community. How the swarming
masses of them contrive to support existence is a mystery, but their
chief mode of employment is in carrying merchandise and passengers from
place to place.
WILD HORSES OF NEVADA.
Horses are cheap in Nevada. On the government ranges, where they are
protected by game-laws, droves of wild horses exist which in the
aggregate are said to amount to fifteen thousand. Formerly there was a
law in Nevada permitting the shooting of these wild horses for their
hides, but there were hunters who were not particular, and the ranchers
found their domestic horses disappearing if they let them out on the
range. So their shooting was prohibited, and since that time the droves
have grown to be exceedingly troublesome. They can be domesticated, but
they are not needed there, and it costs too much to ship them East. It
seems a pity that, while so many sections could use them to advantage,
the transportation problem makes it impossible to get them at a price
which they are worth.
_ESPECIALLY IMPORTANT!!_
MOTOR STORIES
_A New Idea in the Way of Five-Cent Weeklies._
Boys everywhere will be delighted to hear that Street & Smith are now
issuing this new five-cent weekly which will be known by the name of
MOTOR STORIES.
This weekly is entirely different from anything now being published.
It details the astonishing adventures of a young mechanic who owned a
motor cycle. Is there a boy who has not longed to possess one of these
swift little machines that scud about the roads everywhere throughout
the United States? Is there a boy, therefore, who will not be intensely
interested in the adventures of "Motor Matt," as he is familiarly
called by his comrades?
Boys, you have never read anything half so exciting, half so humorous
and entertaining as the first story listed for publication in this
line, called "=Motor Matt; or, The King of the Wheel=." Its fame is
bound to spread like wildfire, causing the biggest demand for the other
numbers in this line, that was ever heard of in the history of this
class of literature.
Here are the titles to be issued during the next few weeks. Do not fail
to place an order for them with your newsdealer.
No. 1. Motor Matt; or, The King of the Wheel.
No. 2. Motor Matt's Daring; or, True to His Friends.
No. 3. Motor Matt's "Century" Run; or, The Governor's Courier.
No. 4. Motor Matt's Race; or, The Last Flight of the _Comet_.
32 LARGE SIZE PAGES SPLENDID COLORED COVERS
PRICE, FIVE CENTS PER COPY
AT ALL NEWSDEALERS, OR SENT POSTPAID BY THE PUBLISHERS UPON RECEIPT OF
THE PRICE.
_STREET & SMITH, Publishers, NEW YORK_
_THE BEST OF THEM ALL!!_
MOTOR STORIES
IT IS NEW AND INTENSELY INTERESTING
We knew before we published this line that it would have a tremendous
sale and our expectations were more than realized. It is going with a
rush, and the boys who want to read these, the most interesting and
fascinating tales ever written, must speak to their newsdealers about
reserving copies for them.
=MOTOR MATT= sprang into instant favor with American boy readers and is
bound to occupy a place in their hearts second only to that now held by
Frank Merriwell.
The reason for this popularity is apparent in every line of these
stories. They are written by an author who has made a life study of
the requirements of the up-to-date American boy as far as literature
is concerned, so it is not surprising that this line has proven a huge
success from the very start.
Here are the titles now ready and also those to be published. You will
never have a better opportunity to get a generous quantity of reading
of the highest quality, so place your orders now.
=No. 1.--Motor Matt; or, The King of the Wheel.=
=No. 2.--Motor Matt's Daring; or, True to His Friends.=
=No. 3.--Motor Matt's Century Run; or, The Governor's Courier.=
=No. 4.--Motor Matt's Race; or, The Last Flight of the "Comet."=
TO BE PUBLISHED ON MARCH 22nd
=No. 5.--Motor Matt's Mystery; or, Foiling a Secret Plot.=
TO BE PUBLISHED ON MARCH 29th
=No. 6.--Motor Matt's Red Flier; or, On the High Gear.=
TO BE PUBLISHED ON APRIL 5th
=No. 7.--Motor Matt's Clue; or, The Phantom Auto.=
TO BE PUBLISHED ON APRIL 12th
=No. 8.--Motor Matt's Triumph; or, Three Speeds Forward.=
=Price, Five Cents=
To be had from newsdealers everywhere, or sent, postpaid, upon receipt
of the price by the publishers
_STREET & SMITH, Publishers, NEW YORK_
* * * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Added table of contents.
Retained some inconsistent hyphenation (e.g. "motorcycle" vs.
"motor-cycle").
Retained some inconsistent spellings in dialect (e.g. "becase" vs.
"bekase").
Page 3, added missing comma after ""Vell, py shinks." Added missing
apostrophe after "doan" in "Why doan' yo'-all git." Removed unnecessary
quote after "Matt stopped the Red Flier."
Page 4, removed unnecessary quote after "Legree was about to secure it?"
Page 5, changed "as she pointed" to "as he pointed."
Page 10, "would came after it" looks like a typo but has been retained
in case it is intentional dialect.
Page 12, replaced ligature in "Phoenix" with "oe." Ligature is retained
in HTML edition.
Page 14, removed unnecessary quote before "Matt's pulses quickened."
Page 18, added missing period after "Josh turned to stare along the
road."
Page 19, changed "Mat" to "Matt" in "Matt was intending to push the
stone."
Page 20, the sentence "As he yanked the lever savagely, the popping
from up the road sounding like the rapid discharge of a Gatling gun."
seems incorrect, but it is reproduced as originally printed.