MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING
ADVENTURE
MOTOR
FICTION
NO. 23
JULY 31, 1909
FIVE
CENTS
MOTOR MATT'S
PRIZE
OR THE PLUCK
THAT WINS
_BY THE AUTHOR
OF "MOTOR MATT"_
[Illustration: _Unaware of his narrow escape
the king of the motor boys
flung the Sprite onward
to victory._]
STREET & SMITH
PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK
MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION
_Issued Weekly. By subscription $2.50 per year. Entered according to
Act of Congress in the year 1909, in the Office of the Librarian of
Congress, Washington, D. C., by_ STREET & SMITH, _79-80 Seventh Avenue,
New York, N. Y._
No. 23. NEW YORK, July 31, 1909. =Price Five Cents.=
MOTOR MATT'S PRIZE
OR,
The Pluck that Wins.
By the author of "MOTOR MATT."
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. A CLASH IN BLACK AND YELLOW.
CHAPTER II. PICKEREL PETE'S REVENGE.
CHAPTER III. A "DARK HORSE."
CHAPTER IV. PLANS.
CHAPTER V. AN ORDER TO QUIT.
CHAPTER VI. FACING THE MUSIC.
CHAPTER VII. GATHERING CLOUDS.
CHAPTER VIII. THE PLOTTERS.
CHAPTER IX. FIREBUGS AT WORK.
CHAPTER X. SAVING THE "SPRITE."
CHAPTER XI. OUT OF A BLAZING FURNACE.
CHAPTER XII. WHAT ABOUT THE RACE?
CHAPTER XIII. MART RAWLINS WEAKENS.
CHAPTER XIV. THE RACE--THE START.
CHAPTER XV. THE FINISH.
CHAPTER XVI. CONCLUSION.
TRICKED BY TWO.
HOMES ON THE RIO GRANDE.
PIGEONS AS PHOTOGRAPHERS.
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.
=Ping Pong=, a Chinese boy who insists on working for Motor Matt, and
who contrives to make himself valuable, perhaps invaluable.
=George Lorry=, who, befriended by Motor Matt at a critical time in
his career, proves a credit to himself and to his friends.
=Mr. Lorry=, George's father; a man who knows how to be generous.
=Ethel Lorry=, George Lorry's sister; an admirer of Motor Matt.
=Pickerel Pete=, whose elemental mind evolves a grievance against
Motor Matt and is further worked upon by an unscrupulous enemy of
Lorry and Matt. The result is almost a tragedy.
=Ollie Merton=, a rich man's son with many failings, but rather
deeper than he appears.
CHAPTER I.
A CLASH IN BLACK AND YELLOW.
"Woosh!"
"Fo' de lan' sakes!"
Then followed a bump, a clatter of displaced stones, and sounds of
a fall. When quiet once more ensued, two surprised youngsters were
on hands and knees, peering at each other like a couple of hostile
bantams. Between them lay a string of perch, and off to one side a
hickory fishpole, and an old tomato can with a choice assortment of
angleworms squirming out of it.
One of the lads was a fifteen-year-old Chinese, in fluttering blouse,
wide trousers, wooden sandals and straw hat; the other was a diminutive
moke, black as the ace of spades, barefooted, and wearing a "hickory"
shirt and ragged trousers.
The bank of Fourth Lake, where they had come together so unexpectedly,
was an admirable place for such collisions. In this place the bank was
some thirty feet high, steep and rocky. A narrow path, thickly bordered
with bushes, angled from top to bottom. At the foot of the path was a
boathouse.
Now, if a Chinese boy, in a good deal of a hurry, went slipping
and sliding downward from the top of the path, it will be readily
understood that he could not put on the brakes in time to avoid an
obstruction appearing suddenly in front of him as he scrambled around a
bushy angle.
And if that obstruction happened to be a diminutive darky, sitting
squarely in the path, sunning himself and half asleep, too drowsy to
take notice of sounds above and behind him, it will also be understood
that a collision was certain.
It happened. The Chinese took a header over the darky, and when each
flopped to his hands and knees, they were looking into each other's
eyes with growing animosity.
"By golly!" flared the negro, "is dem glass eyes en yo' haid? Ef dey
ain't, why doan' yu use dem?"
"Why blackee boy makee sit in China boy's load?" gurgled the other.
"Yo' own dishyer lake?" taunted the little moke; "yo' gotter mo'galidge
on dishyer bank? Go on wif yo' highfalutin' talk! Ah'll sot wherebber
Ah wants, en ef yo' comes erlong en goes tuh shovin', by golly, yo'll
fin' Ah kin do some shovin' mahse'f."
"My gottee light comee down bank," asserted the Chinese boy, picking
himself up. "My makee go allee same boathouse; you makee stay in load,
you gettee shove. My plenty same choo-choo tlain, you makee sleep on
tlack. Savvy? You makee some mo' shove, my makee some mo' shove, too."
The Chinese boy stood his ground. The black-skinned youngster sat up
and pulled his string of fish closer.
"Ah nebber did lak Chinks," he grunted.
"My no likee blackee boy, all same," averred the Celestial.
"Ah reckons Ah kin lick yu' wif one han' tied behin' mah back. Go
'long, yaller trash! Ah's er hurriclone en a cynader, all rolled intuh
one, when Ah gits sta'ted. Look out fo' a big blow en a Chink wreck,
dat's all."
"Woosh! Blackee boy makee plenty blow. Me allee same cannon. My makee
go bang, you makee go top-side. No likee your piecee pidgin."
Then a comical thing happened, and if any third person with a humorous
vein in his make-up had been around, the proceeding would have been
highly enjoyed.
Both youngsters glared at each other. Each had his fists doubled,
and each fiddled back and forth across the steep path. The black boy
sniffed contemptuously. The Chinese lad was a good imitator, and he
also sniffed--even more contemptuously.
"By golly," fumed the little moke, "Ah dunno whut's er holdin' me back.
Ef any one else had done tuh me whut yo' done, Ah'd hab tromped all
ober him befo' now. Ah's gwine tuh dat boathouse mah'se'f. Git outen de
way an' le'me pass, er Ah'll butt yo' wif mah haid!"
"My makee go to boathouse, too."
A little curiosity suddenly crept into the black boy's hostile brain.
"Whut bizness yo' got at dat boathouse, huh?" he demanded.
"Gottee plenty pidgin. My workee fo' Motol Matt."
"Yo' workin' fo' Motor Matt?" grunted the other. "By golly, he's mah
boss."
"Him China boy's boss."
"Naw, he ain't. Yo's talkin' froo yo' hat. Doan' yo' go er prowlin'
erroun' dat 'ar boathouse. Ah ain't a-lettin' nobody git dat job away
f'om me."
"Motol Matt my boss, allee same," insisted the Chinese boy.
"When you all git hiahed by Motor Matt?" demanded the darky.
"Long time, allee same Flisco."
"Den dat let's yo' out, yaller mug. Motor Matt done hiahed me fo' days
ergo, at two dollahs er day. Skun out. Doan' yo' try cuttin' me loose
from dat 'ar job."
The darky took a step downward, but the Celestial planted himself
firmly and put up his fists. Once more there was a hitch in
proceedings, but the affair was growing more ominous.
"Ah shuah hates tuh mangle yo' up," breathed the darky, "but de
'sponsibility fo' what's done gwine tuh happen b'longs on yo' had en
not on mine."
The Chinese lifted his yellow hands and crossed two fingers in front of
his face, then, in a particularly irritating manner, he snorted at the
black boy through his fingers.
That was about as much as flesh and blood could stand. The colored lad
was so full of talk that it just gurgled in his throat.
"Dat's de mos' insulatin' thing what ebber happened tuh me!" he finally
managed to gasp. "By golly, Ah doan' take dat f'om nobody. Dat snortin'
talk Ah won't stan', dat's all."
"Blackee boy makee heap talk," taunted the Chinese; "him 'flaid makee
hit with hands."
"'Fraid?" cried the darky. "Say, you, Pickerel Pete ain't afraid ob all
de Chinks dat eber walked de erf. Chinks--waugh! Ah eat's 'em."
"Mebby you tly eatee Ping Pong?" invited the Celestial.
Pickerel Pete, watching his antagonist warily, stooped to pick up a
small pebble. Very carefully he laid the pebble on his shoulder.
"Knock dat off," he gritted, his hand closing on the string that held
the perch. "Yo' all ain't got de nerve. Yo's got gas enough fo' er
b'loon dissension, but dat's all dere is to yu. Knock de stone offen
mah shoulder! Go on, now, you yaller trash."
Ping leaned over and brushed the pebble away. That settled it. There
was no retreat for either of the two after that.
Pete gave a whoop and struck at Ping with the string of perch. The
string broke, and Ping got a perch down the loose collar of his kimono,
while another slapped him across the eyes. For an instant the air was
full of fish, and under cover of the finny cloud the enraged Chinese
rushed at his enemy and gave him a push.
Pete sat down with a good deal of force, and, as it happened, he sat
down on his fishhook. A fishhook was never known to lie any way but
point up and ready for business, so Pete got up about as quick as he
sat down. The next moment he rushed at Ping, trailing the line and the
fishpole after him.
This time the two boys clinched, and the noise they made as they rolled
about among the perch and pummeled each other caused a commotion at the
boathouse. Motor Matt and George Lorry rushed out of the building and
looked up the path.
"Great spark-plugs!" exclaimed Matt. "There's a fight going on up
there, George."
"It looks that way, that's a fact," answered Lorry. "Let's go up and
put a stop to it."
Matt was already bounding up the path. Before he had ascended more than
fifteen feet he was met by two rolling, plunging, tumbling forms coming
down. A tremendous clatter of sliding stones accompanied the descent,
and a towed fishpole whacked and slammed in the rear.
Bracing himself, Matt succeeded in laying hold of the two closely
grappled forms, and in bringing them to a stop; then, when he
recognized who the fighters were, his astonishment held him speechless.
"Pickerel Pete!" exclaimed George Lorry.
"And Ping Pong," added Matt, as soon as he had recovered a little from
his amazement. "The sight of Ping pretty near gives me a short circuit."
"My gottee job," whooped the breathless Ping; "Pickelel Pete no gottee!"
"Hit's my job, en Ah ain't er quittin' fo' no yaller feller like you!"
Thwack, thwack!
"Here, now," cried Matt, "this won't do. Stop it, you fellows!"
Pickerel Pete had a firm grip on Ping's pigtail--which is about the
worst hold you can get on a Chinaman. Ping had one hand and arm around
Pete's black neck, and the other hand was twisted in the fishline.
Every time Pete would pull the queue a sharp wail would go up from
Ping, and every time the fishline was jerked Pete would howl and squirm.
"You boys ought to be ashamed of yourselves," said Matt, masking his
desire to laugh with all the severity he could muster.
Lorry was leaning against a tree, his head bowed and his whole form in
a quiver.
"Leavee go China boy's pigtail!" chirped Ping.
"Stop yo' pullin' on dat 'ar fishline!" howled Pete.
"Let go, both of you!" ordered Matt; then forcibly he pulled the two
lads apart. "Here, Lorry," he called, "you hang onto Ping and I'll take
care of Pete."
The youngsters were a disordered pair when separated and held at a
distance from each other.
"What's the meaning of this?" demanded Matt.