AN ORDER TO QUIT.
This unexpected attack, coming so suddenly, had taken Matt at a
disadvantage. He fought as well as he could, in the circumstances, but
there were too many against him.
There were eight of his foes, all told, and Matt was carried into the
timber at one side of the road and dropped unceremoniously in a small
cleared space. Bounding to his feet, he stood staring about him.
His eight enemies had formed a narrow circle, hemming him in. They
were all young fellows, well dressed, and carried themselves with an
air of firmness and determination. The face of each was covered with a
handkerchief, which left only the eyes visible.
"What are you trying to do?" demanded Matt angrily.
"Don't lose your temper, Motor Matt," answered one of the eight, in a
voice that was plainly disguised. "We're not going to hurt you--now. Do
what we want you to and we'll remain good friends. All we've stopped
you for is to have a little talk."
"Did you have to head me off with a rail in order to have a little
talk?" asked Matt sarcastically.
"We wanted to make sure of you for about five minutes, and this was the
only way we could think of. We were going over to your boathouse, but
saw you coming down the hill from the point, and thought we'd better
lay for you."
"Well," said Matt, "here I am. Hurry up with your talk. I'm in a rush,
and don't want to stop here long."
"We want to ask you a question: You're a professional motorist, aren't
you?"
"I've driven a racing automobile, if that's what you mean."
"They say you know gasoline motors forward, backward, and sideways."
"I've studied them, and I've worked in a shop where they were made."
"Then I guess we've got you dead to rights. Do you want to make a
hundred dollars?"
"That depends on how I'm to make it," answered the king of the motor
boys, immediately suspicious.
"You won't have much to do. We'll give you the money now if you promise
to leave town to-night, and not come back to this section for a month."
"Oh!" exclaimed Matt, a light suddenly dawning upon him. "You're
representative members of the Winnequa Club, I take it, and you want to
keep me from running Lorry's boat in that race."
"We don't care how you take it," was the sharp retort. "The question
is, will you accept that hundred and get out?"
"Certainly not," said Matt promptly.
There was a silence. One lad was doing all the talking, the others
remaining silent and watchful.
"Will you leave for two hundred?" went on the spokesman.
"No," was Matt's indignant response, "nor for two thousand! What do you
fellows take me for? I'm George Lorry's friend, and I'm going to see
him through this racing contest."
"I don't think you will," was the significant answer. "You probably
have an idea you will, but you'll change your mind before you're many
days older."
"I understand," observed Matt quietly, "that your club is composed of
pretty decent fellows. I'm pretty sure the rest of the members don't
know what you eight are doing."
"That's nothing to you. You're a professional racer."
"There's nothing in the rules governing the race that bars out a
professional driver," said Matt.
"That may be, but it's hardly fair to stack up a professional driver
against an amateur."
"Halloran is not an amateur," returned Matt. "He has handled motor
boats for two years. I happen to know this. If Halloran is going to
drive Merton's boat, I don't think you fellows can complain if I drive
Lorry's."
Matt's knowledge regarding Halloran must have staggered the eight
masked youths. Silence reigned again for a space, one set of eyes
encountering another and the glance traveling around the circle.
The king of the motor boys was studying those around him. One of the
eight he believed to be Ollie Merton, although of that he could not be
sure. Merton must have made good time from Third Lake, if he had left
the _Dart_, crossed the city, and come around Fourth Lake to that point.
"We're not here to discuss Halloran," went on the young fellow who was
doing the talking for the rest of his party. "We don't want you backing
up young Lorry. There are going to be some bets made on that race, and
we want Merton's boat to have a cinch. If what we've heard of you is
true, you're deep, and when you go into a thing you go in to win. If
you won't take a couple of hundred and leave town, how much will you
ask to throw the race?"
Matt stiffened, and his eyes flashed dangerously. Once before, in the
course of his career, an insult of that sort had been offered him. That
was in Arizona, and a gambler had approached him and offered him money
to "throw" a bicycle race on which the gambler and his friends had been
doing some heavy betting.
Matt had principles, hard and fast principles which he knew to be right
and on which he would not turn his back. He had never seen any good
come of betting, and he was against it.
"I guess," said he sharply, "that if you know me better you wouldn't
make such a proposition. I'm a friend of Lorry's, and I'm going to
stand by him. Not only that, but if you fellows have been foolish
enough to bet on Merton's boat, I'll do my best to see that you lose
your money. I guess that finishes our talk. Break away and let me go
on."
"Don't be in a rush," growled the spokesman. "If you won't take our
money and leave town, and if you won't throw the race for a share of
the proceeds, then we'll hand you an order which you'll do well to
obey. It's an order to quit. Understand? You're an outsider and we
don't want you around here."
"So is Halloran an outsider," said Matt caustically. "He comes from
Milwaukee."
"We're talking about you, now, and not about Halloran. Lorry has got to
stand on his own pins. He's got money enough to see him through this
race without any of your help."
"You're a one-sided lot, you fellows," went on Matt. "All you say about
Lorry applies equally well to Merton. Why don't Merton 'stand on his
own pins,' as you call it? And why do you ask more of Lorry than you do
of Merton?"
"That's our business," snapped the other.
Matt laughed.
"The trouble with you fellows," said he, "is that you're scared. You
think the _Wyandotte_ has got a little more than she can take care of
in the _Sprite_. What kind of sportsmen are you, anyhow, when you try
to load your dice before you go into this game?"
Matt's mention of the _Wyandotte_ was made with the deliberate
intention of hoodwinking the eight. By speaking as he did the masked
youths would infer that Matt and Lorry knew nothing, as yet, about the
_Dart_.
That Matt's remark had gone home was evident from the quick looks that
passed around the circle over the tops of the handkerchiefs.
"We've got you down pretty fine, Motor Matt," pursued the spokesman,
who could not bring himself to give up the attempt to influence Matt.
"If it hadn't been for you, George Lorry would be in San Francisco
now. You brought him back here, and you advised him to get back into
the Yahara Club and go on with the programme the Yaharas had laid down
for him. That was all your doing, and you know it."
"I'm glad to think," said Matt, with spirit, "that I had something to
do with that. But you're mistaken if you think I had _everything_ to do
with it."
"I suppose this McGlory helped a little."
"He did; but the biggest help came from Lorry himself. Lorry has the
right kind of stuff in him, and he'll show you, before long, that he's
worth a dozen Mertons."
This goaded one of the others into speech--and it was the one whom Matt
suspected of being Ollie Merton.
"Oh, splash! Lorry's a sissy and he always was."
It was Merton's voice, Matt felt sure of that. But the king of the
motor boys wanted to make assurance doubly sure.
"_Now_ are you done?" he asked.
"You refuse to meet us half way in an amicable arrangement?"
"Your amicable arrangement," said Matt ironically, "is an insult to a
fellow who tries to be square. I'll have nothing to do with it, and
that's the last word."
"We're going to have the last word, my gay motorist, and from now on
up to the hour of the race you and Lorry are going to have your hands
full of trouble. The _Sprite_ will never enter the contest, and you'll
save yourself something, Motor Matt, if you obey our orders to quit.
There----"
Motor Matt, watching his opportunity, had made a sudden leap forward.
It was toward the side of the circle opposite the place where the chap
whom he believed to be Merton was standing.
Instantly the eight made a concerted move in that direction, leaving a
gap in the cordon behind Matt. Like lightning, the king of the motor
boys whirled about and darted through the gap.
As he raced past the fellow he supposed to be Merton he snatched the
handkerchief from his face. The evidence, then, was plain enough.
"Merton!" shouted Matt as he bounded toward the road.
An angry yell went up behind him, followed by a crashing among the
bushes as the eight began pursuit. But Matt had the lead, and he was
fortunate enough to find the motor cycle leaning against the tree near
the place where it had been halted.
To mount, start the gasoline, switch on the spark and pedal off took
but a few seconds. By the time Merton and his companions reached the
road Matt was sliding around a wooded bend like a shot from a gun.
Around the turn Matt was compelled to sheer off to avoid a big touring
car which, deserted and at a standstill, filled the road.
He noted, as he passed, that it was the Merton touring car. Matt had
seen the car before, and in circumstances almost as dramatic.