SUSPICIOUS DOINGS.
The Stark-Frisbie Company, like most of the progressive automobile
concerns, maintained a staff of racing-drivers. Wherever there was a
speed contest, a reliability run or an endurance trial, Stark-Frisbie
cars were sure to be entered.
In the early days of the industry, motor-racing was a sport. Now it
is rapidly being reduced to a business. "Win at any cost," are the
instructions a firm gives its drivers. If a driver makes a mistake he
is condemned for all time, and the reputation of his employers suffers
in the estimation of the public. For this reason the rule of winning at
any cost is carried out strictly.
Colonel Plympton was secretary of the Stark-Frisbie Company, and had
entire charge of its racing affairs. Mr. Tomlinson was an intimate
friend of the colonel's, and had engaged to secure Matt a position with
his firm. Matt, however, had never dreamed that Colonel Plympton would
be so eager to secure a new driver that he would call at the hotel.
Presently the colonel entered the room. In appearance he was a good
deal of a disappointment to Matt, for he was somewhat slouchy and a
little bit shabby. Nevertheless, he had abundant dignity and an air of
large importance.
"Mr. King?" queried the colonel, stretching out his hand toward Carl.
"Vell," chuckled Carl, "nood so you can nodice it. I peen Modor Matt's
pard. Here iss der main vorks," and he waved a hand toward Matt.
"Howdy?" inquired the colonel, shaking Matt's hand. "Tomlinson told me
about you not more than an hour ago. If ever the Stark-Frisbie Company
needed drivers of nerve and skill, they need them now. The race for
the Borden cup is only two weeks away, and we have only two drivers to
qualify for it, while in such a contest it is our invariable rule to
have at least three entries. One of our best men smashed up his car in
the East and has just come out of the hospital. That eliminates _him_.
After a close call like that, no driver ever keeps his nerve--he's a
dead one so far as racing is concerned."
The colonel had seated himself comfortably and drawn a fat cigar from a
vest pocket. He paused to light it, his eyes glimmering at Matt through
the smoke.
"I've never had an accident that made me lose my nerve, Colonel
Plympton," said Matt.
"Egad, I guess that's right," chuckled the colonel. "Tomlinson has told
me all about you, and I think you'll drop into our racing schedules
like a top. Anyhow, we're willing to start you off in the Borden cup
race, providing we can make a deal with you. We don't pay our racing
drivers any salaries. Whenever there's an important race, we pay the
entrance fee, running from five hundred to two thousand dollars, and
we furnish the driver with a specially constructed racing-car costing
from twenty thousand to fifty thousand dollars. In addition, we pay the
driver from two hundred to two thousand dollars for making the race,
and if he wins he gets a bonus of from one thousand to eight thousand
dollars--depending on the importance of the race to us. In the Borden
cup race the entrance fee is five hundred; we pay that, give you five
hundred more to make the race, furnish you with a good racing-car, and
give you a bonus of two thousand if you win."
"Hoop-a-la!" exulted Carl. "Dot means Easy Shdreed, mit a pig E. Modor
Matt iss a vinner from Vinnerville."
Matt was stunned by his good fortune. The position had come to him even
before he had gone to the trouble to apply for it.
"Hiram Borden," went on the colonel affably, "is a fine old sportsman.
He's a millionaire several times over and lives in a little town called
Ottawa, in the Sunflower state. He has been an enthusiastic patron of
automobile racing, and of its development in the West, ever since the
sport began. He's too old to race a car himself, but he travels all
over this country and Europe, keeping track of the contests. The cup he
offered has been fought for for five years. Stark-Frisbie held it three
years, hand-running. Our factory is here in Denver, so whoever wanted
to take the cup away from us had to come here and race for it. Our
principal Western competitors are Bly-Lambert, of Kansas City. During
the last Colorado race, Bly-Lambert won the cup. We've tried twice to
get it away from them, and as a token of appreciation of Mr. Borden,
the third race is to be run on a circuit out of his home town."
"Are there only two competitors, Colonel Plympton?" asked Matt.
"There are a dozen or more competitors in each race, but Stark-Frisbie
and Bly-Lambert build the fastest cars, and the issue is almost
entirely between them. As soon as you sign on for the race, King,
you'll have to start for Kansas and spend the rest of the time becoming
familiar with the course. The car I intend to let you have is already
at Ottawa. Perhaps you had just as soon sign the paper to-night? In
that event you can start for Kansas in the morning."
"Your terms are satisfactory," said Matt, "and I'll sign the agreement
at once."
"That's the spirit!" approved the colonel. He drew a paper from his
pocket and handed it to Matt. "Just read that over," he added.
The paper was typewritten and set forth the terms already stated by
the colonel, _i. e._, that Matt was to be furnished with a racing-car,
have his entrance fee paid, and was to receive $500 for making the run,
and a bonus of $2,000 if he won. His own expenses, however, were to be
borne by himself.
While he was reading, the colonel was unlimbering a fountain-pen.
"Let me take the pen," said Matt, laying the paper on the table.
"You understand that thoroughly, do you?" asked the colonel, getting up
and taking the paper from the table.
"It's simple enough, colonel," returned Matt.
"All right, then. Just sling your fist on the bottom line."
The colonel leaned over, laid the paper on the table, and Matt dashed
off his signature. The colonel at once picked up the paper, blew on the
ink to dry it, folded the document, and placed it in his pocket.
"Call at my office in the morning, King," finished the colonel, picking
up his hat, "and I'll give you a letter to our head mechanic. Good
night, gentlemen," and the colonel sailed out.
Carl stared at the closed door, and began industriously pinching
himself.
"Be jeerful, be jeerful!" he muttered. "Vas I treaming, oder vas I vide
avake? Py chimineddy, Matt, how luck climbs ofter itseluf to ged ad
you! Oof you don'd preak your neck, you vas on der high roadt to more
money as Vanderfeller or Rockypilt efer hat. How easy dot vas! Ach, du
lieber! Do I go mit you py Gansas? Shpeak it oudt, kevick!"
Before Matt could "speak it out," however, the door fluttered open and
a black face, topped with kinky white hair, was pushed into the room.
Matt stared. The eyes of the negro met his and a wide grin parted the
black face.
"By golly! Mistah Motah Matt, suh, habn't yo' got nuffin' tuh say tuh
yo' 'fishul mascot?"
"Why, Uncle Tom!" cried Matt heartily, making a jump from his chair and
grabbing the old negro by the hand. "Come in, old fellow," he added,
pulling him into the room. "Where in the world did you drop from?"
"Unkle Dom!" muttered Carl. "Vell, vouldn't dot gif you der
chillplains!"
"Yah, yah, yah!" cackled Uncle Tom. "Didun' 'low yo' was gwine tuh see
me, huh? Why, chile, Ah done tole yuh when we pa'ted togethah, down dar
in Arizony, dat I'd be waitin' fo' yo' when yo' come er prancin' 'long.
Ah's yo' 'fishul mascot, Marse Matt, en Ah's been doin' er monsus lot
ob mascottin' fo' yo' while Ah's been er waitin'. Notice any luck
comin' yo' way, sah? Well, dat was me, jess er rootin', an' er rootin'
all de hull blessed time. Seen Mistah Tomlinson dis ebenin', en he say
whah yo' was. Ah'd been up heah befo', only Ah was subsequentious to
dat odder caller."
Uncle Tom, beaming benevolently, slid into a chair and laid his old
slouch hat on his knee.
"How's Eliza, and Topsy, and Legree, and Little Eva?" laughed Matt.
Uncle Tom had belonged to a road company. The company had been
stranded, and Matt had helped some of the members to get back to
Denver, Uncle Tom being among the number.
"Dunno nuffin' 'bout Legree an' Li'l Eva," answered Uncle Tom, "but
Miss Eliza she done gone on tuh Chicawgo whah she done ketched anodder
job on de stage. Topsy's waitin' on de table fo' a swell Denvah
fambly, en Ah's been promiscussin' erroun' er-waitin' fo' yo' tuh
show up. Ah's hia'd out tuh yo', sah, en while dar's lots o' white
folks pesterin' me tuh mascot fo' dem, Ah recomembahs Ah's engaged tuh
yo'. Yo's er puffick gemman, en ob co'se Ah's hooked up wif yo'. If
yo' happens tuh have a lonesome dollah rattlin' erroun' en yo' pocket,
Mistah Matt, Uncle Tom allow he could make friends wif it."
"There you are, Uncle Tom," laughed Matt, flipping a coin toward the
old darky.
"When does yo'-all want me tuh trabble wif yo', an' be right on de spot
eb'ry minit tuh take care ob yo' luck? Dishyer luck's mighty onnery
sometimes, en hit takes er keen eye en er coon dat knows hits ways an'
rambiffications tuh keep hit runnin' smoof. While dat 'ar no 'count
Ebenezer Slocum was up heah talkin' wif yo', Ah was tu'nin' all dat
ober en mah min', yassuh. Yo' see, Marse Matt, dat----"
"Ebenezer Slocum?" interrupted Matt. "Who's he?"
"Dat loafer dat was jess in heah wif yo'."
"Loafer!" exclaimed Matt. "You're 'way off, Uncle Tom. Why, that was
Colonel Plympton, Secretary of the Stark-Frisbie Company."
"Dat? Him Kunnel Plympton? Yo's wrong, sah. Ah's mascotted fo' Kunnel
Plympton er quatah's wuff evah race dey had run, en Ah knows him lak Ah
knows mase'f. Dat fellah dat was jess heah, Ah tells yo' fo' suah, was
Ebenezer Slocum, an' he ain't nuffin' mo' dan no 'count white trash,
pickin' up er dollah whahevah he can lay his han's on hit. Yassuh.
We-all whats hones', en wuks fo' our money, looks down on Slocum, we
sho'ly does."
Carl had jumped to his feet and was standing in front of his chair,
staring at Motor Matt.
Matt was dumfounded.
Why was Ebenezer Slocum impersonating Colonel Plympton? Slocum's
actions were suspicious, to say the least.