A VILLAINOUS PLOT.
"Hab yo'-all been makin' any dealings wif dat 'ar Slocum, Marse Matt?"
inquired Uncle Tom. "If he allowed tuh yo' dat he was Kunnel Plympton,
den he's done complicated hisse'f all up wif whut dey calls petty
la'ceny, en yo' kin sweah out er warrant en put him in de jug."
"I don't believe it's as bad as that, Uncle Tom," said Matt. "I'm
pretty busy to-night, and if you can come around and see me some other
time we'll have a little talk."
"Sho'ly, Marse Matt," replied Uncle Tom, getting to his feet and
bending down to rub one of his legs that didn't seem to be acting just
right. "De rheumatix hab been pesterin' me powerful bad evah sence dat
'sperience Ah had down dar in Arizony. Yo' ain't gwine tuh cut me out
ob mah job ob 'fishul mascot fo' yo', is yuh? Yo' needs one all de
time, sah, en Ah 'lows dar ain't a bettah mascot dan whut Ah is anywhah
en de country. Ah mascotted two dollahs' wuff fo' Mistah Tomlinson,
en----"
"We'll talk that over next time you come, Uncle Tom," interrupted Matt.
"Just now I'm anxious to have a few words with Carl."
"Sho'ly, sho'ly. Well, Marse Matt, Ah wishes yo' good ebenin', an'
Mistah Carl good ebenin'. Ah'll root fo' bofe ob yo' when Ah gits back
home. Yo'-all kin expec' somethin' tuh happen in de mawnin'."
The genial old fraud let himself out and closed the door carefully
behind him.
"Chiminy Grismus!" muttered Carl, as soon as he and Matt were alone.
"Vat sort oof a game iss dot Slocum feller drying to blay? Und vy iss
he blaying it? Uncle Dom has shtirred oop somet'ing, I bed you."
"It's a conundrum to me, Carl," mused Matt, leaning back in his chair.
"That card of his was genuine enough, but, of course, it wouldn't be
difficult for a man to get hold of one of Colonel Plympton's cards.
Still, the fellow didn't look as I imagined Colonel Plympton looks."
"Der offers vat he made vas fine und pig," said Carl glumly. "Meppy dot
vas pecause he don'd got der righdt to make dem. Aber vy he do dot?"
"Another thing," went on Matt, following his own line of thought, "it
wouldn't be likely that Colonel Plympton would come around looking
me up. I want the job, and I'm the one to go to him. I ought to have
suspected something, just from that."
"Vell, you peen hired, anyvay. I vonder how dot Slocum feller vill
oxblain vat he dit to der Sdark-Frispie peoples? Meppy dey hired him
to come aroundt? Led's be jeerful, anyvays, undil ve know dot Slocum
vas blaying some crooked games. He say for you to come aroundt in der
morning und he vould gif you a ledder py der masder-meganic vere der
race iss to run. In der morning, Matt, you vill findt oudt all aboundt
it."
"That's right, Carl," answered Matt, throwing off his worry as well as
he could; "in the morning, when I call on Colonel Plympton, I'll find
out if anything is wrong, and just what it is. Now let's tumble into
bed, pull covers, and try to forget that anything has gone wrong."
The boys had had a hard day, and Carl was snoring almost as soon as
his head struck the pillow. Matt, however, lay awake for some time,
thinking over all that had happened since he and Carl had reached
Denver. They had been in town only a few hours and yet Matt's enemies
had lost no time in beginning their treacherous work.
Carl's experience proved that the hostile drivers were organized,
and that Sercomb and his friends had prejudiced some of the other
chauffeurs against him.
Ralph Sercomb was unscrupulous. He felt that he had good reason to hate
Matt, and to try to play even with him, and he would go to any length
in carrying out his despicable schemes.
Motor Matt had for years been eager to make good as a racing-driver. He
was at home with a gasoline-motor, and speed, to him, was its highest
expression of power. The race for the Borden cup offered him a chance
to enter the racing field, and he was not the one to turn back from the
goal simply because he was encountering a few difficulties at the start.
"I'll get into that race," he muttered to himself resolutely, "and I'll
make good."
And with that resolve and conviction he fell asleep.
Next morning he was up early. Arousing Carl, they both got into their
clothes and went down to breakfast.
Colonel Plympton had his office in a building on Sixteenth Street.
Following breakfast, Matt started to have his interview with the
colonel. Carl was left behind at the hotel.
As Matt turned into the office building, some one brushed past him,
through the door. Matt had only a casual glance at the form, but it
seemed so familiar that he turned back to look after the man.
To his surprise, he found the fellow turning for a glance at him. It
was Ralph Sercomb.
There was a grim, mocking smile on Sercomb's face. He did not stop, but
passed hurriedly on and lost himself in the crowd.
Sercomb had just been calling on some one in the building. Could it
have been Colonel Plympton?
Matt, somewhat thoughtful because of this unexpected encounter, got
into the elevator and rode to the fourth floor. In the ante-room of
Colonel Plympton's office he gave his name to a boy, and the latter
vanished through a door marked "private." The boy was back in about a
minute.
"Colonel Plympton says he can't see you," was the report.
"If he's busy," returned Matt, "I'll wait until he can see me."
"It won't do you no good, see?" said the boy. "He don't _want_ to see
you. Ain't that plain enough?"
Matt hesitated for a moment. He knew something must have gone wrong
or he would not have met with such a reception. Mr. Tomlinson, a good
friend of Plympton's and of Matt's, had promised the young motorist
that Plympton would give him a hearing.
"Was Ralph Sercomb just here?" asked Matt.
"Sure he was," answered the boy; "he's one of the colonel's men, an'
he's here a good deal. Here! Where you goin'?"
Matt had started for the door of the private room. Paying no attention
to the boy, he kept right on, opened the door and stepped into the
inner office.
A tall man, with gray hair and mustache, was sitting at his desk
reading a newspaper. He looked up as Matt entered.
"Well?" he demanded.
"He come right in, Colonel Plympton," called the boy from behind Matt.
"I told him what you said."
"Ah!" Plympton laid aside his paper, wheeled the chair about and gave
Matt his keen attention. "That was hardly the thing for you to do,
King," said he. "When I say a thing I usually mean it."
"I'm sure, sir," returned Matt, "that you wouldn't have refused to see
me if you hadn't been misinformed about some things connected with me.
I beg your pardon for walking in on you uninvited, but you can hardly
refuse to let me say a few words for myself, Colonel Plympton."
There was something so steady and true in the lad's gray eyes, and
something so frank and open about his face, that the colonel nodded
toward a chair.
"You might as well sit down, now you're in here," said he, "but I don't
think anything you can say will change my opinion of you."
"Did Mr. Tomlinson speak to you about me?" asked Matt, taking the chair.
"He did--and warmly--yesterday afternoon. That made it all the harder
for me to believe something that has just come to light."
"Ralph Sercomb was just here?"
"Sercomb is one of our crack drivers, but I wouldn't have believed even
him if he hadn't had proof of what he said in black and white."
"Sercomb is not a friend of mine----"
"I have nothing to do with that, King. Every fellow who amounts to
anything is bound to make enemies."
"I want to become a racer, Colonel Plympton, and I think, if I had a
chance, that I could deliver the goods."
"Why don't you hook up with the Bly-Lambert people?" asked the colonel
dryly. "You seem to have established a connection in that quarter."
"I don't understand you," replied Matt.
"Oh, come, come!" exclaimed Plympton impatiently. "Do you mean to sit
there and tell me you didn't have a talk with Slocum, last night?"
"Is Slocum connected with the Bly-Lambert people?"
"Well, I should say so! If the Kansas City men want to hire a fellow to
throw a race, Slocum is just the one to put the deal through for them."
Matt, who was beginning to see a little light in the queer tangle, laid
the card Slocum had sent up, the evening before, on the desk in front
of the colonel.
"Is that your card, Colonel Plympton?" he asked.
"Undeniably," was the answer.
"Well, Slocum sent that to me last night, and claimed to be you. I had
never seen you, and, consequently, didn't know he was acting a part."
"Mighty complimentary to me, I must say," muttered the colonel, "to
mistake Slocum for myself. Well, go on, King. What happened?"
"Slocum hired me to drive a car in the race for the Borden cup. He
offered me five hundred dollars for doing it, and a bonus of two
thousand dollars if I won. And he hired me for the Stark-Frisbie
Company!"
"Hardly!" returned the colonel. "He had no authority. Stark-Frisbie are
not dealing through such rascals as Slocum."
"I signed an agreement to that effect, anyway," went on Matt.
"Did you read that agreement before you signed it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then look at this. Sercomb just brought it in."
The colonel pulled a folded paper out of his desk and handed it to Matt.
The young motorist, taking the paper, opened it and read as follows:
"For the sum of one hundred dollars, receipt of which is hereby
acknowledged, I agree to enter the Borden cup race with a
Stark-Frisbie car, and to do my utmost to throw the race in favor of
the Bly-Lambert contestants.
"Signed, MATT KING."
The white rushed into Motor Matt's face. With a gasp he dropped back
into his chair, staring with wide eyes at Colonel Plympton.