MATT INTERVIEWS TRUEMAN.
Ottawa is as pretty a little town as there is in all Kansas. The
streets are wide, and level, and shaded, and through the town runs
the historic Marais des Cygnes, the "river of swans"--so named by the
ancient French explorers.
At this time the eyes of the Western automobile world were turned upon
that part of Kansas, and representatives of more than a dozen alert
motor-car manufacturers were located in Ottawa, all busily preparing
for the great race.
Long, lean racing-cars darted through the streets, passing back and
forth between the town and Forest Park. From in front of the grand
stand in the park the race was to start, describe a fifty-two mile
circuit out across the prairie country and return to the race track.
The race was to be six times around the circuit, comprising a total
distance of three hundred and twelve miles.
Were the Bly-Lambert people to keep the Borden cup, or would
Stark-Frisbie take it away from them?
This was the all-important topic, and was under discussion everywhere.
None of the other contestants seemed to be considered. Everybody, from
past performances on the Western racing field, seemed to think that no
one else had a chance.
Matt and Carl reached Ottawa in the early morning. As soon as they had
washed the stains of travel from their faces and eaten their breakfast
they sallied forth to take in the situation at close quarters.
Each contestant had a garage of his own. In these garages the racing
machines were jealously guarded, and about the cars the mechanics were
constantly tinkering, making changes here and there as the experience
of the drivers continued to suggest.
Only actual trials over the course could show what was needed and what
was superfluous, and since the weight of each car must be limited,
great care had to be exercised in making changes.
By inquiring of people they met, the boys learned that the
Stark-Frisbie people had their garage across the river, in North
Ottawa, while the Bly-Lambert folks were as far away in the other part
of town as they could get.
The racing talk was in evidence everywhere, the merits and demerits
of the various machines giving cause for many warm arguments. There
was something about the talk, the sight of the darting cars, and the
general air of suppressed excitement that got into the blood. Carl was
bubbling over with enthusiasm, and Matt, stirred as he had never been
before, was more than ever determined that he would be in the race.
Twenty-one cars had been entered. Among them were several touring cars,
their owners being willing to pay the entrance fee just to gratify
their sporting instinct--for no touring car could ever win against
those high-powered racers, stripped for action and ready to hurl
themselves over the course with every ounce of power in their cylinders.
"Py chimineddy!" expanded Carl, "I vish dot I knowed der carburettor
from der shpark-plug. Oof I dit, I bed you I vould be in der racings
meinseluf."
Matt's particular desire was to locate Trueman, of the Jarrot
Automobile Company. He found him at last in a little private garage
belonging to one of the wealthy residents of the place. The door of the
garage was wide open, and the nose of a red racer could be seen inside.
Excited voices could be heard coming from within the garage.
"Confound your superstitions!" cried an angry voice. "If you happen
to walk under a ladder on the day of the race, Glick, I suppose you
wouldn't drive for me, eh?"
"I'll be careful about doing that when the race is pulled off,
Trueman," returned another voice. "Luck plays the biggest kind of a
part in a game like this, and I don't intend to hoodoo myself by taking
the car out on Friday. We've already been over the course four times,
and what's the use of going over it again to-day?"
"Every time the course is gone over it helps you just that much. Taking
the race from Stark-Frisbie and Bly-Lambert is no cinch. We have only
one car in the race and they have three each. But this red racer of
ours can win, providing you learn the course well enough. Will you go
out?"
"I'll go out of the garage and back to the hotel," and a slim, lightly
built young fellow came through the doorway, paused to light a
cigarette, and then moved off toward the main street.
A stout man of about forty, in automobile cap and coat, stepped to the
door and glared after the retreating driver. He was greatly wrought
up, and started to say something but bit the words off short. When
the driver reached the sidewalk and vanished nonchalantly around a
building, the man in the garage door turned his eyes on Matt and Carl.
"Of all the superstitious fools that ever lived," he cried wrathfully,
"I think that man Glick takes the bun. He can handle a car better than
any man I ever saw, but here he hangs up our day's work simply because
this happens to be Friday!"
"Are you Mr. Trueman, of the Jarrot Company?" asked Matt.
"My name, yes, sir," and Trueman gave Matt a more careful sizing.
"Well, I'm a driver. Why not let me take you over the course?"
Trueman shook his head.
"We were going over it for Glick's benefit," said he, "not mine. Who
are you, young man, and where do you come from?"
Matt introduced himself, and presented Carl.
"Have you ever driven a racing-car?" asked Trueman, the boy's bearing
and talk impressing him more and more.
"No," replied Matt, "but I'm confident I could do it. I've had a lot to
do with gasoline-motors, and I've driven a good many cars."
"Come in here and look at this one," said Trueman. "Properly driven,
I'll bet money we have a car that can walk away from anything
Stark-Frisbie or Bly-Lambert have in the race."
Matt walked into the garage and looked over the red racer. It was
a chain-driven, ninety-horse-power machine, and had the savage
"get-there" look of a car that, run to the limit, could be made to win.
"Glick knows how I depend on him," remarked Trueman, "so he does about
as he pleases. We're giving him a thousand dollars to make the race,
and a bonus of two thousand if he wins. If he doesn't spill the salt,
or meet a cross-eyed man, or run into a post, he'll stand up under the
strain and acquit himself in good shape."
"I don't want to take any man's job away from him, Mr. Trueman," said
Matt, "but if anything happens that Glick doesn't make the race, I'd
like a chance to show you what I can do."
But still Trueman shook his head.
"You've never been in a race, King," said he, "and while you may know a
car from A to Izzard, yet driving fifteen hundred pounds of machinery
to win is an altogether different proposition. However, you might take
me out in the racer and let me see what you can do. We won't go over
the course, but will ride out south of town. Just a half-hour's spin,
that's all."
Matt twisted the crank and was pleased with the quickness with which
the cylinders caught the explosion. Trueman had already got into the
mechanic's seat, and Matt lost no time in climbing in beside him.
"Wait for me here, Carl," said he, as the racer glided out of the
garage.
Unless there is a certain sympathy between the driver and the machine
he controls, it is impossible to get out of a car all that is in it. In
most cases this bond between driver and car has to be acquired by long
and patient practise with the same machine; but, in rare instances, a
driver, the instant he places himself at the steering wheel, is able
to get completely _en rapport_ with the complicated engine under his
control. Drivers of this sort are born, not made--and Matt King was one
of them.
During that half-hour's spin over the flat country south of Ottawa,
Motor Matt aroused Trueman's outspoken admiration. There were stretches
where Matt drove at the highest rate of speed, where he rounded
dangerous corners with the skill of a master-hand, and the clutch went
in and gears were changed so swiftly and smoothly that no jarring note
broke the steady humming of the cylinders.
"You're a crack-a-jack!" averred Trueman when they were once more
headed through town for the garage; "but going out on a little junket
like this is vastly different from racing."
"I don't believe I'd get rattled if there were racing-cars all around
me," returned Matt with a quiet laugh.
While the car was being put back in the garage Trueman was silent and
thoughtful. When the throb of the machinery was finally stilled, and
the two got out of the car, Trueman turned to clap Matt on the shoulder.
"I'm going to keep you in reserve," said he. "If Glick kicks over the
traces, and throws up his hands, I may fall back on you as a last
resort."
"Meanwhile," returned Matt, "I'm going to be on the look-out for a car.
I'm going to be in that race, and if I have a chance you can't blame me
for taking it."
"Not at all, not at all. I like your driving, though, and if I was
sure you wouldn't lose your head with cars all around you and dust so
thick you can't see the bonnet, I don't know but I----" He broke off
reflectively. "Well," he finished, "we'll see what happens."
Matt and Carl drifted back through the town. Several cars were just
coming in from the circuit, their drivers and mechanics begrimed with
dust and oil.
"It vas a gredt game, I bed you!" breathed Carl. "I hope dot der
suberstitious feller meeds oop mit a plack cat or somet'ing, so dot you
ged his chob, Matt."
"I'm going to race for somebody," answered Matt, "even if I have to go
over the course in a touring car. I never had the fever like I've got
it now."
"Me, neider," grinned Carl. "Led's go pack to der hodel und hunt for
some tinner."
That afternoon the two chums passed quietly on the hotel porch,
listening to the racing talk that was going on all around them. It
was about five o'clock when a boy came hurriedly to the hotel and
disappeared inside the office. A few moments later the clerk came out
of the office and gave Matt a letter.
"That's for you, Mr. King," said the clerk. "The boy says he's waiting
for your answer."
Matt tore open the letter and read as follows:
"KING: Places were drawn for the start this afternoon, and, as luck
(or ill-luck) would have it, I got Number Thirteen. That's the number
that goes on the car. Glick refuses to race. Can I depend on you,
same terms Glick was to receive? Answer yes or no, quick.
"TRUEMAN."
Motor Matt's heart gave a bound, and a thrill ran through his nerves.
Turning to the boy who was standing beside his chair, he cried, "Tell
Mr. Trueman he can depend on me, and that my answer is yes!"
At just that moment a party with their grips in their hands were
ascending the steps to the porch.
They were Sercomb, and the others, who had been left in the tool-house
in Dodge City. Each of them gave Matt and Carl a sour look as he
tramped on into the hotel.