CONCLUSION.
"Nobly done, King!" roared Trueman, grabbing Matt out of the car and
giving him a rapturous hug. "Oh, it was a grand race, a splendid race,
and you have done wonderful things for the Jarrot people! They'll not
forget this in a hurry. Make no contract with any one," he whispered,
"until you hear from me! I've got to wire St. Louis!"
"Matt!" whooped Carl, pawing through the excited crowd to reach his
chum's side. "I knowed dot you vould do it, yah, py shinks! Und I
knowed dot Sercomb vouldt dry to do you, too. Dot's der vay mit him."
Carl hugged Matt ecstatically, then turned to grab the oil-caked hands
of Chub.
"You safed Matt, Chub," said he, "dot's vat you dit. Eferypody saw dot!
Eferypody knows, now, schust vat kindt oof a feller dot Sercomb iss.
Efen Plympton can'd ged aroundt vat he saw mit his own eyes, nix, py
shiminy!"
Off to the left of the grandstand Colonel Plympton was having an
interview with Sercomb.
"Why didn't you stop where King halted his car?" he demanded wrathfully.
"I wanted to get away from the crowd," was Sercomb's sullen response.
"Well, I don't blame you for that," said Plympton sarcastically. "The
people probably would have done anything but congratulate you. Sercomb,
what did you mean by making that attempt on King?"
"I meant to knock him out of the car, if I could!" was the savage
response.
"Is that the kind of sportsman you are?" queried Plympton, a gleam
rising in his eyes.
He was just beginning to understand what kind of a driver Sercomb was.
He was getting an insight into his character which he had never had
before. The revelation was disagreeable, to say the least. Plympton
himself was a man of high principle, and had no patience with trickery
or deceit.
"I've put up with all I'm going to from King," growled Sercomb. "He's
dogged me about and is doing everything he can to ruin me."
"I've learned something about that, too," went on Plympton, his voice
hard and keen. "Tomlinson told me of that affair down in New Mexico,
but I took your side. I couldn't believe it possible that you would act
in the way you were said to have done. Now, however, I have had proof
that you are a contemptible cur, and that King is a gentleman."
"Oh, yes," sneered Sercomb, "King has a way of making everybody think
he's all to the good. I don't wonder that he's pulled the wool over
your eyes."
"Look here," went on the colonel impatiently, "if it hadn't been for
King, you'd be in jail this minute. An officer was waiting at the
track-side to arrest you and take you out of the race. When King
got here, he told Trueman to have the officer keep his hands off.
That's the kind of work that makes me take stock in a young man. For
King's magnanimity in letting you into the race he came near to being
seriously wounded, perhaps killed. What do you say to that?"
Sercomb had nothing to say. He heard everything but preserved a sullen
silence.
"What's more," pursued the colonel, "I know that you tricked King,
through Slocum, into signing a paper he never would have signed if he
had known what he was doing; and through that same paper you tricked
me."
"You've been listening to King's side of the story," growled Sercomb.
"More than that," went on the colonel relentlessly, "by your vile
tactics, again using Slocum as your tool, you drugged King and sent him
away----"
"That's false!" stormed Sercomb.
"Don't lie," answered Plympton sternly. "Have strength of character
enough to face the music. You've brought this on yourself and you'll
have to bear it. Slocum is in jail, and he has made a confession."
Sercomb gasped and his face turned gray.
"Then--then I suppose you're--you're done with me?" he faltered.
"Yes, you've guessed right, Sercomb. Stark-Frisbie are done with you,
but the law is not."
As he finished, Plympton stepped back and motioned to a man who was
standing near. The latter pushed forward and laid a hand on Sercomb's
shoulder.
"You're my prisoner, Sercomb," said he.
At that moment a touring-car came slowly past the place where the
little group was standing. The car contained Trueman, Matt, Carl, and
Chub, with one of the Jarrot mechanics at the steering-wheel.
They were all smiling and happy, but a puzzled look crossed Matt's face
as his gaze rested on the officer and Sercomb.
"Stop a minute!" called Plympton, stepping toward the car. "King,"
he went on, reaching up to take Matt's hand, "I have done you an
injustice, and I ask your pardon. You have acted like a gentleman and a
true sportsman and you drove a race that will go down into automobile
history as one of the pluckiest ever pulled off. Your car bothered you
a good deal, but you hung on and won."
"We won on three speeds," replied Matt. "We had trouble and stripped
one of the gears."
"Dree speeds aheadt," bubbled Carl. "Vell, dot vas enough."
"Certainly it has proved so," said the colonel. "The Jarrot people have
first claim on your services, King, but if they don't offer you enough,
I wish you'd give us a chance."
"Here, here," laughed Trueman. "I don't think the Jarrot people will
let you steal from them the driver that won the cup."
"What are you doing with Sercomb, colonel?" queried Matt, still with
his eyes on the beaten driver.
"He is under arrest," was the grim reply.
"For what he did last Saturday night?"
"Yes."
"As a favor to me," said Matt earnestly, "I want you to let him go."
"Oh, here," demurred Trueman, "that's carrying the thing too far, King.
Don't waste any sentiment on that young scoundrel."
"He deserves all that will come to him," averred Plympton.
"He has been beaten," persisted Matt, "and that is punishment enough. I
want him released. Can't you arrange it, colonel?"
"By gad," muttered Plympton, "I can't understand you, King. If that's
really what you wish, though, I'll see what can be done."
"This is a day of victory to me," smiled Matt, "and I'd like to
celebrate it in that way."
"Your desire does you credit," said the colonel bluffly, "but I think
you display poor judgment."
"That's the way with Pard Matt," spoke up Chub. "But I don't think it's
such a bad way, either. Anyhow, it don't keep him from making good in
whatever he undertakes."
"Sure nod," put in Carl, "aber I don'd like dot. I vouldt radder punch
Sercomb's headt as led him go. Dot's me--so savage all der time as some
grizzly pears."
"Well, drive on, Patterson," said Trueman impatiently. "Settle the
business as Matt wants it, Plympton, if you can."
Patterson drove the car to the hotel, Matt receiving congratulations
all the way into town.
He and Chub were both extremely tired, but a bath and fresh clothes
made them feel a hundred per cent. better.
While the two boys were looking after their own comfort, mutual
explanations were indulged in.
Matt learned how Chub and his father had started for Chicago to make a
sale of the mine, how Chub had learned Matt was to take part in the cup
race, and had stopped off at Ottawa to be with his chum in his hour of
victory--or defeat.
Matt then explained how he had come to himself, early Tuesday morning,
camping down on a straw pile four miles from Lawrence.
"It's a queer thing," said he, "coming to your senses and finding
yourself somewhere and never knowing the least thing about how you got
there!"
"Well, I should smile!" grinned Chub. "You don't know a whole lot about
it yet, do you? We haven't had much time for talk since you got back."
"I know I was drugged in some way," returned Matt, "and that I had just
time to get from Lawrence to Ottawa in a gasoline speeder so as to
enter the race. If Trueman had drawn first place, I guess I'd have been
on the bleachers instead of in the car."
Chub told about the miserable hours he and Carl had passed while
waiting for Matt to be found, or else to find himself.
"That Dutchman," said Chub, "was as near daffy as a fellow can be and
yet have a few lucid intervals. He wanted to fight. He didn't seem at
all particular who he licked, but he wanted to be using his fists."
"The little runt!" laughed Matt. "He's a fine fellow, that Carl. His
head-work isn't very brilliant, at times, but he's true blue; and when
it comes to fist-work, I don't know where you can find his equal for
one of his size."
"I've cottoned to him in great shape. How much do you pull down for the
winning, Matt?"
"Three thousand."
"That's making money hand over fist!" exclaimed Chub, "and there'll be
more coming. A crack driver like you can command his own price."
"You're in for something, too, you know. I never could have won if you
hadn't helped me like you did."
"Splash! What's that bell I hear?"
"Supper!"
"Let's run. I'll bet I can eat twice as much as Carl, to-night."
"You'll have to be going some, if you do."
"Well," laughed Chub, "we've been going some for five hours, steady, so
we've got our hand in. Three speeds forward, old chap, and hit 'er up!"
THE END.
THE NEXT NUMBER (9) WILL CONTAIN
MOTOR MATT'S AIR-SHIP;
OR,
The Rival Inventors.
Capturing an Air-ship--A Queer "Find"--The Balloon House--The
Kettle Continues to Boil--Carl Investigates--Jerrold, Brady's
Rival--Jerrold's Gratitude--Aboard the _Hawk_--Willoughby's Swamp--A
Foe in the Air--Brady Changes His Plans--Into the Swamp--A Desperate
Chance--A Daring Escape--The End of the Mid-air Trail.
MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION
NEW YORK, April 17, 1909.
TERMS TO MOTOR STORIES MAIL SUBSCRIBERS.
(_Postage Free._)
Single Copies or Back Numbers, 5c. Each.
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ORMOND G. SMITH, }
GEORGE C. SMITH, } _Proprietors_.
STREET & SMITH, Publishers,
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York City.
TAKING A BIG 'GATOR.
Arnold Chesney came galloping with his neck for sale up to the shanty
among the orange trees, and flung himself off his steaming pony.
"Terry," he roared, "the cold signal's flying. Heavy frost prophesied
for to-night. Get out and build the fires."
A good-looking young Irishman in flannel shirt and blue jeans came
running out of the rough log building that served both as dwelling
place and as office at their orange grove in Florida.
"Faith, I thought as much, Arnold. The wind's going nor'west. There'll
be the divvle's own frost by morning," he declared.
The two youngsters toiled like Trojans while the sun sank behind the
pine forest and the temperature dropped minute by minute. Great piles
of fat pine wood were stacked every few rows among the trees, covered
with wet grass, and then as the thermometer in the tube sank close to
thirty-two degrees the fires were lighted, and greasy, black smoke
poured up in clouds.
But as the cold increased so did the wind, and the smoke, instead of
lying in a protecting fog over the trees, streamed away to leeward.
By two in the morning it was blowing a full gale, and the cold was
crusting the water buckets in the veranda.
"'Tis no good, Arnold," gasped poor Terry. "Feel this!" He handed him
an orange.
It was hard as a baseball, frozen to the very core.
Arnold groaned. "You're right, Terry. We're done."
They were. When morning dawned crisp and clear, and the red sun rose in
a cloudless sky, every orange in South Florida was a lump of ice. The
green leaves, so stiff and firm overnight, hung limp and blackened. Not
only was the crop gone, but the trees themselves were terribly injured.
Arnold and Terence surveyed the scene of ruin in despair.
"Our first decent crop!" growled Chesney. "We'll have to start all over
again."
"'Tis not that I'm thinking of," said Terence Burke. "'Tis Cassidy."
"The brute! I'd forgotten him!" exclaimed Arnold in dismay.
"Small chance he's give ye of forgetting him. More be token, here comes
the spalpeen."
A short, square man with a flat face, a turn-up nose, and eyes like a
pig's, came through the slip bars by the road. In an ill moment the two
youngsters had given this Irish-American a mortgage on their grove, a
step they had never ceased regretting.
"Good-mornin' to ye, byes. Th' quarther's interest is due. Have ye it
for me?"
"There it is. Look at it!" said Chesney, pointing to the ruined trees.
"Ah, don't be pokin' your fun at me. 'Tis cash I want, not froze-up
oranges."
Terence turned on the man. "Ye know full well, Cassidy, 'twas the crop
we were going to pay ye out of. The crop's gone, and ye'll not be brute
enough to want us to pay ye on the nail."
Cassidy's ugly little eyes narrowed. "I can't help the frost," he said.
"I'm a business man, and I'm wanting my money."
"Then you'll have to wait for it," said Arnold Chesney bluntly. "We
haven't got it, so we can't pay. Is that clear?"
"Clear as soup, begob. An' as ye can't pay, thin I'll take th' grove.
An' that's clear, too."
"Not so fast," retorted Chesney. "The law gives us a clear twenty-eight
days. If we pay the interest within that time we're safe."
Cassidy scowled. He had not credited the boy with so much knowledge.
"'Twill take more than twinty-eight days to grow a new crop," he
sneered. "I'll give ye what grace the law allows, an' not another hour.
Ye'd best write north for th' money. Ye'll never make it in th' time.
That I know."
"What do you bet?" cried Arnold sharply. "What do you bet we don't make
a hundred dollars in the next four weeks?"
"I'll bet ye the hundred, an' small chance I'll have o' being paid."
"Thanks for your kind opinion, but we'll have it in black and white if
you don't mind, Mr. Cassidy." And Arnold quietly led the way to the
house.
"You're crazy, Arnold. What took ye to make a bet like that? A dollar a
day's all either of us can earn. An' even if we get work, that's only
forty-eight dollars between us."
Arnold looked mysterious. "Have you forgotten our friend, Enos B.
Hinks?" he asked.
"The chap that owns the Palmetto Beach House?"
"That's the man. When I was down there last year, he told me I could
have a job any time as guide. Taking his Northern tourists out to kill
quail and snipe. Bet he'll take us both on, and it's two and a half a
day and grub."
"Faith, I'm thinking 'twill pay better than growing frozen oranges,"
replied Terence dryly. "I'm your man, Arnold, dear."
"Good. Now to pack and scrape up our fares. We've no time to lose."
Palmetto Beach was eighty miles south, on the Gulf Coast. The tickets
were nine dollars, which Arnold raised by selling his watch to a
friendly tourist at the station.
When the two arrived at the door of the great building with its Moorish
minarets and roofs of gleaming tin, they had exactly sixty cents
between them.
"Hinks?" echoed the smart clerk in the office. "Mean Enos B. Hinks as
used to own this hotel?"
"Used to own it!"
"Yes. You're strangers, I reckon. Enos B. sold out last summer. Hiram
J. Crundall's now the proprietor of the Palmetto Beach."
The two boys stared with blank faces. Terry was the first to recover
himself. "D'ye think Mr. Crundall would see us?" he asked sweetly.
Terry's soft Irish voice was irresistible. "I wouldn't wonder,
gentlemen. I'll ask him. Step inside the office."
A great, burly man with scrubby black hair and a long, black cigar
between his hard lips came into the office.
"Want rooms, gents?" he asked abruptly.
"Not rooms--work," replied Arnold.
The big man looked them over.
"I haven't any jobs, for you. I've got a yellow chap, Pete Lippitts,
who takes the guests out shooting. You'll have to try farther."
"I'm much obliged to you," said Arnold very quietly. He took up his
hat, and somehow he and Terry found themselves outside.
A merry party were playing tennis. Smartly dressed people lounged on
the shady veranda. The sun shone brightly, and the two poor lads, with
hearts heavy as lead, made their way through the beautiful gardens to
the outer gate.
"How are we going to get back?" asked Terry. "Sixty cents won't take us
far."
"Walk, I reckon," said Arnold grimly.
"Hi, mister. Say, come back. The boss wants you."
Both the youngsters wheeled round. A big mulatto was running after them.
"Look here," said Crundall. "Peter tells me the big 'gator I've got in
the pond has bust the netting and crawled out and gone. If you chaps
are game to catch him or another, I'll make it worth your while."
Arnold and Terry exchanged glances. "What's it worth?" demanded Arnold.
"Fifty dollars," said Crundall. "That is for one not less'n six foot
long. I don't want any toys."
"And if he's bigger than six foot?"
"Don't you fret. You won't get one bigger."
"We might," said Arnold dryly.
Crundall actually smiled. "I like your sand," he said. "Tell you what.
I'll make it ten dollars a foot extra for anything above six foot. Is
that a go?"
"Agreed!"
"Mind you, he's got to be whole and sound. No shark hooks in him, nor
bullet holes," warned Crundall.
"Right," said Arnold. "We'll start in the morning."
Crundall nodded. He was a rough chap, but the straight talk of the
young fellow appealed to him. He turned to Pete. "Pete, see these
fellers have a bed to-night and grub. So long. The dollars will be
ready when you come back with the 'gator."
"A sweet fix you've got us in, Arnold, me boy," was Terry's first
remark when, after an excellent supper, the two reached their room.
"What's the matter, Terry?"
"Begorra, what isn't? How are ye going to catch an alligator without
hooks?"
"Don't you worry. I'll think it out."
"Faith, 'twill take a divvle of a lot of thinking."
"I'm going to sleep on it first," said Arnold quietly. "We've got to be
up at an unholy hour to-morrow. I mean to give Crundall a run for his
money. He's worth cultivating--that man."
Terry gave a sigh of resignation, and began pulling off his clothes.
When he awoke next morning Arnold was standing over him ready dressed.
"Have you thought of a plan?" was Terry's first question.
"Bet your life," grinned the other. "Hurry up. Breakfast's ready."
An hour later, guns on shoulder, food for two days, and a coil of stout
rope in a game bag, the two were tramping across the wire grass through
the dewy pine woods, with the rising sun striking long shafts of light
through the red stems.
"Bitter Bayou's the place for my money," said Arnold. "There's stacks
of 'em there. But keep an eye peeled for a deer or a pig. I'm not
particular."
"Bait, is it?" asked Terry eagerly.
"Just so."
"But that ould Crundall said he wouldn't have a hooked 'gator at any
price," replied Terry, puzzled. "An' sure we couldn't hook one anyhow
widout a hook."
"True, Terence," laughed Arnold. "Sh--quietly!" As he spoke he dropped
flat behind a log. As Terry did the same, there was a crisp rustling in
a patch of saw palmetto about fifty yards away, and an old razorback
sow, with six piglings behind her, came slowly out into the open.
"Take the first little 'un," muttered Arnold. "Keep your second barrel
for the old beggar if she charges. Now!"
Two reports crashed out. Over rolled two of the small pigs. The old sow
threw up her sharp head, then with a squeal of alarm bolted with the
survivors of her family.
"Good business!" cried Arnold, jumping up and running forward. "Raw
pork for Mr. 'Gator, and roast for ourselves. Eh, Terry?"
"Faith, 'tis a funny thing to catch a ten-foot alligator wid!" remarked
Terry, ruefully surveying the plump little porker.
"Quite enough," replied Arnold with a grin, as he shouldered the other
pig.
The ground began to slope away, pine gave place to live oaks, and live
oaks to cabbage palms and cypress. The soil was black and oozy beneath
their feet, and at last they found themselves on the edge of a deep
river, whose brown stream wound sluggishly beneath the gloomy branches
of giant cypress trees.
"Here's the bayou. Now for the 'gator," exclaimed Arnold as he flung
down his pig and his gun.
"Faith, you're as pleased with yourself as if ye'd got the scaly beggar
in your pocket this minute," complained the Irishman.
Arnold grinned. "How long a one do we want, Terry. Fifty dollars for
six foot, and ten for each foot beyond. Fifty and five tens. Eleven
foot's our minimum."
"Sure, there's one with a bit to spare," said Terence sharply, pointing.
Out of the dull waters something was heaving itself slowly up.
Something long and rugged, like a rough barked, water-sodden log. So
slowly did it rise that the oily water did not show a single ripple.
"Phew!" muttered Arnold. "That chap takes the cake! Never saw such a
brute in my born days; thirteen foot if he's an inch. Terry, if we can
collar him our fortune's made."
"More likely th' baste'll swallow us," retorted Terence.
"Not he. He's going to have something else to swallow. Keep an eye
on the old scalawag, Terry, while I fix up a dose for him." And
Arnold, plumping down on his knees, whipped out his knife and began
operations. He slit open the pig, and then from the game bag pulled out
a good-sized tin. In this were two packages, each carefully wrapped in
oiled paper and sealed.
Arnold spread paper on the ground, and, turning out half the contents
of each packet into two small white heaps, began to mix them together.
"Is it crazy ye are, Arnold?" demanded his Irish chum.
"No; why?"
"'Tis a live alligator Crundall asked for, not a poisoned one."
"I'm not going to poison him; you wait a jiffy!" And Arnold chuckled
again, but gently, for fear of scaring the alligator.
The latter, however, was still taking life easy, basking in a patch of
sunlight which leaked between the trees.
Carefully mixing his two powders, Arnold made them into one package,
which he rolled up in several thicknesses of paper, and tied securely.
He then dexterously inserted this package inside the carcass of the
diminutive pigling, and sewed it into place.
"Next thing is to present the bait nicely and quietly to our fat friend
there," remarked Arnold as he completed operations.
Terry shrugged his shoulders. For once his quick Irish wits were quite
at fault.
Carrying the pig, Arnold crept cautiously out on a fallen log which
extended over the water, and dropped his burden cautiously into the
sluggish stream. It floated slowly down toward the spot where the great
scaly brute lay basking.
"Only hope another chap don't get it first," muttered Arnold. "It's the
big fellow we want."
Alligators have a quick sense of smell. All of a sudden two more
scaly heads rose above the surface, and another couple of huge brutes
appeared out of the thick saw grass on the opposite bank.
But number one had no idea of being balked of his prey. The oily water
began to swirl in front of his great blunt head. He came plowing
upstream like a torpedo boat, and almost instantly the huge jaws opened
like a barn door, and the tasty morsel disappeared between two rows
of gigantic yellow fangs. Then with amazing suddenness the monster
vanished.
"Got him!" hissed Arnold in tense excitement.
"Is it a slaping powder ye've given him?" asked Terry eagerly.
"Sleeping powder! You'll soon see." Arnold shook with laughter.
Minutes passed. Nothing happened. Arnold began to look uneasy.
"Your medicine ain't acting, Arnold my bhoy," grinned Terry.
"It's bound to before long," replied Arnold, creeping out to the very
end of the log and peering down into the brown bayou.
Suddenly the water boiled violently, and out of the unseen depths the
big alligator came flying as if he had been shot from a gun.
"Look out!" yelled Terry.
Too late. The monstrous tail smote the log with a force that sent
Arnold flying up into the air. And Terry, wildly grabbing for his
gun, saw with horror that his friend had dropped slap on top of the
writhing, struggling monster.
For an instant both disappeared. Then up they came again, and Terry
could hardly believe his eyes when he saw Arnold seated astride on the
huge scaly neck, while the alligator, thrashing the water with its
tail, swam round and round in wide circles.
Terry, finger on trigger, dashed out on the log. He was certain the
brute would dive and take Arnold with him, and yet he dared not shoot
for fear of hitting his friend.
"Don't shoot!" roared Arnold, catching sight of Terry out of the tail
of his eye. "Hold on. I'll have him."
The alligator seemed unable to sink. Yet it was evidently trying to.
Finding this impossible, it swung its great head round, snapping at
Arnold with a sound like the clashing of a shunting train.
But Arnold had his knife out, and every time the brute came round at
him drove the point deep into the soft flesh at the joint of the neck.
"The rope!" shouted Arnold.
Terry bounded ashore, and next moment was back with the rope coiled and
a slipknot at the end of it.
Round and round went the alligator, churning the water to foam, and
sending small waves slapping under the hollow banks. It was fast
exhausting its mighty strength.
"Now!" yelled Arnold, as the beast came sailing straight under the log.
Quick as light Terry swung the noose into position. It passed neatly
over the great, rugged head, and as it tightened Terry took a half
hitch round the log, and the brute was brought up all standing with a
jerk that made the tough rope sing and sent Arnold flying overboard.
Terry had him out in a moment, and the two rushed the end of the rope
ashore, and, getting round a tree, began playing the alligator as a
fisherman plays a salmon.
It was a good five minutes before the giant brute gave out and, more
than half throttled, was lugged ashore.
Luckily for the boys, the bank was practically level with the water, or
they never could have got the huge weight ashore. Even when he was on
land they had a terrible job to noose the great, thrashing tail that
was leveling the bushes like a giant scythe.
At last he was safe, tied head and tail to two trees, and the boys,
gasping, mopped the perspiration from their dripping faces.
"'Twas mighty funny medicine ye gave him, Arnold," said Terry, as he
surveyed their captive with huge satisfaction.
"Can't you guess what it was?"
Terry shook his head.
"Tartaric acid and carbonate of soda, my boy. Turned him into a
balloon. He couldn't sink for the life of him."
"Tartaric acid!" gasped Terry; "carbonate of soda! Sure no wonder the
poor brute was onaisy!" Then the comic side of it struck him, and he
burst into shrieks of mirth. Arnold joined, and the two laughed till
they rolled helpless in the long grass beside their ugly captive.
"Geewhillikens!" exclaimed Crundall as he surveyed the monster which
four oxen were tugging in a cart through the hotel grounds. "I'll need
a new pond for that le-vi-athan!"
"Give us the job to dig it?" put in Arnold quickly.
For the first time since they had met him Hiram Crundall actually
laughed.
"I reckon I've got a better job for you two fellers than digging
sand. Say, how'd you like to come into my office and learn this hotel
business. Don't mind telling you there's a pot of money in it."
"We accept, sir!" cried Arnold briskly. "Whatever it is, it's better
than growing frozen oranges."
"I've made half a million at it in ten years, so I ought to know,"
replied Crundall dryly.
Here Terry put in a word. "I say, Arnold, how about Cassidy?"
"Cassidy--who's he?" asked Crundall.
Terence told the story of the bet.
Crundall slapped his great knee. He pulled out a huge pocketbook,
counted out bills for two hundred dollars, and handed them to Arnold.
"You git right along," he said, "and collect. And if Cassidy don't pay
on demand wire me. I'll come an' make him."
But Cassidy did pay, and then the boys let him foreclose on the ruined
grove. They had better fish to fry.
A TIGERS' HAUNT.
Lonely--difficult to traverse--haunted by wild beasts. Such is the
picture of the great delta of the Ganges, as drawn by Mr. Edmund
Candler in _Blackwood's Magazine_. The region of the Sundarbans
occupies four thousand square miles, and is intersected by six hundred
named and ten times as many unnamed channels. What is not water is
thick jungle. The banks of the channels are haunted by crocodiles and
red and brown crabs.
"Seeds fall all day long, and germinate at once in the mud, and spring
up and choke one another, and writhe and struggle for light and room."
But this seething mass of vegetation is all mapped out into sections by
the Forest Department. Each section, when the timber is cut, is left
alone for forty years. This statement of itself makes us realize the
loneliness of the place.
Wild animals have their lairs in this forest, and the tiger is a
serious danger to the woodcutters of the forest, many of whom fall to
the tigers yearly.
LATEST ISSUES
MOTOR STORIES
The latest and best five-cent weekly. We won't say how interesting it
is. See for yourself. =High art colored covers. Thirty-two big pages.
Price, 5 cents.=
1--Motor Matt; or, The King of the Wheel.
2--Motor Matt's Daring; or, True To His Friends.
3--Motor Matt's Century Run; or, The Governor's Courier.
4--Motor Matt's Race; or, The Last Flight of the "Comet."
5--Motor Matt's Mystery; or, Foiling a Secret Plot.
6--Motor Matt's Red Flier; or, On The High Gear.
7--Motor Matt's Clue; or, The Phantom Auto.
8--Motor Matt's Triumph; or, Three Speeds Forward.
9--Motor Matt's Air-Ship; or, The Rival Inventors.
TIP TOP WEEKLY
The most popular publication for boys. The adventures of Frank and Dick
Merriwell can be had only in this weekly. =High art colored covers.
Thirty-two pages. Price, 5 cents.=
669--Frank Merriwell's Great Work; or, Getting the Right Start.
670--Dick Merriwell's Mind; or, The Ideal of Manhood.
671--Dick Merriwell's "Dip;" or, The Mysterious Movements of a Hat.
672--Dick Merriwell's Rally; or, Making a Fighting Finish.
673--Dick Merriwell's Flier; or, The Champions of the Ice.
674--Frank Merriwell's Bullets; or, A Steady Nerve and a Sure Hand.
675--Frank Merriwell Cut Off; or, The Result of the Great Spring Rise.
676--Frank Merriwell's Ranch Boss; or, Big Bruce and the Blossoms.
677--Dick Merriwell's Equal; or, The Fellow with the Flying Feet.
678--Dick Merriwell's Development; or, The All-around Wonder.
679--Dick Merriwell's Eye; or, The Secret of Good Batting.
680--Frank Merriwell's Zest; or, The Spirit of the School.
NICK CARTER WEEKLY
The best detective stories on earth. Nick Carter's exploits are read
the world over. =High art colored covers. Thirty-two big pages. Price,
5 cents.=
632--The Timelock Puzzle; or, Nick Carter's Bank Vault Case.
633--The Moving Picture Mystery; or, Nick Carter's Blindest Trail.
634--The Tiger-tamer; or, Nick Carter's Boldest Strategy.
635--A Strange Bargain; or, Nick Carter's Dead-shot Circus Case.
636--The Haunted Circus; or, Nick Carter Lays a Ghost.
637--The Secret of a Private Room; or, Nick Carter Makes an Experiment.
638--A Mental Mystery; or, Nick Carter on a Difficult Trail.
639--The Sealed Envelope; or, Nick Carter's Search for a Lost Fortune.
641--The Message in Blue; or, Nick Carter's Clue to a Vast Conspiracy.
641--A Dream of Empire; or, Nick Carter and the Queen of Conspirators.
642--The Detective's Disappearance; or, Nick Carter is Saved by Adelina.
643--The Midnight Marauders; or, Nick Carter's Telephone Mystery.
_For sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address on receipt
of price, 5 cents per copy, in money or postage stamps, by_
STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York
=IF YOU WANT ANY BACK NUMBERS= of our Weeklies and cannot procure them
from your newsdealer, they can be obtained from this office direct.
Fill out the following Order Blank and send it to us with the price
of the Weeklies you want and we will send them to you by return mail.
=POSTAGE STAMPS TAKEN THE SAME AS MONEY.=
________________________ _190_
_STREET & SMITH, 79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York City._
_Dear Sirs: Enclosed please find_ ___________________________
_cents for which send me_:
TIP TOP WEEKLY, Nos. ________________________________
NICK CARTER WEEKLY, " ________________________________
DIAMOND DICK WEEKLY, " ________________________________
BUFFALO BILL STORIES, " ________________________________
BRAVE AND BOLD WEEKLY, " ________________________________
MOTOR STORIES, " ________________________________
_Name_ ________________ _Street_ ________________
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_THE BEST OF THEM ALL!!_
MOTOR STORIES
IT IS NEW AND INTENSELY INTERESTING
We knew before we published this line that it would have a tremendous
sale and our expectations were more than realized. It is going with a
rush, and the boys who want to read these, the most interesting and
fascinating tales ever written, must speak to their newsdealers about
reserving copies for them.
=MOTOR MATT= sprang into instant favor with American boy readers and is
bound to occupy a place in their hearts second only to that now held by
Frank Merriwell.
The reason for this popularity is apparent in every line of these
stories. They are written by an author who has made a life study of
the requirements of the up-to-date American boy as far as literature
is concerned, so it is not surprising that this line has proven a huge
success from the very start.
Here are the titles now ready and also those to be published. You will
never have a better opportunity to get a generous quantity of reading
of the highest quality, so place your orders now.
=No. 1.--Motor Matt; or, The King of the Wheel.=
=No. 2.--Motor Matt's Daring; or, True to His Friends.=
=No. 3.--Motor Matt's Century Run; or, The Governor's Courier.=
=No. 4.--Motor Matt's Race; or, The Last Flight of the "Comet."=
TO BE PUBLISHED ON MARCH 22nd
=No. 5.--Motor Matt's Mystery; or, Foiling a Secret Plot.=
TO BE PUBLISHED ON MARCH 29th
=No. 6.--Motor Matt's Red Flier; or, On the High Gear.=
TO BE PUBLISHED ON APRIL 5th
=No. 7.--Motor Matt's Clue; or, The Phantom Auto.=
TO BE PUBLISHED ON APRIL 12th
=No. 8.--Motor Matt's Triumph; or, Three Speeds Forward.=
=Price, Five Cents=
To be had from newsdealers everywhere, or sent, postpaid, upon receipt
of the price by the publishers
_STREET & SMITH, Publishers, NEW YORK_
Transcriber's Notes:
Some missing punctuation has been inserted without comment in cases
where spacing of the type indicates that a position was left for the
marks but they did not make it to the printed page in the source copy.
Many question marks appear to be missing from Carl's dialogue.
Retained some inconsistent hyphenation (e.g. bellboy vs. bell-boy).
Retained some questionable spellings in dialect.
Bold is represented by =equal signs=, italics by _underscores_.
Page 1, changed "abrutly" to "abruptly" ("died abruptly").
Page 2, changed "blindfolded" to "blindfold" in "blindfold him, and
place him."
Page 3, changed ? to ! after "had a scrap!"
Page 4, changed "hs" to "his" in "envelope from his pocket."
Page 8, added missing "a" to "name to a boy."
Page 10, removed extra "i" from "findt" in "ven ve do findt dem."
Page 11, added missing period after "if you want to talk."
Page 12, changed "the" to "they" in "they could not waste much time."
Page 15, changed . to ? after "was to receive?"
Page 16, removed extra space before period in "they left the garage."
Page 17, changed "then" to "than" in "than take part." Removed space
before period in "attention to anything else."
Page 20, changed "carred" to "carried" in "carried their alarm."
Removed duplicate "of" from "things of which."
Page 21, changed double quotes to single quotes around "Thousand and
One Nights."
Page 22, changed "immeditaely" to "immediately" in "immediately to
jail."
Page 24, changed "hopelssly" to "hopelessly" in "standing hopelessly
by."
Page 25, changed "tremedously" to "tremendously" in "racing
tremendously."
Page 28, changed "You" to "Your" in "Your desire does you credit."
Page 29, changed "rung" to "hung" in "hung limp and blackened."
"LATEST ISSUES" ad, changed "detetective" to "detective."