THE LUCK OF DICK FERRAL.
Mr. Lawton and Ferral met Matt and Carl in the parlor. They had been
having a brief talk together, and there was a pleased look on Lawton's
face and a happy light in Ferral's eyes.
Mr. Lawton stepped forward and caught Matt cordially by the hand.
"Matt," said he, "you have been a stanch friend of Dick's in the
little time you have known him, and you have twice saved his life. He
is indebted to you, but I am under an even greater obligation. But
for your aid, the little plan I conceived for getting at the relative
merits of my two nephews might have ended disastrously and given me
something to regret till the last day of my life. I thank you, my lad;
and you, too, Carl," he finished, turning to the grinning Dutch boy.
"Oh, vell," said Carl, "it don'd vas nodding vat I dit. Matt vas der
vone. He iss alvays der vone dot geds dere mit bot' feets ven anyding
iss bulled off."
"You both did nobly, and perhaps some time, somewhere, I can show you
that I am not insensible of the debt I owe," went on Mr. Lawton. "Just
now," he added, turning away and walking to the end of the mantel,
"Dick has expressed a desire to see the place where I have lived for
several days, and I presume you and Carl, Matt, are also interested."
He pressed a spring under the end of the mantel and the great frame
descended and presented its flight of steps.
"I will go first, as I know the ropes," said Mr. Lawton. "The rest of
you will follow."
He ascended the stairs. Dick, Carl and Matt went after him and the
frame closed and left them in a narrow space in the dark. Mr. Lawton
lighted a candle and flashed it across the inner side of the picture
and above the last step.
"The eyes of the picture, you will see," he observed, "are cut out.
That gave me an opportunity to note what took place in the parlor. A
very old device which I have seen in old castles on the Rhine, and even
in one or two houses in Delhi. Now," and he faced about, "we will go
on."
The passage wound around the house through the hollow wall. Two steps
led up and over the front door. In the sitting-room there was a niche
with a crucifix and candles. Holes in the back of the niche enabled one
to look out and observe all that took place in the sitting-room. In
like manner, there was a concealed place for keeping track of what went
on in the kitchen.
In the kitchen wall a dozen steps led upward to the second floor, and
in the two upper rooms there were also peep-holes cleverly arranged.
"The passage Ralph knew about," explained Mr. Lawton, "has no
connection whatever with this other burrow. It is entirely distinct and
apart. The only way to get directly into the house from these corridors
is by the opening over the parlor mantel. Now we will descend to the
subterranean part of the establishment."
A continuation of the steps that led upward in the kitchen wall
conducted the explorers downward into a place that was a sort of
basement, although having no connection with the cellar of the house.
Here the boys were surprised to find the white runabout.
"Here's a point I'm twisted on, Uncle Jack," said Dick. "What in the
name of the seven holy spritsails, did you ever let Tippoo go spooking
around the country for?"
Mr. Lawton laughed.
"Dick," said he, "this country is full of scoundrels who would not
hesitate to get the better of an old man and his Hindu servant if
there were a few dollars to be gained. Now, rascals of that ilk are
superstitious, and I have kept them at bay by this harmless deception.
This old, ill-favored shell of a house is supposed to be haunted,
for dark deeds are known to have taken place here. That auto is my
own idea. Tippoo has made regular trips with it every night up the
gully, around on the cliff road, through the cliff and so back to the
house. La Vita Place, by that means, has lived up to its unenviable
reputation, and the thieves have left me severely alone.
"The auto came in very handily during this play of Ralph's. Ralph knew
nothing about the car, and during his visits here I was careful to keep
a knowledge of it away from him. Tippoo would take a trip abroad and
watch events outside; then he would come back and report to me. When
Matt jumped into the car, there on the cliff road, Tippoo was willing
enough to be discovered, for he knew that I was planning to show myself
very soon, anyhow. Tippoo, however, had orders from me to say nothing
about what I was doing. Here," added Mr. Lawton, stepping off along the
rock-walled room, "is the way the car left its quarters whenever it
wanted to make its ghostly round."
Matt, as he followed Mr. Lawton, noticed a supply of gasoline and oil,
and congratulated himself on the fact that there would be no difficulty
in getting the Red Flier fit for the road when the time came for Carl
and himself to start.
A wide passage led for a hundred feet or more beyond the end of the
stone room, a gentle grade, at its farther end, leading upward. A door,
flush with the earth, was pushed upward by Mr. Lawton, and the blinding
light of day flooded the passage.
"We might as well get out here," said Mr. Lawton, and the rest followed
him into a brushy covert in the grove.
On one side of the covert the brush had been cleared away to leave a
smooth track for the car.
"The road," explained the old man, "leads directly to the gully.
Tippoo, when he desired to make his round, had only to push up the
door, take his ghostly ride, and then come back again."
"That idea of a crank in the machine for turning over the engine," said
Matt, "is a mighty good one and ought to be patented."
"You may have it, Matt," said Mr. Lawton. "I am too old to bother with
patents."
The door was closed and the little party wandered back through the
grove to the house. Tippoo, in the kitchen, was busily at work getting
a meal ready.
"This," observed Mr. Lawton, as they all seated themselves on a bench
in the shade, "is one of the happiest, as well as the saddest, days of
my life. I have discovered what Dick really is, and that's where the
bright part comes in; but I have also found out that my sister's son is
a contemptible scoundrel--and I would rather have lost everything I own
than to have discovered it. This racing-game must be demoralizing."
"It isn't the game, Mr. Lawton," interposed Matt earnestly, "but the
character of the fellows who take it up. There isn't a thing in a speed
contest to demoralize any one."
"You may be right, Matt," answered Mr. Lawton, "but it's hard to
understand how Ralph could prove so false to all the Lawton ideals.
His father was a gentleman in every sense of the word; and his
mother--there was never a finer woman on earth."
After a short silence, Mr. Lawton turned once more to Matt.
"You are going to Santa Fé?" he queried.
"Yes," replied Matt, "and then to Denver. Mr. Tomlinson, who owns
the Red Flier, has a place for me on the racing-staff of a firm of
automobile-makers."
"Ah! I would have spoken differently a moment ago, if I had known that
you intended entering the racing-field. You'll never go wrong. But,
when you get to Denver, beware of the rascally crew who just left here.
They are very bitter against you."
"They'll not bother me, sir," said Matt stoutly.
"Oof dey dry it on," spoke up Carl, "py chincher dey vill ged somet'ing
vat dey don'd like."
"Dick and I will be in Denver soon," said Mr. Lawton, "and then we
shall look you up. You will hear from us again, Matt. The debt we are
under to you cannot be easily canceled."
"I've been repaid already," returned Matt. "What I have done has given
me a friend in Dick Ferral--and that's worth everything."
"Your fin, mate," said Ferral, reaching over and clasping Matt's hand.
Just then Tippoo appeared in the kitchen door.
"Tiffin, sahib!" he called, and they all filed into the house--Carl, as
usual when there was eating in prospect, leading the way.
THE END.
THE NEXT NUMBER (8) WILL CONTAIN
MOTOR MATT'S TRIUMPH
OR,
Three Speeds Forward.
The White-caps--Motor Matt's Foes--Suspicious Doings--A Villainous
Plot--Matt Goes Trouble-hunting--Higgins Tells What He Knows--Brisk
Work at Dodge City--Matt Interviews Trueman--No. 13--Where Is Motor
Matt?--Running Down a Clue--Forty-eight Hours of Darkness--At the
Last Minute--The First Half of the Race--Well Won, King!--Conclusion.
MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION
NEW YORK, April 10, 1909.
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BILL, THE BOUND BOY.
Bill Bradley was a blacksmith boy. He was an orphan, and had been
apprenticed to old Carnahan the day Lincoln was elected, and had pumped
the bellows and swung the sledge every day since. Old Carnahan was
a stern task-master, and got out of his bound boy all the law would
allow. We used to pass the shop every time we drove from our farm in
the country, and there was nothing in the county seat, the greatest
town we had ever seen, so notable as the great shock of fiery red hair
displayed by Bill Bradley. He always stood at the door of the shop as
we passed at noon-time and nodded at us with the cheeriest sort of a
smile. It was a thing to remember with pride when a town boy honored us
with recognition.
Money was mighty scarce in our house those days. Dimes were things to
treasure carefully; and dollars, when they came, were something spoken
of with bated breath and hidden away--or paid out grudgingly. And iron
was in demand. The cannons made those first years of the war called
into requisition it seemed to me all the fragments of old cast iron
there was in the country. Blacksmiths were paying first a cent, then
two cents, and finally two and a half cents a pound; though they did
not make a difference whether you "took it out in trade" or demanded
cash.
We boys in the country used to gather up every bit of metal that would
sell, and carefully save it till we had a hundred pounds or more, and
then take it to town and convert it into the infrequent cash or the
almost as acceptable and quite costly groceries.
One day when we took our plunder to town we found the streets in
strange commotion.
"They're listing soldiers," said a nervous voice in our ears, and when
we turned we found Bill Bradley, wide-eyed, excited, and reckless. We
were surprised, for we knew it was time for him to be at the forge, and
we knew how strict was his employer in the matter of time.
We drove to the blacksmith shop with the fragments of iron, and found
Bill Bradley there before us. He was pumping the bellows, and old man
Carnahan was rating him soundly for his absence. The red head was a
trifle higher, the blue eyes a trifle wider, and the breath was quicker
and more charged with warning. Carnahan should have known. But he
didn't. He grew more enraged, till at a word of defense from the boy he
lost his temper completely, and, in a fit of exasperation, struck his
apprentice.
The blow was not a severe one, and Bill could not have suffered a
twinge of pain. But his pride was hurt, and that blow ended for him, as
that larger, later blow ended for four millions of others, his season
of servitude.
"I'll quit you," he cried, trembling and almost weeping with excitement
and rage. "I'll list for a soldier."
We left the iron in a pile on the shabby floor, and followed him with
palpitating hearts to the little lobby of the post-office. He was
greeted with a chorus of shouts, as was each new recruit, and a touch
of ridicule must have mingled with the hailing, for it straightened him
and stiffened him and sent him to the captain with as firm a front as
ever was borne by a novice.
If the men were changed by the donning of the blue, what transformation
was this wrought in our blacksmith boy? He was inches taller and
fathoms deeper. He was a man. He stood about with the recruits, his
brow darkening a little when Carnahan approached, for he did not yet
understand the privilege of a warrior. But more than any other man in
uniform he was severed from civil life. He was one of this wonderful
legion that was filling the world with comment--and filling the homes
with woe. We came to town that Saturday when the troops were mustered
in, and watched them drilling. We saw our blacksmith boy, and wondered
how we ever had addressed him, he was a being so different from all
he had been before. We saw the march by twos and fours and company
front, the double-quick and the charge; and we heard the fledgling
officers swear with strange oaths at the men they were later to push
into conflict. We fancied Bill Bradley would not stand much of that. We
saw them march to the depot, and then wept, I fear, at the passionate
good-bys. There were fathers and younger brothers and desolate wives;
but the saddest of all were the partings from mothers. It was so
piteous, the hopelessness of their despair, the utter abandon of their
tears.
And then after much shaking of hands and waving of hands the train was
away. We saw load after load go by on the cars after that, and always
looked eagerly for the sight of some face we knew. But the faces which
we knew were swallowed and lost in a sea of strangeness--a sea, we
pray, which never may grow familiar.
We read of the terrible battles that Western army fought; we read of
their victories, and the far too frequent defeats. We read the lists
of killed and wounded, and saw at last in the longest column the name
of Private William Bradley. How far that name removed him from us! He
was William now--not common Bill; not Bill the blacksmith's bound boy.
We wondered if there was anything we could do for him, and in the next
box that went from our town mother sent underclothes and stockings to
the youth; for there was no one near us by blood or friendship who
weathered that winter in the South, and no one near Bill to remember
him. And one day toward the dawn of spring a letter came from the
hospital, written in the clumsy hand of the orphan, acknowledging the
receipt of the clothes, and thanking for them with the clumsy, genuine
feeling of one who seldom speaks and never forgets a favor. He was well
again, he said, and would be returned for duty in the morning. They
looked for another hard battle, for the enemy was massing, and this
new general that had won in the past believed in sledge-hammers and
decisive measures. At the end of the letter was the sentence:
"Tha have mad me a corprl."
How proud he was of that--prouder of it than were the thousands who had
other things to comfort them. And how near us he seemed to come as the
weary months went by and the fighting began again. Once fix your mind
on a man in the distance and a man who stands front face with danger
night and day and never flinches; and it is wonderful how completely he
will fill your sky. You imagine all manner of great things about him,
dread all manner of terrible things, and end at last by loving him.
So, when that other battle was fought by the general who believed in
sturdy blows, and when Vicksburg laid down her arms at the feet of a
victorious army, we read again in the terrible lists of the killed and
wounded the name of our blacksmith boy. This time, too, it was among
the wounded--in the longest column; but it bore a prefix that surprised
us. It was "Sergeant Bradley" now. The meager details of that time did
not help us to all the information we wanted. We did not know how badly
he was injured, but we sent a box of jellies and pickles and things
that are not issued with the rations; and got another letter telling of
the battle. And it makes no difference how many of these reports you
read in the paper, this letter from a man who was in the thick of the
fight was far more authentic. It was far more real.
But Sergeant Bradley was sorely wounded this time. We found more about
it later when a letter from the captain was printed in the county
paper, detailing the events that had been important from a subaltern's
standpoint and boasting of the prowess of his men. In this was told the
story of a Mississippi regiment, those tigers of the South--a charge
that was met by the tattered remnant of the Indiana brigade. He told of
the clashing of man against man, and the loss of the banner over and
over again--that banner that went down to the army with the blessings
of a thousand women when Corinth fell. And it told how, when the
howling, shouting, slashing, shrieking legions swept the Northerners
back for a moment, and the guns were taken and not a thing could live
in the sea of triumphant assault, Corporal William Bradley had wrapped
his shattered arms about the flag and rolled with it right under the
guns that were turned against his brethren.
"I knew you would come back again," said the hero, when the charge was
repulsed and the battery was recaptured. "I knew you would come back,
and I saved the flag."
He had, and he wore a sergeant's chevron for his heroism. But the hurt
would not heal. The sulphurous smoke, the fearful concussions of earth
and air as he burrowed under the guns and waited for rescue, the sword
thrusts and bayonet pricks, the white flesh torn by whistling ball, and
the two bones broken by the shattered shell--all this was tribulation
which would not pass away. Sergeant Bradley lay long in the hospital.
One night in the autumn, as we sat there under a waning moon and
listened to the shrill complaint of a hidden cicada, we were conscious
of a figure making slow progress along the path by the roadside. It
was a man, and even in the darkness of night we could see it was not
familiar. For the matter of that, the figure of a man at all those days
was not a common thing. Men were away in the South, as a general rule.
But this figure grew stranger as it came nearer. Presently the gate
swung open, and the watch-dog gave challenge. We silenced him and rose
to meet a limping, swaying figure in Federal blue. He said nothing, and
seemed, with that grinning insistence of the uncouth man, to wish we
might remember him. We had filled our thought with Bradley, no doubt;
but this could not be he.
It was, however, and when we were sure of that we gave him a welcome
and hearty cheer. But he was very weak. It seemed, after the first
timid acceptance of our greeting, he began to fail, and to take less
and less of interest in the things about him. We thought he would like
to hear news from town. He had forgotten all about the town. We hoped
a little later he would enjoy a word of cheer from the front. There was
no army for him now. He lay there so white on the pillow, his red hair
making the whiteness more vivid; his blue eyes looking so steadily, yet
so listlessly, at a single point in the wall; he stirred so slightly at
the passing of day and night--and then he closed his eyes.
It was long before he opened them again. When he did he saw mother
beside him. She was cooling the cloth she laid on his forehead.
"I thought I wanted to come home," he said, and then closed his eyes
again. There was no relevancy in the remark. No one had spoken to him,
and there had never been a thought of this or other place as a home for
him. It must have been on his mind all the time.
But there was youth to support him, and the blessings of twenty years
to pour their vigor into his veins. His mending was slow, but it was
sure. He walked about the farm at Thanksgiving, and returned to duty at
Christmas. He was a different man. It seemed impossible he ever could
have been a bound boy. He was dignified, self-reliant. He spoke easily
and without embarrassment, no matter if it was a general addressed. And
he was a lieutenant when the war was done.
No, he didn't die. He lived to remember twenty battles and a dozen
wounds. He lived to make a modest beginning in business, and to follow
it to comfortable success. He owns his home now and under his broad hat
hides red hair that will never be quite gray. He stands to-day with his
children at the graves of the men who were with him in the army, who
were with him in danger and suffering and success. He stands with those
children and tells them the story and the lesson of the day.
To him it was the working out of a problem, the right solution after
years of wrong. To him and to me his record typifies the average of
that darker period. Thousands and tens of thousands went in with a
whim to come out with a halo. They enlisted under the spur of example,
of banter, of pique. Yet they fought like Greeks, and forgave like
Christians. It was the hand of the common man that left home duties and
home obligations to take up the greater cause of a nation. It was the
triumph of simplicity--that silent legion which boasted little before
the war, and never complained when hardship came. It was the triumph of
all that is good in the American who lives to see the realization of
dreams that were not bold enough to paint their horoscope when prophecy
was loudest.
A WINTER STORY OF COLORADO.
The wild beasts upon Hicks Mountain were limited almost entirely to the
coyotes; these persisted, in spite of advancing settlement, but in this
section of Colorado the grey wolf, the mountain-lion, and the bear had
been practically exterminated. For five years the stock had run the
hills quite unmolested. A coyote will kill sheep, but its depredations
are confined otherwise to the poultry, barring now and then a sick and
abandoned calf.
However, in the winter of 1905, rumors spread that the grey wolves had
returned. Calves were being killed and eaten, sows mutilated, and even
large steers torn about the legs and chest. One rancher discovered in
the timber across the pasture from his house the remains of a yearling
heifer killed only that night; whatever had attacked it had devoured
it, hide and all, to the very largest bones, leaving only the scattered
remnants of a skeleton.
Now, a mountain-lion would have eaten part and buried the rest; a bear
would also have eaten part, and saved the rest for later; coyotes would
only have gnawed and mangled the carcass; the great grey wolf alone
would have worked a destruction so complete.
The ground was bare of snow, and covered with pine-needles, thus
being unfavorable for tracks. Mr. Jeffries had heard no howling.
Nevertheless, the grey wolf, the stockman's scourge, was blamed.
Traps were set, and poisoned meat was discreetly put out, but only the
coyotes suffered, apparently. Then Ned Coswell, early one morning,
while searching for a lost milk-cow, came over a little rise, and saw
below him in a hollow in the park a number of wolfish animals collected
about a dead body, tearing at it. Ned was unarmed, but, spurring his
horse, he rode down upon them recklessly, whooping.
"There were about a dozen of them," related Ned, "and I knew they
weren't wolves, because they were colored differently, more like dogs.
They looked at me coming, and, boys, I didn't know for a minute whether
they were going to get out of the way or not. Old Medicine Eye"--his
horse--"wasn't a bit afraid; just pricked his ears and kept on, which
made me think all the more they weren't wolves.
"They were dogs, boys, nothing but dogs. There was a brindled one that
looked like a bulldog, and several woolly dogs, like sheep-dogs, and
one big black-and-white shaggy fellow, biggest of all. They all lifted
their heads, and stood staring at me, and I was beginning to think
that maybe I'd been in too much of a hurry. But first one sneaked off,
showing his teeth, into the brush, and another and another, and they
all went, and I was mighty glad to have them go. They'd been eating at
a dead steer--mine, too--but I don't know whether they'd killed it or
not. I wish I'd had a gun."
After that the ranchers made it a habit again to carry a gun of some
kind when out on the range. However, for a long time nobody, when
armed, caught any glimpse of the wild dogs. That is likely to be the
case in hunting; the unprepared frequently have the opportunities.
For instance, Frank Warring, while on his way home from town in his
wagon, toward evening of a cloudy day, beheld the pack cross the road
right in front of him, the animals in single file, one following
another, silent as specters, noses outstretched, the big, shaggy
black-and-white fellow leading. In the rear were two or three puppies,
perhaps nine months old. Frank had no gun. Somebody else also saw the
pack.
The brutes' depredations continued, being limited, so far as we could
ascertain, to our vicinity, as if they had selected Hicks Mountain
for a hunting-ground. They hunted without howling. A spasmodic, rabid
bark was the only sound that we could attribute to them, but it was
sufficient.
We were afraid of this wild pack; more afraid than of wolves. There is
something uncanny about a dog gone wild, for he combines the lessons
taught by domesticity with the instincts of savagery.
As nobody from our section had missed dogs, we concluded that this band
had come down upon us from Wyoming, a hundred and fifty miles north.
Up in Wyoming wild dogs had been bothering the sheep-range. Probably
energetic measures adopted by the irate sheep men had driven the
marauders to seek new fields.
Finally, Sam Morris had a chance to retaliate. He was hunting deer
afoot. The day was dark and snowy. As he was sitting motionless beside
a boulder, watching the slope below and the ascent across the draw,
the dog-pack suddenly streamed out from the pines down there, and all
at a lope threaded the bottom of the draw, onward bound. The shaggy
black-and-white was leading, as usual.
Sam's gun was loaded with buckshot, and he waited greedily, that he
might get more than one dog with his charge. But the animals were
too shrewd to travel bunched; they left intervals, as do the wolves
when trailing, and when at last Sam would desperately have "whanged
away," his gun missed fire. Rather chagrined was Sam, telling his tale
afterward. He confirmed the previous statements that the pack was
variously colored, made up of different breeds; a strange invasion
surely.
The trail through the draw remained unobliterated, for no snow fell
for two weeks thereafter. We found that the dog-pack was utilizing
this draw for a pass. It appeared to lead from one favorite point to
another. The trail grew more distinct, but it scarcely widened; the
dogs stepped always, so it seemed, in the same spots. It was vain to
set traps; the disturbance of the snow was noticed at once. Poison was
disregarded. The pack kept on ranging the country and attacking stock.
Sam was anxious to retrieve himself, and he and I agreed to put in our
time watching that trail until we should "fix" some of those outlaws. I
remember that it was the tenth day of January, and toward four o'clock
in the afternoon, when, for perhaps the sixth or seventh time, we
ensconced ourselves between two boulders on the slope overlooking the
trail below.
The sky was cloudy; a snowstorm was evidently approaching. Cloudy
days seemed to be those upon which the dog-pack was most likely to be
sighted. Probably upon such days it emerged earlier on account of the
waning light. This afternoon we had been in ambush only a half-hour
when the pack appeared.
In silent, single file the pack came trotting out of the timber on
our right, and across before us, following the trail in the draw. The
big, black-and-white, shaggy fellow was the first; next to him was the
brindle. I recognized them, for every narrative had contained them.
I don't know exactly why, but the sight of them all, trotting so
silently, so swiftly, business-bent, thrilled me with a little chill.
About their steady gait was something ominous, unreal. A pack of wolves
I could have surveyed without special emotion, for I should have known
what to expect, but a pack of dogs, gone wild--ugh! They are neither
dogs nor wolves, but, as has been said, an uncanny blending.
We had agreed what to do. Sam only nudged me, and levelled his gun.
There was an instant of suspense, and we fired practically together.
We had rifles, and were using black powder, and the smoke was
momentarily thick. When it cleared, the shaggy leader was kicking in
the snow, and the brindle was lying still. My bullet had not sped quite
as truly as Sam's; his aim had been the brindle. The rest of the pack
were racing madly onward, and although we fired twice more, we did not
hit any of them.
We went down to our victims. The brindle had just life enough in him to
snarl at us ere he died. The big black-and-white was gasping.
Then a strange thing occurred. As I stood over him, he wagged his bushy
tail; his eyes were not wild, but soft, suffering, appealing. He was
now all dog and would turn to his chosen friend, man, for sympathy and
aid.
"Poor old chap!" I said.
His eyes were glazing fast; he hauled himself on his side over the snow
toward me.
"Look out!" warned Sam.
But there was no need. With a final effort, the animal just managed to
lick my boot-toe, and with his head upon it, he shivered and was still.
I declare, a lump rose in my throat.
As I bent to pat his coat--I love dogs, and he had struck me right
to the heart, marauder though he had been--I felt a collar round his
neck, concealed by his long, curly hair. Upon the collar was a plate,
engraved "Prince." Somebody's "Prince" had he been, somebody's pet. But
whose?
A more perfect example of atavism, reversion to type--call it what you
will--would be hard to present.
The dog-pack never again, as far as there was evidence, traversed that
trail. Nor was it seen again upon Hicks Mountain. It seemed almost as
if it had been composed of weird phantoms, like the spectral packs of
German and Provençal legend, and had dissolved at our gunshots.
_ESPECIALLY IMPORTANT!!_
MOTOR STORIES
_A New Idea in the Way of Five-Cent Weeklies._
Boys everywhere will be delighted to hear that Street & Smith are now
issuing this new five-cent weekly which will be known by the name of
MOTOR STORIES.
This weekly is entirely different from anything now being published.
It details the astonishing adventures of a young mechanic who owned a
motor cycle. Is there a boy who has not longed to possess one of these
swift little machines that scud about the roads everywhere throughout
the United States? Is there a boy, therefore, who will not be intensely
interested in the adventures of "Motor Matt," as he is familiarly
called by his comrades?
Boys, you have never read anything half so exciting, half so humorous
and entertaining as the first story listed for publication in this
line, called "=Motor Matt; or, The King of the Wheel=." Its fame is
bound to spread like wildfire, causing the biggest demand for the other
numbers in this line, that was ever heard of in the history of this
class of literature.
Here are the titles to be issued during the next few weeks. Do not fail
to place an order for them with your newsdealer.
=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."=
=No. 5.--Motor Matt's Mystery; or, Foiling a Secret Plot.=
=No. 6.--Motor Matt's Red Flier; or, On the High Gear.=
=No. 7.--Motor Matt's Clue; or, The Phantom Auto.=
=No. 8.--Motor Matt's Triumph; or, Three Speeds Forward.=
=No. 9.--Motor Matt's Air-ship; or, The Rival Inventors.=
32 LARGE SIZE PAGES SPLENDID COLORED COVERS
PRICE, FIVE CENTS PER COPY
AT ALL NEWSDEALERS, OR SENT POSTPAID BY THE PUBLISHERS UPON RECEIPT OF
THE PRICE.
_STREET & SMITH, Publishers, NEW YORK_
_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:
Italics are represented by _underscores_, bold by =equal signs=.
Retained some unusual spellings (e.g. "bloming") within dialogue on the
assumption they are intentional.
Page 4, changed "Billy Ruffin" to "Billy Ruffian" to match second
instance of ship's nickname.
Page 12, added missing quote after "while I was down in Phoenix."
Changed oe ligature in "Phoenix" to oe (ligature retained in HTML
edition).
Page 13, removed unnecessary quote after "slaps from his cousin Ralph."
Page 17, removed unnecessary quote before "It was impossible, of
course...." Changed "intendeing" to "intending" ("What Motor Matt was
intending to do").
Page 18, changed "Someting" to "Something" ("Something was about to
happen").
Page 19, removed unnecessary apostrophe after "Mings" ("Mings was in
such a position").
Page 20, changed "medding" to "meddling" ("meddling with Sercomb's
business").
Page 21, changed "Mat" to "Matt" ("Matt started along the gully").
Page 25, changed "than" to "that" ("frame that enclosed").
Page 26, changed "in" to "is" ("house is like").
Page 28, changed "Villianous" to "Villainous" in "Villainous Plot."
End of Project Gutenberg's Motor Matt's Clue, by Stanley R. Matthews