MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING
ADVENTURE
MOTOR
FICTION
NO. 26
AUG. 21, 1909
FIVE
CENTS
MOTOR MATT'S
MAKE-AND-BREAK
OR ADVANCING THE
SPARK of FRIENDSHIP
_BY THE AUTHOR
OF "MOTOR MATT"_
[Illustration: _"Catch the rope and hold fast!"
cried Motor Matt, as the aeroplane
skimmed over the surface
of the river._]
_STREET & SMITH,
PUBLISHERS,
NEW YORK._
MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION
_Issued Weekly. By subscription $2.50 per year. Copyright, 1909, by_
STREET & SMITH, _79-80 Seventh Avenue, New York, N. Y._
No. 26. NEW YORK, August 21, 1909. Price Five Cents.
Motor Matt's "Make and Break"
OR,
ADVANCING THE SPARK OF FRIENDSHIP.
By the author of "MOTOR MATT."
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. THE SKELETON IN THE CLOSET.
CHAPTER II. WHAT NEXT?
CHAPTER III. BRINGING THE SKELETON OUT.
CHAPTER IV. MARKING OUT A COURSE.
CHAPTER V. THE START.
CHAPTER VI. A SHOT ACROSS THE BOWS.
CHAPTER VII. THE MAN HUNTERS.
CHAPTER VIII. FOOLING THE COWBOYS.
CHAPTER IX. THE TRAILING ROPE.
CHAPTER X. A BOLT FROM THE BLUE.
CHAPTER XI. "ADVANCING THE SPARK."
CHAPTER XII. THE TRAIL TO THE RIVER.
CHAPTER XIII. UNWELCOME CALLERS.
CHAPTER XIV. AN UNEXPECTED TURN.
CHAPTER XV. A RISKY VENTURE.
CHAPTER XVI. CONCLUSION.
MOSE HOWARD'S FISH TRAP.
PHOTOGRAPHS TAKEN IN DANGEROUS PLACES.
COSTLY FISHES.
CHARACTERS THAT APPEAR IN THIS STORY.
=Matt King=, otherwise Motor Matt.
=Joe McGlory=, a young cowboy who proves himself a lad of worth and
character, and whose eccentricities are all on the humorous side. A
good chum to tie to--a point Motor Matt is quick to perceive.
=Ping Pong=, a Chinese boy who insists on working for Motor Matt, and
who contrives to make himself valuable, perhaps invaluable.
=Amos Murgatroyd=, the unscrupulous broker whose fight against the
Traquairs and Motor Matt finally results in complete disaster to
himself.
=Prebbles=, Murgatroyd's old clerk, who resurrects the skeleton from
the family closet, fights a good fight, and, with the help of the
king of the motor boys, finally banishes the skeleton altogether.
=Newt Prebbles=, for whom Motor Matt undertakes to advance the spark
of friendship; a youth who has erred, but who comes to a turning
point and takes the right path.
=Lieutenant Cameron=, an officer in the Signal Corps, U. S. A., who
proves to be the cousin of an old friend of Matt, and who nearly
loses his life when the aëroplane is tested.
=Jed Spearman=, "=Slim=," "=Hen=," =and three others=, cowboys
belonging with the Tin Cup outfit, who make some mistakes and are
finally set right by the sheriff.
=Roscoe=, sheriff of Burleigh County, who plays a small but very
important part.
CHAPTER I.
THE SKELETON IN THE CLOSET.
"Where's the old man, Prebbles?"
"Don't ask me, Jim. I haven't a notion."
"Well, there's a letter for him."
The postman dropped a letter on the desk in front of the little old
man on the high stool, and the door slammed. Prebbles picked up the
letter and blinked at it. For a while he sat staring like a person in a
dream, then a gasp escaped his lips, and he slipped from the stool and
carried the letter closer to the window.
It was almost sunset, and a neighboring building shut off the light,
but there, close to the dusty window pane, the light was good enough.
The letter dropped from Prebbles' shaking hand, and he fell back
against the wall.
"It's from _him_," the old man mumbled; "it's--it's----"
The words died on his lips, and a choking gurgle arose in his throat.
Trembling like a man with the palsy, Prebbles pulled himself together
and staggered to the water cooler. He drew himself a glass, and the
tumbler rattled against his teeth as he drank.
"This won't do," he said to himself, drawing a hand across his forehead
in a dazed and bewildered way. "I've got to brace up, that's what I
have. But what's Newt writing to _him_ for? I--I can't understand that."
Prebbles went back and picked up the letter. He was still greatly
shaken, although he was getting firmer hold of himself by swift degrees.
It was a very ordinary appearing letter to have aroused such an
extraordinary state of mind in the old man. The address, in a peculiar
backhand, was to "Mr. Amos Murgatroyd, Loan Broker, Jamestown, North
Dakota."
Prebbles was Murgatroyd's clerk, and the only clerk in the loan office.
For several weeks Murgatroyd had not been in Jamestown, and the work of
the office--what little there was--fell to Prebbles.
During those weeks of absence, the broker had been doing unlawful
things. Prebbles, knowing his employer well, expected nothing better
of him; but just what Murgatroyd had been doing, the old clerk did not
know.
Strange men, who might be detectives in disguise, were watching the
office night and day. Prebbles had been keen enough to discover that.
It was the peculiar handwriting of the letter that had had such a
powerful effect upon the old clerk. Not one man in a thousand, perhaps
in ten thousand, used a pen as the writer of that letter to the broker
had used it. Prebbles felt sure that he could not be mistaken--that
there was not the least possibility of a mistake. He knew who the
writer of the letter was, and for weeks the old man's dream by day and
night was that he could discover the whereabouts of the man.
The envelope was postmarked at Steele, N. D. The writer might be there,
or he might not be there. After setting hand to the letter, it was more
than possible he had mailed the letter at Steele and then gone to some
other place.
There was one way to make sure--and only one: In order to find out
positively where the writer of the letter was, Prebbles would have to
open it and read it. Although a clerk in the office, his position did
not give him the right to open his employer's personal mail; in fact,
Murgatroyd had expressly forbidden this.
The letters received during Murgatroyd's absence--and they were but
few--had been placed in the office safe. A week before, the collected
letters had mysteriously vanished during the night, and in their place
was left this scribbled line:
"Dropped in and got my mail. Say nothing to any one about my having
been here. A. M."
That was all, absolutely all, Prebbles had learned of his employer
since he had left Jamestown several weeks before. Only two or three
letters had collected in the safe since the others had been taken, and
now this one from Steele must be added to them, unless----
Prebbles caught up a pair of scissors. Before he could snip off the end
of the envelope, he paused. To deliberately open a letter addressed
to some one else is a crime which, if brought to the attention of the
postal authorities, is heavily punished. Prebbles was not afraid of the
punishment, for he believed that Murgatroyd himself was a fugitive;
still, it was well to be wary.
Laying down the scissors, he ran the end of a pen-holder under the
flap. But again he paused, realizing, with a tremor, that he belonged
to the army, the Salvation Army. As a soldier in the ranks, had he
the right to take this advantage of his employer? On the streets,
Prebbles, because of his earnestness in the army work, he was known as
"Old Hallelujah." Poor business, this, for Old Hallelujah to rifle his
employer's mail!
With a groan, Prebbles pushed the letter aside and dropped his face
in his hands. While he was thus humped over his desk, a picture of
distress and misery, the door opened and a boy came in with a telegram.
The message was for Prebbles, and he signed the receipt. As soon as the
boy had left, he tore the message open.
"Forward mail at once to George Hobbes, Bismarck.
"HOBBES."
This was from Murgatroyd, and it was not the first time he had used the
name of "George Hobbes."
Was Prebbles to send that letter on without first seeing what was
inside it? Duty to his employer and duty to himself warred in his soul.
That last letter received for Murgatroyd might have been taken to the
police. They could secure authority from Washington to open it. But,
if the letter came from the person Prebbles suspected, he did not want
the police to see it.
The six o'clock whistle blew, but Prebbles paid no attention. He was
fighting with his Salvation Army principles, and the stake was the
contents of that letter to Murgatroyd.
At seven o'clock, the haggard old man, the battle still going on in his
breast, pushed the letter into his pocket and left the office, locking
the door behind him. He did not go to the cheap eating house where he
usually took his meals--there was no supper for him that night--but he
proceeded directly to the "barracks," got into his dingy blue cap and
coat, and took his cymbals. By eight, a dozen of the "faithful" were
in the street, their torches flaring smokily, and the bass drum, the
snare drum, the cymbals, and the tambourine whanging and clashing and
rattling a quickstep.
Back and forth they marched, then rounded up on a corner and sang one
of their army songs.
Old Hallelujah was particularly earnest, that night. His voice was
loudest in the singing, and his exhorting was done with a fine fervor.
His thin, crooked body straightened, and his eyes gleamed, and he
struck the cymbals with unusual vigor.
"Ole Halleluyer is gittin' young ag'in," ran the comment of more than
one bystander.
"If he's so pious," observed some one, "it's a wonder he don't break
away from that ole thief, Murgatroyd."
It _was_ a wonder, and no mistake. But the wonder was soon to cease.
At ten o'clock Prebbles and the rest were back in the barracks; and at
ten-thirty Prebbles was in his five-by-ten little hall bedroom, calmly
steaming open the letter to Murgatroyd. He had finished the fight, and
had nerved himself for his first false step. But was it a false step?
He had come to the conclusion that the end justified the means.
The letter, carefully written, jumped immediately into the business the
writer of it had in mind.
"I must have more money or I shall tell all I know about you and the
accident to Traquair and his aëroplane. I can't live on promises, and
I'm not going to make a fugitive out of myself any longer just to
shield you. You're a fugitive yourself, now, but I reckon you can dig
up enough money for both of us. I have dropped down the line of the
Northern Pacific to mail this letter; as soon as it is in the office,
I'm going back to my headquarters at the mouth of Burnt Creek, on the
Missouri, ten miles above Bismarck. You'd better meet me there at
once, as it's the safest place you can find. I suppose you've made
arrangements to have your mail forwarded, so I'm sending this to your
office. _Bring plenty of money._ NEWT PREBBLES."
For many a weary hour the old man paced the narrow confines of his
room, reading the letter again and again and turning the contents over
and over in his mind.
"The boy don't care for me, he's mad at me," muttered Prebbles wearily,
"but if I can make up with him, maybe he can be saved. What's this
about the accident to Traquair? What does Newt know about Murgatroyd?
No matter what happens, I've got to get the boy out of Murgatroyd's
clutches. If Newt stays with him, he'll be as bad as he is."
It was after midnight when Prebbles dropped weakly into a chair.
"Motor Matt will help me," he muttered.
The thought had come to him like a flash of inspiration. And another
inspiration had come to him, as well. He made a copy of the letter,
then placed the original in its envelope, carefully resealed it, and
went to the broker's office. To take the collected letters from the
safe, place them and the one from Steele in a large envelope and
address the envelope to "Mr. George Hobbes, General Delivery, Bismarck,
N. D.," consumed only a few minutes.
"Motor Matt will know how to do the rest of it," thought the old clerk.
"He's a clever lad, and he helps people. He helped Mrs. Traquair and
he'll help Prebbles. I'm done with this office for good, and I'm glad
of it."
He looked around the room with a grim laugh.
"I never thought I'd be pulling the pin on myself," he said aloud.
"Maybe it's the poorhouse for mine, but I'll be glad to starve if I can
make up with Newt and save him from that robber, Murgatroyd."
He turned off the light and closed and locked the office door. An hour
later he had dropped the long envelope into a letter box and was back
in his room. At seven in the morning he had boarded the northbound
train for Minnewaukon and Devil's Lake. Motor Matt was at Fort Totten,
on the south shore of the lake, and Prebbles would be at the fort in
the afternoon.
The king of the motor boys was the old man's hope. Prebbles knew
Matt, and had abundant faith in his ability to accomplish seemingly
impossible things.
"He'll help me," murmured Prebbles, leaning back in one corner of the
seat; "he helped Mrs. Traquair, and he'll help me."