CONCLUSION.
Doctors are not infallible, and the post doctor was no exception in
this respect. All his experience and skill in diagnosing the ills of
humanity, made him certain that Prebbles was booked for the other
world. But there was an error--and, more than likely, that error was
due to the arrival of Newt, who, it will be remembered, the doctor had
wired it would be useless to send.
Prebbles was singing his Salvation Army hymns when Newt stepped into
the sick room. All night he was marching the streets, in his disordered
mind, pounding the cymbals and exhorting. Occasionally there crept
into the oral wanderings a reference to the young man watching at the
bedside.
Most unexpectedly--most unaccountably, to the doctor--a lucid moment
came to Prebbles in the early morning. He saw his son, he recognized
him, and he felt his handclasp. There was a smile on the old man's lips
as he drifted back into his sea of visions.
But, from that moment, there was a noticeable change. There seemed more
resisting power in the wasted body of the old clerk, as though hope for
better things had grown up in him and was giving him strength.
To Matt, Newt Prebbles told what he knew about the accident to poor
Harry Traquair.
Siwash Charley, under agreement with Murgatroyd, had tampered with
Traquair's machine before the fatal flight, just as he had tampered
with Matt's machine before the official trials at Fort Totten. But
Traquair had not been so fortunate as the king of the motor boys.
Newt had learned of this villainous work through Siwash Charley, and
had received from Siwash, at a time when the ruffian was under the
influence of liquor, an incriminating note from the broker, signed with
his _alias_, "George Hobbes."
Prebbles had made use of this document, holding it over Murgatroyd's
head and extorting money from him on account of it.
This, of course, formed a sad commentary on the character of young
Prebbles. But Motor Matt, in "advancing the spark of friendship,"
so played upon the facts in the case, and showed up the broker's
duplicity, that the old clerk's illness formed the turning point in his
son's career.
Such transformations are not so rare as it would seem.
Cameron, Matt, Ping, and Roscoe arrived at the post in the afternoon
following the arrival of Matt and young Prebbles. Murgatroyd, of
course, accompanied them.
Murgatroyd was tried, not on the Traquair charge, but on the later
one of conniving, with Siwash Charley, to injure the aëroplane at the
government trials, thus endangering the life, not only of Motor Matt,
but of Lieutenant Cameron as well.
His sentence was commensurate with the evil he had attempted, and he
followed Siwash Charley to the Leavenworth prison.
After a few days the post doctor was as certain Prebbles would recover
as he had been positive, at the time he sent his message to Cameron,
that he had not many hours to live.
The reward paid by the government for the capture of Murgatroyd was
made over to the old clerk. On this, he and his son were to begin life
anew.
One of the first things Matt did, after reaching the post with Newt
Prebbles, was to write to Mrs. Traquair, at Jamestown, settling a
mystery which had long puzzled every one who knew of Murgatroyd's
attempts to secure the Wells County homestead.
There was coal under the soil of the quarter-section, and the railroad
company wanted it. That was the secret, and Mrs. Traquair profited
handsomely by the knowledge of it.
The mortgage was paid, and the homestead passed into the hands of the
railroad company.
In a country so barren of trees as North Dakota, coal is a valuable
commodity.
Matt still kept the aëroplane, and still persistently refused to put it
in storage at the post, to be called for later.
"The _Comet_," said Matt, one evening when he and McGlory were again
with Cameron, "has got to earn something for Joe, and Ping, and myself."
"Ping comes in on the deal, does he?" laughed Cameron.
"Share and share alike with the rest of us," averred Matt. "That
Chinese boy is loyalty itself. Down in that shelter tent, below the
post trader's, he spends his nights and days watching the aëroplane."
"And talking to it, and singing about it, and burning rice-paper
prayers to the heathen josses, asking them to keep it carefully and
not let it go broke while up in the air," put in McGlory. "Oh, he's a
freak, that Ping boy; but, as Matt says, he's a mighty good sort of a
freak at that. Look how he ran off with the rifles when we fooled the
Tin Cup punchers on the hill! And remember how he slammed that stone
through the window when Murgatroyd had drawn a fine bead on me and was
about to press the trigger. Share and share alike? Well, I should say."
"You're still determined to go into the show business, Matt?" asked
Cameron anxiously.
"I don't see why we shouldn't," said Matt. "Five hundred a week isn't
to be sneezed at. Joe's agreed, and so has Ping. When the first
favorable day arrives, we're going to fly to Fargo."
Two days later the favorable moment was at hand. All the soldiers at
the post were out to witness the start, and even the gruff post trader
was present to say good-by to the king of the motor boys and his
friends.
Matt's last call, at the post, was made on Prebbles. The old man was
practically out of danger, but his recovery would take time, and for a
long while yet he would have to remain in bed.
He was not able to say much, but what little he did say Matt considered
an ample reward for the strenuous adventures that had befallen him and
his chums on their flight to the upper Missouri.
Newt had become his sworn friend. Whenever Matt wanted any help, in any
way that was within Newt's power to grant, he was surely to call on
young Prebbles.
When finally Motor Matt took his way down the post hill for the last
time, he was in an exceedingly thoughtful mood.
He remembered when he had first come to Devil's Lake, knowing nothing
about aëroplanes, and had practiced with the _June Bug_ until he had
acquired the knack of flying the machine and had made good and sold the
machine to the government for enough to give large profit to himself
and his friends, and, what pleased him most, to place Mrs. Traquair
above want.
He remembered, too, how he had sailed away alone into Wells County
on a fool's errand, had become entangled in a losing cause, and had
experienced a sharp reverse.
But, best of all, in his estimation, was the night journey back to the
post from the Missouri River, bringing Newt Prebbles to his father's
bedside.
Down into the cheering throng below the post trader's store went the
king of the motor boys, shaking hands with every one he met, Indians,
whites, or "breeds," receiving good wishes from all and heartily
returning them.
For the last time the aëroplane was dragged from the shelter tent,
given a strong start along the old familiar roadway, and then watched
as it climbed up and up into the air and winged swiftly eastward,
carrying Motor Matt, and Joe McGlory, and Ping into untried ventures
and fresh fields of endeavor.
THE END.
THE NEXT NUMBER (27) WILL CONTAIN
Motor Matt's Engagement;
OR,
ON THE ROAD WITH A SHOW.
"On the Banks of the Wabash"--In the Calliope Tent--An
Eavesdropper--Queer Proceedings--Motor Matt Protests--A Blaze in the
Air--Was it Treachery?--A Call for Help--Black Magic--The Mahout's
Flight--The Paper Trail--Carl Turns a Trick--The Lacquered Box--The
Hypnotist's Victim--"For the Sake of Haidee"--The Rajah's Niece
MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION
NEW YORK, August 21, 1909.
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STREET & SMITH, Publishers,
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York City.
MOSE HOWARD'S FISH TRAP.
Nicodemus Squab, Professor of Orthography in the Jimtown district
school, was a man of an inquiring turn of mind.
Overhearing some of the scholars discussing a prospective coon hunt
that was to come off the following Saturday night, the professor drew
near and inquired if they would allow him to join them.
"Of course you kin jine us," said Mose Howard, who was the ringleader
in all the devilment in the neighborhood. "Glad tu have you go 'long.
We'll come by for you."
"Thank you," said the professor. "I never was coon hunting in my life,
though I've always wanted to go--just to see how it is done, you know."
According to promise, Mose Howard, Dick Miller, and Joe Smiley came
by for the professor, who was ready and waiting, and who joined the
hunters, anticipating a jolly old time.
After winding up the coon hunt, which resulted in the capture of five
possums and three coons, Mose Howard proposed that they should go back
by the fish trap and catch a mess of fish.
The proposition was unanimously agreed to, and they struck off down
the creek, the professor bringing up the rear, puffing and blowing,
though highly elated at the variation that this additional act in the
programme promised, as well as at the prospect of a successful raid
upon the finny tribe.
The "Dofuny" contraption that Mose dignified with the name of fish trap
consisted merely of a large sack held open by a hoop, around which
the mouth of the sack was fastened, and a couple of ropes, one end of
which was fastened to each side of the hoop, while the other ends were
fastened to trees on the opposite sides of the stream, in such a way as
to allow the hoop to remain about halfway submerged.
On the bank of the creek was a lantern, in which was about half a
tallow candle.
Producing some matches, Mose lit the candle and proceeded to explain to
the professor the modus operandi of catching fish with his new-fangled
trap.
"You just take the lamp, and wade into the trap, and hold the lamp
right in front of the mouth so that the fish can see how to run in, and
we boys'll go away down the creek and pull off our clothes and wade
into the creek and drive the fish up and into the trap."
The professor, as unsuspicious of any trick as a sucking baby, shucked
himself, and then taking up the lantern, waded into the trap that the
boys set for him instead of for fish, and in the construction of which
they had not only exhausted their financial resources in the purchase
of the material out of which it was constructed, but also their
ingenuity in the getting up and fabrication of the same.
"Ugh!" grunted the professor, as he reached the trap and placed the
lantern in the position indicated, "this water is cold as ice. I want
you boys to make haste."
"Yes, sir," responded the boys.
"You'll hear us hollerin' as we come," said Mose, and off they started
down the creek in a trot.
"All right," said the professor.
As soon as they got out of sight their gait slackened to a walk, which
they kept till they reached a point some four hundred yards distant
from the trap, when, seating themselves on a log, they began the most
uproarious din of yelling and howling that had ever awakened the
slumbering echoes of those old woods since the aborigines had vacated
the premises.
After about an hour spent in this way the boys got up and advanced
slowly up the bank of the stream about a hundred yards, when they
seated themselves on another log, where they continued to whoop and
yell like so many wild Indians.
After another hour thus spent they made another advance which brought
the professor and the fish trap within their range of vision, though,
owing to the darkness, they were not visible to him.
"Hurry up, boys!" he shouted. "I'm nearly froze, and the candle's
nearly out."
That was what they were waiting for--the candle to burn out--so that
their failure to catch fish could be laid to the absence of the light.
"Yes, sir!" they shouted back; "we're hurrying as fast as we can!"
And renewing their yells, they advanced slowly--very slowly--up the
stream.
"Hurry up! hurry up!" again shouted the professor. "The candle will be
out in two minutes."
"Ay, ay, sir!" shouted Mose back; "but you must stop hollerin', or
you'll skeer the fish."
Sure enough, in about two minutes the candle gave a last convulsive
flicker, and in the twinkling of an eye thick darkness reigned as
absolutely over the professor and the fish trap as elsewhere.
"Boys," said Mose, in a tone of voice loud enough for the professor to
hear him, "there ain't no use wadin' in this water any longer; let's go
back an' git our cloze."
Seating themselves on a log, they sat perfectly silent for a
while--long enough, as they thought, for it to have taken them to go
back to where they commenced their drive, dress themselves, and reach
that point on their return--when they got up and resumed their progress
upstream.
On reaching the trap, they found the professor on shore, and though he
had completed his toilet, his teeth were chattering together worse than
a pair of castanets rattling off a quickstep march.
"We'll have to try it over ag'in some other time," said Mose, "and
fetch more candles with us. I thought we had plenty this time, but we
didn't. I guess I'll bring enough next time."
"Why didn't you fellows hurry up?" said the professor. "What made you
come so slow?" the chattering of his teeth as he spoke causing him to
cut the words into more than the legitimate number of syllables to
which they were entitled.
"Couldn't come no faster," said Mose. "The water was so thunderin' cold
the fish wouldn't drive fast."
Satisfied with this explanation, the professor fell into ranks as
the boys filed off in the direction of home. The exercise of walking
soon brought a reaction in his system, the first effect of which was
to put a stop to the music of the castanets, and on reaching home he
pronounced himself all right again.
Sometime during the ensuing week Mose Howard informed the professor
that they were going to try the fish trap again the following Saturday
night, and asked him if he didn't want to go along.
The professor gave an involuntary shudder as the recollection of that
protracted soaking in ice water of the previous Saturday night flashed
across his mind.
Discretion prompted him to give a negative response. Curiosity,
however, got the better of discretion, and he accepted the invitation.
"I'll be on hand," said he. "There's no fun standing in that cold
water, especially when you get no fish; but if you can stand it I guess
I can."
At the appointed time the boys came by, when, the professor joining
them, they proceeded to the fish trap.
On arriving there, Mose produced a couple of pieces of candle, one of
which he proceeded to light and put in the lantern. It was nearly twice
as long as the one they had burned out on the previous occasion.
The other piece he placed in the lantern, so that it could be easily
got at if it should be needed.
This latter piece Mose had had manufactured himself especially for the
occasion, and had taken some little pains in its construction.
After soaking the wick in water until it was perfectly saturated, he
had taken a skillet and melted some tallow therein; then placing the
wick in a mould, he filled the latter with the melted tallow, and the
thing was accomplished.
This particular candle he had carefully marked, so as to be able to
distinguish it from any other candle.
Before completing their arrangements at the fish trap, preparatory to
beginning the drive, the professor proposed that one of the boys should
take his place at the trap while he accompanied the others and assisted
in driving the fish.
"Kin you swim?" asked Mose Howard.
"No," answered the professor.
"Well, you'd run the resk ov gittin' drownded, then," said Mose.
"You go on, then," said the professor, "and I'll mind the trap."
So off the boys started, and going down the stream about a mile, seated
themselves upon a log, and began yelling and whooping, as on the
previous occasion.
Hour after hour passed, each hour seeming to the benumbed professor an
age.
The yelling approached slowly but surely.
The boys had now arrived at a point where every motion of the professor
was distinctly visible.
The piece of candle Mose had lighted and put in the lantern was nearly
burned out. Taking up the other piece, the professor proceeded to light
it. Placing it in the lantern, it gave a splutter and went out. Dark!
Dark was no name for it. No moon, no stars, no matches.
But that bogus candle would have been a match for a whole box of
matches.
"What in thunder's the matter now?" shouted Mose.
"The candle's gone out," shouted the professor back. "Have you got any
matches?" he inquired.
"Nary match," said Mose.
"What's to be done?" inquired the professor.
"Nuthin'," said Mose. "The thing's played out. Put on your cloze, while
we go and git ourn, and then we'll git for home."
Seating themselves on a log, the boys remained quiet for a while, then
rising to their feet, they came up to where the professor was waltzing
around trying to get up a circulation.
"Another waterhaul," said Mose.
"Looks a good deal like it," said the professor.
"Don't know why the mischief some of us didn't think tu bring some
matches," said Mose.
"I don't know, either," responded the professor, in a deprecating tone
of voice, as though he entertained the idea that somehow or other he
had been mainly instrumental in producing the bad luck.
"Better luck next time," said Mose philosophically, as he struck out
for home, followed by the others.
They had proceeded about two-thirds of the way home, groping their way
as best they could through the thick darkness, when a shrill, prolonged
scream directly ahead of them, and apparently at no great distance,
broke upon their startled auriculars.
"Painter!" ejaculated Mose, in a low tone of voice, though sufficiently
loud to be distinctly audible to the professor, at the same time
springing to one side, and the next moment he was out of the
professor's hearing.
The fact was he had only taken a couple of steps and then squatted in
the grass as completely concealed from his companions by the intense
darkness as though he had been on the opposite side of the globe.
"Painter!" repeated the other boys, following Mose's example, of
springing to one side and squatting in the grass.
Left alone, the professor, with hair on end, paused a moment to collect
his scattered thoughts; but only for a moment.
Another scream long drawn out, and apparently but a few yards distant,
set his dumpling-shaped body in motion, and the next moment he was
streaking it across the country as fast as his duck legs could carry
him.
Tumbling over a log lying on the edge of a bank some twenty feet high
and nearly perpendicular, down which he rolled, he landed in a mud hole
at the bottom.
Gathering himself up he began looking for his hat, which had parted
company with him on the way down the bank, when, another scream
breaking upon his ear, he struck out once more on his race for life,
hatless and covered with mud from his head to his heels.
Coming to a brier patch, he was on the point of diverging from
his course in order to try and go around it, when another scream
precipitated the terror-stricken professor into the patch like a
catapult.
Emerging from the brier patch with his coat tails torn into ribbons,
the mud-begrimed professor held on the even tenor of his way without
any diminution of speed for a hundred yards or so, when his pace began
to slacken a little. Another scream, however, put him to his mettle
again, but as that was the last, and as he was about exhausted, he soon
settled down to a walk, and presently stumbling over a log, he picked
himself up and seated himself thereon.
After resting a while, plunged in the meantime in a deep cogitation, he
finally concluded to try and seek a shelter for the remainder of the
night. So, starting forward, he wandered about first in one direction
and then in another, and it was not until daylight began to streak the
eastern horizon that he stumbled on a clearing in the woods, in the
midst of which was a log cabin.
Cautiously approaching the cabin, he had reached the foot of a sapling
some fifty steps from the door when a big dog came dashing around the
corner of the house, barking in a most furious manner.
No sooner did the professor catch sight of the dog bouncing along in
the direction of him and the sapling than he was seized with such a
sudden panic as to cause him to grasp the sapling in his arms and start
up it, though, owing to want of practice, with hardly the agility of
a squirrel. After a tremendous effort he succeeded in reaching a fork
some ten feet from the ground, where he seated himself, and awaited the
issue of events.
He didn't have long to wait. The furious barking of the dog soon roused
the inmates of the cabin.
Scarcely a minute had elapsed after the professor had succeeded, by
the most superhuman exertions, in seating himself comfortably in the
fork of the sapling, out of the reach of the dog, when the door of the
cabin opened and a huge six-footer of a backwoodsman, somewhat airily
attired, with a rifle of corresponding size with himself in his hand,
emerged therefrom.
"What you got thar, Bull?" said the man, as he approached the sapling,
at the root of which the dog was barking in a most vociferous manner.
"What is it, old feller?" he continued. "B'ar, painter, ur catamount?"
Bull's response was an abortive attempt to climb the tree, accompanied
by a most furious outburst of barking.
"Be quiet, old feller," said the man; "we'll soon see what it is," at
the same time raising his rifle to his shoulder.
"Hold on there," shouted the professor, who was beginning to realize
the perilous position in which he was placed, and the imminent danger
he was in of being shot for a bear or catamount. "I am no varmint.
I'm Nicodemus Squab, Professor of Orthography in the Jimtown district
school."
"Hallo," said the backwoodsman, as he lowered his rifle, "is that so?
Well, that gits me. What in thunder ur you doin' up thar?"
"Wait till I get down, and I'll tell you."
And crawling out of the crotch in which he had been seated, the
professor slid down the sapling, when he soon succeeded in explaining
matters to the satisfaction of that thinly clad backwoodsman and his
savage bulldog.
It was now broad daylight, and when he reached Jimtown the sun was some
distance above the horizon, climbing upward toward the zenith.
Of course every man, woman, and child in the place beheld, with
wonder-depicted countenances, the advent of the mud-begrimed, hatless
professor, and a thousand conjectures were indulged in as to the cause
of his singular appearance.
The professor was disposed to be reticent on the subject, answering
interrogatories in relation to the matter evasively; but the joke was
too good to be kept, and in less than twenty-four hours his approach
toward any crowd was greeted by a broad grin overspreading the
countenances of a majority of the members thereof, and his departure
signalized by a long guffaw.
This conduct on the part of the citizens annoyed the professor
considerably at first; then it grew monotonous, and he became disgusted.
Finally he burst into a flame of indignation, and after taking his
revenge out of the hides of the pupils, especially Mose Howard and his
confederates, the irate professor shook the dust of Jimtown off his
feet, and betook himself to parts unknown.
PHOTOGRAPHS TAKEN IN DANGEROUS PLACES.
"Race war in Alabama. Take cinematograph pictures of fighting and
country." "Want pictures of Dyaks of Borneo as soon as possible."
"Series wanted of whale-hunting in Arctic regions."
The average man, receiving one of these messages with his breakfast,
would not regard the commission exactly in the light of a pleasure
trip. To the cinematograph man, however, such orders are all in a day's
work. He simply packs up his machine, makes his arrangements in the
shortest possible time, and goes right ahead with the business.
It is thrilling and wonderful work at times; and it requires a little
patience, too. "One of our photographers," said the manager of a
company recently, "once sat beside a geyser in Iceland for three
weeks, waiting for an eruption to take place, in order that he might
obtain some pictures of this wonderful phenomenon. The geyser seemed in
no hurry to oblige him, so he left the district for a couple of days.
When he returned he found that the eruption had taken place and the
geyser had again become inactive.
"Another of our photographers, who went out to Borneo to take pictures
of the home life of the natives, narrowly escaped losing his head as
well as his machine. The natives thought the latter was some new and
powerful weapon, and it was only by the timely intervention of the
interpreter, who explained matters, that they adopted a more friendly
attitude.
"By the way, this particular photographer raised a good laugh when
he came home. We wanted some pictures taken while traveling down the
water chute at an exhibition. It was necessary for the operator and the
machine to be strapped to the boat, in order that he might be quite
free to turn the handle and take the photographs as he shot down the
chute. I asked the photographer from Borneo to do the job. 'I would
rather be excused,' he said; 'I've got a weak heart.' Here was a man,
who spent weeks among one of the most savage tribes in the world, who
was afraid to go down a water chute. Nerves are peculiar things.
"I think, however, the worst experience which has befallen one of our
photographers was that of the man we sent to take the pictures of a
whale-hunting expedition. A fine school--I believe that is the correct
term--of whales was sighted one day. The boats went in pursuit, and our
photographer with his machine entered one of them. The crew of this
boat managed to harpoon a fine big whale, who went through the sea at a
terrific pace, dragging the boat behind him. Our photographer was just
congratulating himself on getting some of the most realistic pictures
ever obtained, when suddenly the whale doubled in its tracks, and, to
make a long story short, smashed the boat. Luckily, another boat came
up at the critical moment and rescued the crew and the photographer.
But the latter is always bemoaning the fact that one of the finest sets
of cinematograph pictures ever taken lies at the bottom of the Arctic
Ocean."
Some of the most interesting pictures shown, however, are scenes taken
en route while traveling by rail in various parts of the world. A
special engine is chartered, and the operator, with his machine, takes
his place on the front platform of the engine, or on a low truck which
the engine pushes in front of it. Thus mile after mile of scenery is
photographed as the engine rushes along. It is a rather ticklish job,
particularly in wild regions where all sorts of animals stray on to the
line, and there is a risk of collision and general smash.
Doubtless many readers are acquainted with the entertaining and novel
manner in which these pictures are afterward shown. One sits in a
stationary model of a railway carriage, the picture being thrown on a
screen at the end. A motor underneath the carriage gives a realistic
impression of the noise made by a train when traveling, and thus one
seems to be rushing through the country which is being depicted on the
screen. It is a novel notion, which is deserving of all the success and
popularity it has attained.
COSTLY FISHES.
The most beautiful and withal costly fishes in the world come from
China, and of these the most expensive and rarest is the brush-tail
goldfish. Specimens of these have sold for as high as $700 each, and in
Europe the prices range from $250 to $500. The brush-tail goldfish is
so small that a half-crown piece will cover it, and probably there is
no living thing of its size and weight that is worth so much money.
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.
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11--Motor Matt's Daring Rescue; or, The Strange Case of Helen Brady.
12--Motor Matt's Peril; or, Castaway in the Bahamas.
13--Motor Matt's Queer Find; or, The Secret of the Iron Chest.
14--Motor Matt's Promise; or, The Wreck of the _Hawk_.
15--Motor Matt's Submarine; or, The Strange Cruise of the _Grampus_.
16--Motor Matt's Quest; or, Three Chums in Strange Waters.
17--Motor Matt's Close Call; or, The Snare of Don Carlos.
18--Motor Matt in Brazil; or, Under the Amazon.
19--Motor Matt's Defiance; or, Around the Horn.
20--Motor Matt Makes Good; or, Another Victory for the Motor Boys.
21--Motor Matt's Launch; or, A Friend in Need.
22--Motor Matt's Enemies; or, A Struggle for the Right.
23--Motor Matt's Prize; or, The Pluck That Wins.
24--Motor Matt on the Wing; or, Flying For Fame and Fortune.
TIP TOP WEEKLY
The most popular publication for boys. The adventures of Frank and Dick
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Thirty-two pages. Price, 5 cents.=
684--Dick Merriwell at the "Meet"; or, Honors Worth Winning.
685--Dick Merriwell's Protest; or, The Man Who Would Not Play Clean.
686--Dick Merriwell In The Marathon; or, The Sensation of the Great
Run.
687--Dick Merriwell's Colors; or, All For the Blue.
688--Dick Merriwell, Driver; or, The Race for the Daremore Cup.
689--Dick Merriwell on the Deep; or, The Cruise of the _Yale_.
690--Dick Merriwell in the North Woods; or, The Timber Thieves of the
Floodwood.
691--Dick Merriwell's Dandies; or, A Surprise for the Cowboy Nine.
692--Dick Merriwell's "Skyscooter"; or, Professor Pagan and the
"Princess."
693--Dick Merriwell in the Elk Mountains; or, The Search for "Dead
Injun" Mine.
694--Dick Merriwell in Utah; or, The Road to "Promised Land."
695--Dick Merriwell's Bluff; or, The Boy Who Ran Away.
696--Dick Merriwell in the Saddle; or, The Bunch from the Bar-Z.
697--Dick Merriwell's Ranch Friends; or, Sport on the Range.
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,
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646--Three Times Stolen; or, Nick Carter's Strange Clue.
647--The Great Diamond Syndicate; or, Nick Carter's Cleverest Foes.
648--The House of the Yellow Door; or, Nick Carter in the Old French
Quarter.
649--The Triangle Clue; or, Nick Carter's Greenwich Village Case.
650--The Hollingsworth Puzzle; or, Nick Carter Three Times Baffled.
651--The Affair of the Missing Bonds; or, Nick Carter in the Harness.
652--The Green Box Clue; or, Nick Carter's Good Friend.
653--The Taxicab Mystery; or, Nick Carter Closes a Deal.
654--The Mystery of a Hotel Room; or, Nick Carter's Best Work.
655--The Tragedy of the Well; or, Nick Carter Under Suspicion.
656--The Black Hand; or, Chick Carter's Well-laid Plot.
657--The Black Hand Nemesis; or, Chick Carter and the Mysterious
Woman.
658--A Masterly Trick; or, Chick and the Beautiful Italian.
659--A Dangerous Man; or, Nick Carter and the Famous Castor Case.
_For sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address on receipt
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_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, " ________________________________
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A GREAT SUCCESS!!
MOTOR STORIES
Every boy who reads one of the splendid adventures of Motor Matt, which
are making their appearance in this weekly, is at once surprised and
delighted. Surprised at the generous quantity of reading matter that we
are giving for five cents; delighted with the fascinating interest of
the stories, second only to those published in the Tip Top Weekly.
Matt has positive mechanical genius, and while his adventures are
unusual, they are, however, drawn so true to life that the reader can
clearly see how it is possible for the ordinary boy to experience them.
_HERE ARE THE TITLES NOW READY AND THOSE TO BE PUBLISHED_:
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.
10--Motor Matt's Hard Luck; or, The Balloon House Plot.
11--Motor Matt's Daring Rescue; or, The Strange Case of Helen Brady.
12--Motor Matt's Peril; or, Cast Away in the Bahamas.
13--Motor Matt's Queer Find; or, The Secret of the Iron Chest.
14--Motor Matt's Promise; or, The Wreck of the "Hawk."
15--Motor Matt's Submarine; or, The Strange Cruise of the "Grampus."
16--Motor Matt's Quest; or, Three Chums in Strange Waters.
17--Motor Matt's Close Call; or, The Snare of Don Carlos.
18--Motor Matt in Brazil; or, Under the Amazon.
19--Motor Matt's Defiance; or, Around the Horn.
20--Motor Matt Makes Good; or, Another Victory for the Motor Boys.
21--Motor Matt's Launch; or, A Friend in Need.
22--Motor Matt's Enemies; or, A Struggle for the Right.
23--Motor Matt's Prize; or, The Pluck that Wins.
24--Motor Matt on the Wing; or, Flying for Fame and Fortune.
To be Published on August 9th.
25--Motor Matt's Reverse; or, Caught in a Losing Game.
To be Published on August 16th.
26--Motor Matt's "Make or Break"; or, Advancing the Spark of
Friendship.
To be Published on August 23d.
27--Motor Matt's Engagement; or, On the Road With a Show.
To be Published on August 30th.
28--Motor Matt's "Short Circuit"; or, The Mahout's Vow.
PRICE, FIVE CENTS
At all newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, by the publishers upon receipt
of the price.
STREET & SMITH, _Publishers_, NEW YORK
Transcriber's Notes:
Added table of contents.
Italics are represented with _underscores_, bold with =equal signs=.
Page 2, corrected "aëroplan" to "aëroplane" in "Traquair and his
aëroplane."
Page 3, corrected "Tarquair" to "Traquair" in "try-out of the Traquair"
and "you and Mrs. Traquair sold."
Page 6, corrected "wil" to "will" in "money will go to you."
Page 10, corrected "se" to "see" in "see the time-piece."
Page 14, converted ligature in "manoeuvre" to "oe" for text edition;
ligature retained in HTML version.
Page 25, corrected "Pebbles" to "Prebbles" in "good stuff in young
Pebbles."
Page 29, corrected "thty" to "they" in "which they kept till."
End of Project Gutenberg's Motor Matt's Make-and-Break, by Stanley R. Matthews