CONCLUSION.
Matt King opened his eyes in his old room at the Briggs House. The roar
of the limited was still in his ears, and the awful grinding crash that
he had last heard. Sheriff Burke was sitting beside the bed and there
were innumerable bandages about Matt's body and a strong smell of drugs
in the room.
"How's everything?" Matt mumbled, trying to sit up.
Burke gently pushed him back.
"Fine and dandy, Matt," said he: "but, best of all, is the way you got
out of that smash."
"Oh, is it you, Mr. Burke?" queried Matt.
"Surest thing you know," laughed Burke. "That was a great race you
made. Racin' the limited! First time it was ever done in these parts."
"Who brought me in?" went on Matt.
"A couple of freighters who were with the wagon you ran into. They
thought you were going to turn up your toes, but 'Not for him,' says I.
'That boy,' I says, 'wasn't born to be snuffed out in a little smash
like that.' But you've been unconscious for quite a while."
"How long?"
"Well, it's five o'clock now, and you had your race along about
nine-forty, this morning."
"What's the matter with me?" demanded Matt, in consternation. "I'm not
badly hurt, am I? I don't feel as though I was."
"Not a bone broken, and that's the wonder of it. You hit that wagon
like an earthquake, they say. You've had the skin scraped off you in
several places, but the doctor says you'll be as well as ever in a
week--providing there are no internal injuries."
"Well," said Matt, "there aren't any. I'd know it, I guess, if there
was."
"I guess you would."
"Heard anything from Phoenix?"
"Got news that will make you feel like a fighting-cock! A telegram got
here sayin' that Clipperton has been freed----"
"Glory!"
"McReady got there in time to flash the affidavit of Pima Pete's
before the case went to the jury; but the telegram says it wasn't the
affidavit that turned the trick so much as the grit and determination
of you and McReady in getting the document to Phoenix."
"But Clip's innocent! Everybody's got to know that."
"Everybody _will_ know it, too," averred the sheriff. "The two men who
took the money from Fresnay were captured by three of the men I sent
out on your tip. They brought the rascals in, not more than an hour
ago, gold and all--not early enough to free Clipperton, but in plenty
of time to set him straight with anybody who still had a doubt of his
innocence. I wired the news to Phoenix an hour ago, and McKibben and
some more people will be up on to-night's freight."
There seemed to be nothing more that Motor Matt could wish for. But he
roused up from a reverie to ask after the _Comet_.
"That motor-cycle," said Burke, "is a mass of junk. You've had your
last ride on it, Matt. You did a lot of good work with that machine."
"But the best work I ever did with it," said Matt, "I did this morning.
What I accomplished for Clip was worth the price. And Chub! Talk about
pluck and grit, he showed it if ever a fellow did."
"You both showed it," said Burke. "One of the captured scoundrels,
Torrel by name, has turned State's evidence. He told me all about
everything. Says he, and the fellow with him, have been staying at the
house of a Mexican in Phoenix, ever since the Dangerfield gang was put
out of business. They knew Dangerfield had buried ten thousand dollars
in gold, not far away in the hills, and they knew Pima Pete had been
let into the secret of the cache. They were in Phoenix watching Pete.
A Mexican, belonging to the place where the two outlaws were staying,
carried a note to you that had been given him by Pete. This was after
the robbery----"
"But how did Torrel and his pal know about the pay-roll money?"
interposed Matt. "If they were watching Pete in order to locate
Dangerfield's gold----"
"That's right," broke in Burke, "I'm getting a little ahead of my yarn.
Well, they heard from some one that Fresnay had come to town after
the ranch-money. That gave them the idea they could make a rich haul
without bothering with Pete, so they went out in the hills and made it.
They learned, next morning, that Clipperton and Pete had been captured,
that Pete had got away, and that circumstances pointed to Clipperton as
the thief--Clip and Pete; see?"
"Then Torrel and his pal came back into Phoenix. That was the time
they got next to the note sent by Pete to you. The Mexican messenger
had read it. The real thieves knew at once that Pima Pete was planning
to save Clip, and, naturally, Torrel and his pal didn't want it that
way. If Clip and Pete were believed guilty, then the real thieves
could enjoy their loot without having the authorities bother them.
So Torrel's pal tried to bluff you out by sending the Mexican with a
warning. You wouldn't be bluffed. The two scoundrels laid for you in
the hills--and you showed them your heels."
"What did Torrel and his pardner want to hang around Prescott for?"
queried Matt. "Why didn't they skip when they had a chance?"
"They were expecting to meet another of the old gang at the old
Hopewell tunnel. They went there to meet him, and found Pima Pete. Then
they held Pete a prisoner in the tunnel until they thought the law had
taken care of Clip, got word that the man they were waiting for was in
Maricopa, and pulled out early Sunday night, in the storm. That was the
last of them, and their move once more gave Pete a free hand, for since
that money of Dangerfield's had been taken in charge by the State as
that stolen from Fresnay, they had no reason to hold Pete."
"What about the fellow at Maricopa?"
"I wired that town and an officer went after him. But the man will not
be caught--I'm positive of that."
"Have you captured Pete?"
A queer look crossed Burke's face.
"I reckon I could have captured him, if I'd tried to right hard," said
he slowly, "but I didn't try."
"Why not?"
"Well, he showed himself a good deal of a man, for a half-breed, and
I'm not hungry to make a thousand off of him."
Matt reached out his hand and gave the sheriff's big paw a cordial grip.
"I'm glad you feel that way," said he. "I can't explain, but what you
say does me a lot of good."
It was half-past ten that night before the Phoenix delegation arrived
in Prescott.
McKibben and Leffingwell came, and Clip, and Chub, and Welcome Perkins,
and--last but not least--Susie. Susie was going to take care of Matt
until he was well enough to dispense with a nurse.
It is useless to dwell on the meeting of these friends with Matt.
Clip's dark eyes expressed his feelings, and henceforth only death
could wipe out the close friendship born of recent exciting events.
In a week, so well was Matt looked after, that he was up and
around--not quite as full of ginger as ever, but rapidly getting back
into his old form.
He had more money in the bank, too--even after Short had corralled the
$500--than he had before Clipperton had got into difficulties. Some of
Dangerfield's gold came to him--Matt would only take enough to offset
Short's fee and other expenses--and there was a "rake-off" from the
$2,000 Burke received for the capture of Tolliver and his partner.
Motor Matt, when he went back to Phoenix, found himself more popular
than ever. He had lost the game little _Comet_, but it was only a start
for higher things in the motor line. Just what these things were, and
the fame and fortune they brought to Motor Matt will be touched upon in
the next story.
THE END.
THE NEXT NUMBER (5) WILL CONTAIN
MOTOR MATT'S MYSTERY
OR,
FOILING A SECRET PLOT.
A Dutchman in Trouble--The Runaway Auto--The Man at the Roadside--The
Mystery Deepens--Matt Gets a Job--Concerning the Letter--The Two
Horsemen--On the Road--In the Hands of the Enemy--A Shift in the
Situation--A Surprise--Escape--The Hut in the Hills--Back to the
Car--A Race and a Ruse--In Ash Fork.
MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION
NEW YORK, March 20, 1909.
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79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York City.
THE TENNIS-GROUND MYSTERY.
By OLIVER K. ROSSE.
It was about half-past six, one brilliant morning in June, and the
boys of Bidford School were dressing themselves, preparatory to
"scudding" for the river, wherein to take their customary seven-o'clock
"dip." Every one was out of bed, skipping to and fro, as lively as
grasshoppers, throwing wet sponges at one another, and indulging in
divers other jocular vagaries, which sufficiently accounted for the
many strange noises and the repeated loud bursts of laughter that
greeted the listening ear.
The inmates of dormitory number one were the younger members of the
school, and the merriest and most popular of all were Caggles and
Bottlebury.
"I say, Bottlebury," cried Caggles, a youth who had a deal of
confidence in his own powers, "I'll swim you this morning, and 'lick'
you by a dozen yards."
"All right," said Bottlebury; "but you can bet your life I'll have the
laugh on you! I've been putting in a lot of practise lately."
"That's what you always say, 'Bot,' old bird."
"Well! it's right enough. Whoop! Here's a black beetle in one of my
shoes!"
"Don't kill it! It's mine," cried a lanky youth, dashing forward.
"Look here, Fuzzy, you beast," said Bottlebury, "you'll get punched
until you're black and blue if you bring such disgusting creeping
reptiles up here."
Fuzzy was an amateur naturalist, and delighted to keep a stock of
living insects about his person, in pill-boxes.
"This fellow got loose," he said, as he fearlessly picked up the
coal-black beetle and popped it into the small cardboard prison which
he had ready.
"I say, 'Cag,'" resumed Bottlebury, "it's our turn to roll the
tennis-ground."
"So it is," said Caggles; "won't it be hot work if the sun hangs out
all day!"
"I should say so!" assented his friend. "I say, though, you were
dreaming like a madman last night."
"Was I?" laughed Caggles; "I'm an awful fellow to dream. I used to walk
in my sleep, but I've got over that. They say it comes of having an
active brain."
"Aye; and they say that kids with active brains like that generally
turn out to be tip-top poets and authors."
"Do they?" said Caggles, suddenly imagining himself a budding genius.
"Oh," said Bottlebury, with delightfully refreshing candor, "I don't
suppose it means anything in your case, you know."
"Why?" asked the disappointed Caggles, in an injured tone of voice.
"Well, I don't think you've got enough brains for 'em to be active.
It'll be active nerves in your case. It's just the same, only it's
different; see?"
"Was I talking in my sleep?" asked Caggles, anxious to change the
subject.
"I think so. I just caught something about 'moles,' but I went to sleep
pretty soon after."
"Well, I've been wishing for a mole," said Caggles; "Tupman says
they've got no eyes, and I say they have. I'm going to hunt for one of
the little beggars, just to see who's right."
At that juncture the door was flung open, and Crieff, one of the oldest
boys in the school, rushed into the dormitory, red and breathless, and
minus his cap.
Now, Crieff was usually a very sedate fellow, and went about as
stately as an Oriental grandee. His neck was rather long, and at every
stride he stiffened his legs and bulged out his chest, so that he was
suggestive, somewhat, of a dignified stork.
The boys of the dormitory were astonished, therefore, to see him in so
breathless and limp a state.
"What's up?" asked Caggles, with mouth agape.
"The tennis-ground!" gasped Crieff, mopping his face with a
handkerchief.
The tennis-ground at Bidford School was reputed to be one of the finest
in the whole neighborhood. It had been specially laid, and its smooth
surface was as level as a billiard-table. Every boy was proud of it,
and Crieff tended it with the anxiety of a father.
"What's up with it?" asked two or three voices.
"Spoiled! Ruined!" said Crieff, almost with tears in his eyes.
"Never!" cried Bottlebury.
"It is. Somebody has dug holes all over it with a spade. I've just been
down and seen it."
"It was all right yesterday afternoon," said Caggles, with an
expression of disgust on his face.
"Some one must have done it in the night," said Crieff; "I believe it's
one of those village kids I thrashed last week for throwing stones."
"Very likely," said Caggles; "they'll do anything for spite."
"They used our spade, too," continued Crieff; "the one out of the shed.
The lock of the door has been useless for some time, you know. They
must have gone in and taken out the spade; I found it lying on the
ground."
The inmates of the dormitory stood aghast. A grand match between
themselves and a neighboring school had been fixed for this coming
Saturday. Under the peculiar circumstances this, of course, would have
to be postponed.
Hastily finishing their toilet, the boys accompanied Crieff to the
tennis-ground, where they saw that his account was only too true. The
ground was dug up in a dozen places.
Exclamations of rage rose from the fast-increasing crowd of boys, and
energetic discussions were entered upon, until quite a confusing uproar
prevailed.
"Whoever it was," said Caggles, almost bursting with wrath, "they ought
to be kicked."
"I say, Crieff," said Bottlebury, "do you think they'll come again?"
"I don't think so," was the answer; "still, they may. I'm just trying
to think of a way to catch the scoundrels."
"Put a lot of rat-traps about," suggested a small boy.
"Man-traps, you mean," said Caggles.
"Yes; that's it--man-traps," said the small boy.
"Where'll you get 'em from?" asked Caggles, as if bent on calling down
derision on the youngster.
"Oh, anywhere--buy 'em," replied the small boy, in a vague way.
"But where from, you young ass?"
"Where they sell 'em;" and the small boy fled in time to miss Caggles'
foot.
"Well," said Dumford, "if there's a doubt whether they'll pay us a
second visit, it'll be hardly worth while sitting up all night."
Suddenly Caggles gave a cry of extreme pleasure.
"I know a good plan," he said; "I'll get a ball of strong, thin twine,
fasten one end to the spade in the shed, carry the ball across the
field, and up-stairs to the dormitory, and then tie the other end to my
big toe. If any one walks off with the spade, the string will pull my
toe and waken me. Then, down-stairs we go, and ask the midnight visitor
if he wants any help."
Crieff laughed.
"It's a good idea," said he, "and there's no harm in trying it. It may
answer and it may not. The schoolhouse isn't a hundred yards away."
"Very well," said Caggles, with a gleeful chuckle, "I'll get the twine
and try it to-night. Let's roll the ground. They'll very likely to come
again if they see we've patched it up."
This was done, the twine purchased, and that night Caggles got into bed
with his toe attached to one end of the string and the spade in the
shed tied to the other.
Poor Caggles! He little thought what a laugh there was to be at his
expense.
For a considerable time the inmates of No. 1 dormitory lay awake in a
state of anxious expectation, half-expecting to see Caggles dragged out
of bed and go hopping down the room, with his big toe nearly pulled out
by the roots, so to speak. But nothing happened, and one by one they
closed their eyes and went to sleep, until all were wrapped in slumber.
Even Caggles--despite the uncomfortable sensation of the twine round
his toe--was not long in succumbing to drowsiness, for he was very
tired, having rolled the tennis-ground all that afternoon.
Just as the faint sounds of the schoolroom clock striking one floated
up-stairs, Bottlebury woke with a start, having dreamed that he was
falling down a coal-mine. He wiped the perspiration of fear from his
brow, rubbed his eyes, and sat upright. Then, turning his gaze in the
direction where Caggles always slept, he saw by the light of the moon,
which streamed in at the window, that his chum was not to be seen.
His bed was empty!
In an instant Bottlebury was on his feet.
"Wake up, you fellows!" he cried, as he dragged his trousers on. "Wake
up! D'you hear?"
Dumford popped up his head and asked what the row was over.
"Caggles isn't in bed," said Bottlebury excitedly; "he's felt the
string tug, I s'pose, and has hurried off without us."
In another minute every boy had donned his nether garments, and then
away they went, pell-mell, down the darkened stairs.
As they rushed outdoors they descried a figure, clad in naught but a
night-shirt, making for the tennis-ground.
"Why, that's Caggles!" said Dumford.
"What on earth has he come out like that for?" queried Bottlebury;
"he'll catch his death of cold."
"Make no row," warned Dumford. "It strikes me there's something
peculiar about this affair. Let's follow him quietly."
Caggles made straight for the shed, and, opening the door, disappeared
inside.
In a few seconds he reappeared with the spade in his grasp, and,
walking up to the tennis-ground, began to dig.
The onlookers gasped with amazement, and a light dawned on their minds.
"He's asleep," whispered Dumford; "it was nobody but he who dug the
ground before."
"By Jove!" was all that the astonished Bottlebury could say--so
unlooked-for was the revelation.
Suddenly Caggles was seen to fall to the ground. The twine had twisted
round his legs and thrown him.
Bottlebury was quickly at his side and assisted him to his feet.
"What's this?" said Caggles, in great bewilderment, the fall evidently
having brought him to his waking senses.
"Come along in," said Bottlebury; "you'll catch rheumatics, or
something."
Caggles looked, in a dazed way, first at the spade and then at his now
grinning companions.
"Did I do it?" he asked.
"I suppose so," replied Bottlebury; "but what in the name of goodness
made you? What were you digging for?"
"Moles," said Caggles, after a slight pause, in which he shivered with
cold; "I--I suppose I must have come out to look for moles."
And so he had. The assertion made by Tupman that moles were blind had
caused him to long to test the truth of the statement. He even dreamed
of the subject, following which a somnambulistic desire to dig for
moles in the tennis-ground was born within him.
He never heard the last of the ludicrous adventure, and Bottlebury had
a thorough good laugh at him.
The nocturnal mole-hunter thenceforth slept in a small room by himself,
with the door securely locked and a patent "catch" on the window, "so
that"--as some one facetiously remarked--"he should not again have
necessity to tie spades to his toes."
MAKE QUEER CATCHES AT CAPE COD.
Many strange fish come to the nets of the weirsmen of Cape Cod. The
collection of the amateur photographer who summered at Provincetown a
season would not be complete without a plate of some of them to show
wondering friends on winter evenings.
Most striking, perhaps, would be the giant horse-mackerel, which were
often seen.
"Four-hundred-pounders each" they were, according to the offhand
estimate of the local old salt who named them for the summer folks
edification. They were indeed a handsome couple, although only
medium-sized representatives of a marine clan--_orcynus thynnus_--of
which hundreds are annually taken at Provincetown in the big
"catchalls," commonly termed weirs.
In a small way, the horse-mackerel is a gladiator. Prior to his advent,
the sand-lance, the mackerel, the herring, pollock, and dogfish make
regular visitation in Cape Cod Bay.
When the breaching "sea-tiger," or horse-mackerel, with great goggle
eyes staring stonily and lemon-hued, rearanal fins glittering goldlike
in the shadow of its under body, comes rushing upon the scene, all
minor species hurriedly decamp.
The horse-mackerel, or its familiar, is common in the Mediterranean,
where it is known as the tuna, or tunny. For centuries the flesh of the
tuna has been highly esteemed by the Latin races. Packed in oil, or
salted, it has, since the days of the Phoenicians, been a very widely
known commodity in the Mediterranean trade.
The horse-mackerel occurs in the west Atlantic as far north as the Gulf
of St. Lawrence. It puts in an appearance at Provincetown early in June
customarily, remaining in the vicinity until about October.
When much of the fishing-work there was performed by means of nets,
the horse-mackerel was both a source of revenue and a pest to the small
boatman; but the oil taken from it more than compensates for the loss
resulting from its ravages upon nets.
One would suppose that the fishermen's nets would speedily be ruined
by the creatures, but such is not the case. Upon striking a floating
net, the horse-mackerel goes, bulletlike, straight through it--unlike
the shark, which, rolling itself in the netting, tears the same
enormously--making a clean, round hole, easy to repair.
Individuals weighing as much as 1,500 pounds have, it is said, been
taken. Specimens of that weight are not taken off Provincetown,
however, the average specimens weighing from 400 to 500 pounds, with an
occasional 900 or 1,000-pounder.
The average length is about eight feet.
Horse-mackerel were seldom, if ever, used for food in this country
until within a few years. At present quite all specimens taken in weirs
are sent to city markets, where a ready sale at a good price is assured
among immigrants from the south of Europe.
No horse-mackerel need now be set adrift as worthless, as was formerly
the custom.
Usually the capture of a weir-imprisoned horse-mackerel is not a
matter of great difficulty. Once in a while, however, the great
strength of an individual nearly prevails over the efforts of its
jailers. For instance: In July, 1897, Captain Henry J. Lewis, a skilful
weir-manipulator, found in his harbor trap a big horse-mackerel,
exhausted and apparently dead upon the dried-in "lint" when the crew
gathered in the netting.
The disengaged end of the main throat-halyards was made fast to the
tail of the supposedly dead fish, the bight was loosely attached to the
main-sheet traveler, and Skipper Lewis and his helper straightway began
to bail in herring.
All at once the stern of the boat settled. Down it went, suddenly, and
water began to pour into the standing-room. The horse-mackerel had
regained consciousness and was making the fact known.
Mate James hurriedly unloosed the halyards, and the immense fish
disappeared below the surface and renewed its fight for freedom.
As the fish scurried away, the halyards tautened. The main-gaff started
aloft, drawn by the hoisting-gear. The gaff-end caught, held securely
for a moment, then broke, and up in a trice went the bellying sail,
with broken spar dangling.
For a moment all was confusion on the boat. The fish, a 900-pounder, in
one of its rushes approached the boat's quarter. One of the crew, ax in
hand, delivered a swinging blow at him, but the agile horse-mackerel
easily avoided it.
An instant later the strong wind struck full upon the bagging canvas
and laid the boat over, well upon her side. A capsize seemed imminent.
Correctly sizing up the situation, Mate Manuel James seized a sharp
knife and with one stroke severed the halyards.
Immediately the horse-mackerel, with all but a small portion of the
main-halyards tied to its tail, vanished like a flash through the
broadside netting of the weir, vanished for good. Lewis, owner thereof,
gave vent to sundry explosive ejaculations.
Cape Cod weirs scoop in many unexpected water-creatures. Recently a
forty-foot-long--estimated--right-whale entered O'Neil's head of harbor
Provincetown floating traps. Annoyed a half-hour later by would-be
captors, this huge animal, bearing within its mouth baleen worth
probably $2,000, with one rush burst through the heavy netting and went
away to sea, leaving a badly torn weir behind.
In August, 1908, a baby finback whale, just out of leading-strings,
evidently, it being only fifteen feet long, entered Blatchford's weir
and was slain. The creature was exhibited under a tent upon the main
beach.
The Lewis-James weir captured, October 9 of the same year, a bone
shark seventeen feet long. The skin of that rare creature was removed
intact, and is now being tanned for mounting by the purchaser, David C.
Stull, known as the Ambergris King.
This species--_cetophinus maximus_--a native of Arctic seas, is one
of the largest of sharks. Sluggish in movement, the bone shark swims
lazily at the surface, apparently indifferent to the approach of boats.
Food found in its stomach comprises a red, pulpy mass, probably the
roe of sea-urchins. The teeth are small--the Stull specimen hadn't
the vestige of a tooth, being very young--and the gill-rakers--a sort
of Galway whisker worn inside, instead of outside, the throat--would
indicate that it feeds at the surface, straining its food, as does the
baleen-bearing whale.
A half-dozen years ago a West Indian sea-turtle, with a plump
remora--sucking fish--adhering to its under shell, was taken from the
"Jim" Lewis weir.
Very recently the largest lobster known to have been captured in
Provincetown Harbor was taken from the Eastern weir. Its weight was
twenty-three pounds, and its length, tail end to outer end of forward
extended claws, was forty-two inches. This giant crustacean, carefully
mounted, now graces Mr. Stull's museum of marine curios.
Recent sizable lot arrivals of fishes once deemed worthless at
Provincetown, include the shadine, scientifically known as _etrumeus
sadinia_, a species which occurs as far south as the Gulf of Mexico,
but is most commonly found in Florida and Carolina waters, and the
species variously called saury, billfish, skipper, and skipjack, the
latter because of its surface-bounding habit when pursued by the
horse-mackerel and bonito.
The shadine appeared at Provincetown for the first time, and in large
numbers, in October, 1908. They are very valuable.
The saury, or billfish--_scomberesox sauris_--is found in all parts of
the North Atlantic. Cod feed voraciously upon them. This long-beaked,
slender-bodied species feeds upon soft, pelagic animals, its teeth
being very minute.
This species, formerly considered worthless in Provincetown, has
suddenly leaped into favor. All caught there are eagerly sought by New
York and Boston commission men.
COLD FIRE.
Cold fire is a coming invention. So also is heatless light. You may
find them in nature already, if you but inquire intelligently into her
secrets.
Cold flame is exemplified in the firefly, and the glowworm gives forth
heatless light.
Such flames and lights are not mysteries. Their cause is due to one of
the subtlest forces in the universe--ether.
Only in an indirect way are the human senses acquainted with this
wonderful substance. Yet ether flows through the earth's atmosphere in
mighty currents, unchecked, resistless, and subtle. The ether is the
direct parent of the X-ray and the speech of the wireless telegraph.
When man shall attain the perfect vacuum, then the rude ether blush of
the electric-light bulb will give forth many times more light, purified
and heatless, soft and healing as the light of the stars, penetrating
as the sun. An examination of the firefly, when emitting flames or
light, shows bodily movements that cannot be understood to mean
anything else than vacuum producing.
The lights are always seen in the vacuum sac on the back. Immediately
before emitting light, the insect will flatten the body, draw the legs
in, droop the head, seemingly contracting in all directions; then with
the relaxation comes the flame and light. The bodies of the glowworm
and firefly always are transparent when filled with flame. The blades
of grass or other debris are seen plainly through the bodies. Here are
cases of nature anticipating man and dealing with X-rays.
_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_.
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_
NUMBERS 1 TO 396
TIP TOP WEEKLY
ARE CONTAINED IN THE MEDAL LIBRARY
We know that there are thousands of boys who are very much interested
in the early adventures of Frank and Dick Merriwell and who want to
read everything that was written about them.
We desire to inform these boys that numbers 1 to 396 are pretty well
out of print in the TIP TOP WEEKLY, but all of them can be secured in
the numbers of the NEW MEDAL LIBRARY given below.
_The_ NEW
MEDAL
LIBRARY
AT
FIFTEEN CENTS
[Illustration]
150--Frank Merriwell's School-days.
167--Frank Merriwell's Chums.
178--Frank Merriwell's Foes.
184--Frank Merriwell's Trip West.
189--Frank Merriwell Down South.
193--Frank Merriwell's Bravery.
197--Frank Merriwell's Hunting Tour.
201--Frank Merriwell in Europe.
205--Frank Merriwell at Yale.
209--Frank Merriwell's Sports Afield.
213--Frank Merriwell's Races.
217--Frank Merriwell's Bicycle Tour.
225--Frank Merriwell's Courage.
229--Frank Merriwell's Daring.
233--Frank Merriwell's Athletes.
237--Frank Merriwell's Skill.
240--Frank Merriwell's Champions.
244--Frank Merriwell's Return to Yale.
247--Frank Merriwell's Secret.
251--Frank Merriwell's Danger.
254--Frank Merriwell's Loyalty.
258--Frank Merriwell in Camp.
262--Frank Merriwell's Vacation.
267--Frank Merriwell's Cruise.
271--Frank Merriwell's Chase.
276--Frank Merriwell in Maine.
280--Frank Merriwell's Struggle.
284--Frank Merriwell's First Job.
288--Frank Merriwell's Opportunity.
292--Frank Merriwell's Hard Luck.
296--Frank Merriwell's Protégé.
300--Frank Merriwell on the Road.
304--Frank Merriwell's Own Company.
308--Frank Merriwell's Fame.
312--Frank Merriwell's College Chums.
316--Frank Merriwell's Problem.
320--Frank Merriwell's Fortune.
324--Frank Merriwell's New Comedian.
328--Frank Merriwell's Prosperity.
332--Frank Merriwell's Stage Hit.
336--Frank Merriwell's Great Scheme.
340--Frank Merriwell in England.
344--Frank Merriwell on the Boulevards.
348--Frank Merriwell's Duel.
352--Frank Merriwell's Double Shot.
356--Frank Merriwell's Baseball Victories.
359--Frank Merriwell's Confidence.
362--Frank Merriwell's Auto.
365--Frank Merriwell's Fun.
368--Frank Merriwell's Generosity.
371--Frank Merriwell's Tricks.
374--Frank Merriwell's Temptation.
377--Frank Merriwell on Top.
380--Frank Merriwell's Luck.
383--Frank Merriwell's Mascot.
386--Frank Merriwell's Reward.
389--Frank Merriwell's Phantom.
392--Frank Merriwell's Faith.
395--Frank Merriwell's Victories.
398--Frank Merriwell's Iron Nerve.
401--Frank Merriwell in Kentucky.
404--Frank Merriwell's Power.
407--Frank Merriwell's Shrewdness.
410--Frank Merriwell's Set-back.
413--Frank Merriwell's Search.
416--Frank Merriwell's Club.
419--Frank Merriwell's Trust.
422--Frank Merriwell's False Friend.
425--Frank Merriwell's Strong Arm.
428--Frank Merriwell as Coach.
431--Frank Merriwell's Brother.
434--Frank Merriwell's Marvel.
437--Frank Merriwell's Support.
440--Dick Merriwell at Fardale.
443--Dick Merriwell's Glory.
446--Dick Merriwell's Promise.
449--Dick Merriwell's Rescue.
452--Dick Merriwell's Narrow Escape.
455--Dick Merriwell's Racket.
458--Dick Merriwell's Revenge.
461--Dick Merriwell's Ruse.
464--Dick Merriwell's Delivery.
467--Dick Merriwell's Wonders.
470--Frank Merriwell's Honor.
473--Dick Merriwell's Diamond.
476--Frank Merriwell's Winners.
479--Dick Merriwell's Dash.
482--Dick Merriwell's Ability.
485--Dick Merriwell's Trap.
488--Dick Merriwell's Defense.
491--Dick Merriwell's Model.
494--Dick Merriwell's Mystery.
=Published About January 5th=
497--Frank Merriwell's Backers.
=Published About January 26th=
500--Dick Merriwell's Backstop.
=Published About February 16th=
503--Dick Merriwell's Western Mission.
=Published About March 9th=
506--Frank Merriwell's Rescue.
=Published About March 30th=
509--Frank Merriwell's Encounter.
=Published About April 20th=
512--Dick Merriwell's Marked Money.
=Published About May 11th=
515--Frank Merriwell's Nomads.
=Published About June 1st=
518--Dick Merriwell on the Gridiron.
=Published About June 22nd=
521--Dick Merriwell's Disguise.
STREET & SMITH, _Publishers_, NEW YORK CITY
Transcriber's Notes:
Added table of contents.
Bold is represented with =equal signs=, italics with _underscores_.
Changed oe ligatures to oe; ligatures retained in HTML edition.
Retained some questionable spellings of scientific names from the
original.
Retained possible typos in dialogue due to possibility of intentional
dialect.
Page 2, added missing period after "what we're goin'."
Page 3, removed unnecessary quote before "But the command...."
Page 6, changed "Howdy, Matt?" to "Howdy, Matt!" and "you eye-winkers"
to "your eye-winkers."
Page 7, changed "Peter" to "Pete" in "Pima Pete came here."
Page 8, removed stray quote after "or any one else."
Page 10, removed stray quote after "spoke up Fresnay."
Page 12, changed "saws he dug" to "says he dug."
Page 17, removed stray quote after "rolled into bed."
Page 30, "They'll very likely to come again" looks like an error, but
this is retained as printed.
End of Project Gutenberg's Motor Matt's Race, by Stanley R. Matthews