A DASH OF TABASCO.
In due course the delayed breakfast came up from the torpedo room. By
some error, Speake had mixed an overdose of tabasco sauce with the
canned beans which he had warmed up on his electric stove.
"Glory!" sputtered Jordan, reaching for water. "Speake must have mixed
a Whitehead torpedo in that mess of beans."
"Only a dash of tabasco," replied Coleman. "Haven't you been in Central
America long enough to like hot stuff?"
"Not long enough, anyhow, to acquire an asbestos stomach. Talking
about a dash of tabasco, though, Motor Matt's raid on the rebels must
have been something of that variety. Reel it off, Matt. We're all good
listeners."
"You do it, Dick," said Matt. "You were with me and did as much of the
work as I did."
"Belay, on that!" remonstrated Dick. "I didn't take care of Ysabel
during that run for the river, did I? And I didn't get that piece of
lead through my arm, either."
"You'd hardly know my arm had stopped a bullet, would you?" and Matt
showed his ability to use his left hand with the same ease that he did
his right.
"Don't sidetrack the relish," chirped Jordan. "Let Matt's hot work come
on with the beans. Go on, Matt--or you tell us, Dick, if Matt's too
bashful."
Thereupon Dick waded into past events as he and Matt had experienced
them. He slighted his own deeds to give a greater lustre to Matt's, and
finally Matt, in self-defense, had to take the telling into his own
hands and finish it.
"Well, Jupiter!" exclaimed Jordan, "there's enough tabasco in that run
of work to satisfy almost anybody. But, if Motor Matt hadn't come up
under that launch like he did, all of us prisoners, my dear friends,
would now be tramping through the jungle toward Pitou's new camp."
"I'm glad that note of mine proved so valuable to us," spoke up Coleman.
"How did you come to lay all that information aboard, Mr. Coleman?"
inquired Dick. "It seemed main queer that a prisoner could have got
wise to all that."
"Pitou told me," said Coleman, with a twinkle in his eye, "over a game
of seven-up. He indulged in liquid refreshment, as I remember, and the
more he beat me, and the more he indulged, the more confidential he
became. I knew Pedro was a friend of Ysabel's, and that he was helping
her to leave the camp, so I managed to write down what I had heard,
hoping that Ysabel might get to Port Livingstone and give the news to
somebody there who could and would help us."
"You haven't told us, Mr. Jordan," said Matt, "what happened to your
landing party."
"I hesitate to put it into cold words," answered Jordan, "after
listening to a recital which shows that you are a general in that sort
of affair, Matt, while I am only a private. By rights, my lad, you are
the one who should have gone with that landing party. However, since
it appears necessary to have our experiences in order to make the
testimony complete, here goes.
"By accident we struck a path. Tirzal said he knew about the path, but
I think the good-natured rascal was talking for effect, and that he had
never seen it before. I was fairly sure in my own mind, mainly because
we had seen nothing of Fingal's schooner after leaving Belize nor of
a small boat after leaving Port Livingstone, that Fingal and Cassidy
hadn't reached the revolutionists and told what they knew. I suspect
that that's what made me careless, for I was that when you consider
that we were out on a reconnoitring expedition and ought to have been
looking for traps as well as for revolutionists.
"Well, the trap was sprung at a turn in the path. I wasn't able to
see around the turn, and a bunch of colored persons in ragged clothes
were on us before you could say Jack Robinson. This happened quite a
little while after we got away from the boat. As I recollect, we had
reconnoitred, and had been led away from the path on some wild-goose
chase or other by Tirzal half a dozen times. I was just thinking about
returning to the boat when we pushed around that turn.
"I had time to shoot, and it so happened that I wounded a colored
person who was a favorite captain of the general's. It wasn't a serious
wound, but the general was pretty badly worked up over it, and I
didn't know but they would stand me against a tree and shoot me out of
hand before I could make the general understand I was in the consular
service. At the right moment, Fingal came up, and he recognized
me. The general was tickled, and felt sure he had enough consular
representatives of the United States in his hands to insure the giving
up of Jim Sixty. Nice business, eh, Coleman," and Jordan turned aside
to his friend, "when it takes two fellows like you and me to make an
even exchange for a fellow like that filibuster?"
"Well," answered Coleman, "Sixty is worth more to the rebels than we
are. It's what a thing's worth to somebody else, and not what you think
it's worth to you, that counts."
"The point's too fine and gets away from me," went on Jordan. "That's
about all of it, Matt. Poor Tirzal was recognized as a spy, and he
would have been shot quick enough if I hadn't threatened the general
with all sorts of things if he carried out his intentions. Out of
consideration for me, Pitou agreed to wait until we got to the new camp
before shooting Tirzal. That's the only thing, Matt, that saved the
half breed's life."
Matt was beginning to feel the effects of his long period of active
duty without sufficient sleep, and he called Cassidy from the torpedo
room, left him in charge of the _Grampus_, and then lay down on the
locker and was soon slumbering soundly.
When he was awakened it was by Jordan. It was getting along toward
evening, and the _Grampus_ was anchored in her old berth off Belize. A
sailing ship was alongside to take the passengers ashore.
Jordan, Coleman, Tirzal, Cassidy and Matt were to go, and, of course,
Ysabel. Dick was left to look after the submarine.
Ysabel left Matt and the rest at the landing.
"Will I see you again, Matt," she asked, "you and the rest of the motor
boys?"
"I hope so, Ysabel," answered the young motorist, "but I also hope we
won't have such rough times when our trails cross again."
"Have I helped you enough to offset what I did in New Orleans?"
"Don't mention that--forget about it. The account is more than square."
"Good-by, then," she called, in a stifled voice, and hurried off along
the street.
Jordan and Coleman went on to the house where the captain had been
taken, accompanying Matt and Cassidy. The mate was going to present
himself frankly before the captain, acknowledge his fault and then
abide by the full consequences.
But fate decreed that the matter should turn out otherwise.
The captain, as it chanced, was very much worse and was unable to
recognize any one. The doctor averred that the case was not serious,
and that, with good nursing, Captain Nemo, Jr., would pull through all
right.
"If he wants a nurse, doctor," said Cassidy, "then it's up to me. I
took care of him in New Orleans, the time he was sick there, and I
guess I can do it now better than any one else."
"Then pull off your coat," said the doctor, "and go up to his room."
All this was as it should be. For the present, the _Grampus_ was still
under Matt's care, and he started back toward the wharf to secure a
sailboat and return to the submarine.
Jordan and Coleman accompanied him part way, then left him to telegraph
their report of recent events to Washington.
"We're going to handle you and the _Grampus_ without gloves in that
report," declared Jordan, with a wink.
"Just so you please the government and make the navy department take
the submarine off the captain's hands," returned Matt, "that's all I
care."
THE END.
THE NEXT NUMBER (17) WILL CONTAIN
Motor Matt's Close Call
OR,
THE SNARE OF DON CARLOS.
Carl's Serenade--Don Ramon Ortega--The Shadow of Treachery--Don
Carlos Lays His Snare--A Mutiny--A Lesson in Who's Who--The
Snare Tightens--The Don's Proposal--Ysabel Sixty's Loyalty--An
Opportunity--Exciting Work--Capturing the General--Off for the
Gulf--Running the Battery--The "Seminole"--Conclusion.
MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION
NEW YORK, June 12, 1909.
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Mischievous Ned.
By EBEN REXFORD.
Ned was like most other boys, I suppose. Some days he felt so
good-natured that his spirits were positively "catching," as they say
about colds and the mumps, and you couldn't have had the blues if you
had made up your mind to do so, if he was round. But the very next
day was apt to be one of his cross days, and he could be as cross and
disagreeable as any boy ever could.
One morning he got up feeling very much out of sorts.
"Ned's going to be cross to-day," said Harry, when they gathered round
the breakfast table. "It's sticking out all over him now."
"I don't know as it's any of your business," answered Ned promptly.
"I'd a good deal rather be cross than make a fool of myself by trying
to say smart things when I couldn't."
Which shot, considering that Harry hadn't tried to say anything
"sharp," was rather uncalled for, and didn't hit anybody in particular.
"Don't let me hear any more such conversation," said Mrs. Haynes,
taking her seat at the table. "You are both of you old enough to behave
yourselves as gentlemen ought to."
Ned found any amount of fault with the victuals. The buckwheat cakes
had too much soda in them; the sirup wasn't fit to eat; the butter
looked as if an old squaw had made it; the potatoes were a little the
worst ones he ever tasted. And the result of his fault-finding was,
that he was sent away from the table with an unsatisfied appetite.
When he was outside the dining room, he realized that, poor as the
breakfast might be, it would have been better than none, and began to
wish he had said less, and eaten more.
After breakfast the hired girl began to wash the windows. Ned watched
her standing on the stepladder, and thought what fine fun it would be
to tip it over when she was on it, but concluded he wouldn't try it
just then, as Bridget was apt to be cross as well as himself, and he
remembered that some of the practical jokes he had played off on her
had resulted in tingling ears, and having his ears boxed was about
the worst kind of punishment for Ned. But as Bridget came out of the
sitting room with the stepladder, which she was taking to the veranda,
in order to wash the windows from the outside, she stumbled over him in
the hall, and came so near falling that she had to let the ladder go
and catch at the stair railing to save herself. And the ladder in its
fall struck against a bracket on which a little vase stood, and away
went both of them, and the vase was shivered into fragments.
"You good-for-nothin' spalpeen!" cried Bridget, giving him a slap
across the ears; "you got forninst me on purpose, an' now see what
you've done! That illigant mug all broke to pieces, jist on account of
your bad ways. I've a good mind to tell the missus."
"You needn't 'a' stumbled over me," said Ned angrily. "If you'd look
where you were going, you wouldn't go round smashing things up in this
style. I'd turn you off if I was in father's place."
"Would you now?" demanded Bridget, her arms akimbo. "Indade I'd like to
see ye doin' it. If you don't take yerself off, I'll box ye, mind that,
now; an' I'll do it up in illigant style."
Ned concluded that discretion was the better part of valor at present,
and repaired to the veranda.
Presently Bridget came out with the stepladder, which she adjusted
before one of the windows, and then went in after water.
A bright idea struck Ned. Bridget had been saucy and impudent. He would
be even with her. He'd learn her to slap his ears!
He pulled a long piece of stout cord out of his pocket and tied it to
one leg of the stepladder, and then hid in the shrubbery.
Presently out came Bridget. She mounted the ladder, unconscious of any
danger, and began washing the window vigorously.
All at once the ladder seemed to jerk itself out from under her,
and with a whoop that would have done credit to any Apache brave,
she landed in the middle of a great lilac bush, before she realized
whether her sudden descent was caused by a collapse of the ladder,
an earthquake, or one of Ned's pranks. She strongly suspected the
latter; but, looking around from her dignified position in the lilac
bush, she could see nothing of him, and there was nothing about the
innocent-looking ladder, as it lay on the ground at the veranda steps,
to indicate that it had been meddled with. But as she proceeded to
alight from her elevated pedestal, she heard a chuckle somewhere in the
shrubbery, which satisfied her that her suspicions were correct.
Harry came along pretty soon, and wanted Ned to join a party of
children who were going down to the old mill after berries.
But Ned answered, very shortly, that he "wasn't going to do any such
thing," and Harry went on, without stopping to coax him any.
That made Ned madder than ever. It was quite evident that they didn't
want him, and only asked him because they couldn't very well help doing
so.
"I'll have some fun with 'em," said Ned, setting off in the same
direction, about half an hour afterward.
The berries the children had gone after grew in an old meadow. In this
old meadow, through which a brook ran, there was a mill, which was said
to be haunted, and every child was afraid to go near it in the daytime.
Ned picked his way through the bushes on the edge of the meadow, and
got into the mill on the opposite side from where the children were
picking berries.
So busily were they engaged in gathering the ripe fruit that they were
not aware how near they were getting to the mill, till a sepulchral
groan made them look up in undefined terror, and there, in the farthest
shadowy corner, was something awfully ghost-like.
"Repent of your sins!" exclaimed the ghost, uttering the first and
only thing he could think of; and then, with wild shouts of fright, the
children started off in a stampede for the road, spilling their berries
and tearing their clothes.
Little Susie Mayne lost her sunbonnet, and Will Blake lost his shoe,
but they didn't dare to stop for such trifles.
When they reached the road, panting and breathless, they looked back,
half expecting to see the ghost after them.
But instead of a ghost, there stood Ned, waving a sheet and apparently
highly pleased at the success of his project.
"I should think you'd be ashamed of yourself," shouted Will Blake.
"I'll tell Johnny, an' he'll lick you."
"Don't you wish he could?" answered Ned defiantly. "If any of you young
ones go to being saucy, I'll just come over there and trounce you."
The children set off toward home, but, coming to another meadow, where
strawberries were quite plenty, they concluded to stop and fill up
their baskets.
"Mr. Belding's awful ugly old cow runs in this meadow, I heard father
say," said Harry. "We'd better keep a lookout for her."
But in five minutes they had forgotten all about the cow.
Suddenly they all started.
"Moo, moo-o!" sounded in the bushes close by, and they heard an awful
racket as if half a dozen cows were coming.
"Oh, dear!" screamed all the girls, and made for the fence, with the
boys at their heels.
Susie Mayne tumbled down and bruised her nose so badly that it bled,
and Harry dragged her toward the fence in anything but a comfortable
way.
"I'd be ashamed to run at every little noise before I knew where it
came from," called out Ned, making his appearance from the bushes.
"Cowards! cowards!"
The boys were for clubbing together and giving him a whipping, but
concluded to leave that to the big boys. The girls all pronounced him,
without a single dissenting voice, to be the "meanest boy they ever
heard of," and then they all went off in high indignation.
Ned climbed up on the fence, and sat there for some time meditating
what to do next. Pretty soon Mr. Belding's Sammy came along without
seeing Ned, and got over into the meadow, and began picking berries.
Now, Ned hated Sammy Belding, and he thought it would be fine fun to
throw stones at him. He calculated the chances of getting caught, and
concluded if he stayed over the fence he could get enough start while
Sammy was climbing to take him out of danger. So he filled his pockets
with stones, and began throwing them at Sammy.
At first Sammy looked around in astonishment, and couldn't make out
where they came from. But by and by he pretended that he was paying no
attention to them. But if you could have looked under his broad-brimmed
hat, you would have seen that he was keeping keen watch.
Ned continued to throw stones. All at once up jumped Sammy, and made
for the fence. Ned was taken entirely by surprise, but turned to run as
soon as he realized that Sammy had discovered him. But he caught his
foot on a stick, and down he went, and before he got on his feet Sammy
had him, and proceeded to give him a good pounding, out of which he
came with a black eye and a bloody nose. It was too bad the children
couldn't have been there to see it.
"Throw stones at me again, will you?" said Sammy. "I'll teach you to
mind your own business, if you don't know how."
Ned went home as soon as Sammy got through with him. He was hungry, and
his whipping had discouraged him somewhat.
Harry had got home before him, and had reported his bad conduct. The
result was that he was ordered to weed out three onion beds that
afternoon. That made him groan in spirit. He hated weeding in the
garden about the worst of anything in the world.
But there wasn't any help for it, and he went at it.
The old rooster came along pretty soon. Ned knew he never did any harm,
as he was too well-behaved a bird to scratch in the garden, but he
wanted to vent his spite on something, so he up with a big stone and
shied it at the rooster's head, not once thinking that it would hit
him. But it did, and with one shrill squawk the fowl gave a leap into
the air, kicked about wildly, and fell dead.
Ned was frightened. What would his father say? He had been very careful
of the rooster, because he came of a choice breed. What should he do
with him? While he was debating the question with himself, who should
come along but his mother.
"Why, Ned!" exclaimed she, seeing the poor old rooster lying there,
with one claw stretched up pathetically, as if to call a sympathetic
attention to his tragic fate. "How did this happen?"
"Well, you see," began Ned, at a loss for an explanation, "he came
along, and I thought maybe he'd go scratching, and I shoed him, but he
wouldn't go off. Then I threw a stone that way, and it must have hit
him, 'cause----"
"You weren't afraid he would scratch, because he never did that," said
Ned's mother severely. "I am very sorry to see you in such a bad temper
to-day. Go right up to the garret and stay there till your father comes
home. I don't know what he will say when he knows of this."
Ned took himself off to the garret, congratulating himself that that
wasn't quite as bad as weeding onions. But he was terribly troubled
about what his father would say. He couldn't get that out of his mind.
By and by he heard some one coming up the garret stairs. It sounded
like Bridget's steps. A pan stood near by, which had been placed under
a leak in the roof, and was full of water. Before he stopped to think
what the consequence might be--he felt so ugly that he didn't care
much--Ned seized the pan full of water, and just as a head made its
appearance in the shadowy depths of the garret stairway he let fly pan
and all in that direction.
There was an awful spluttering, as if the water had taken the visitor
fairly in the face.
Ned turned pale. It wasn't Bridget, after all, but his father.
"Young man," said that worthy person, making his appearance, dripping
from head to foot with water, and looking terribly severe, "I want to
see you in the wood shed."
His tone struck terror to Ned's heart. The wood shed, on such
occasions, was quite apt to prove a second inquisition.
Ned followed, not daring to do otherwise. He didn't even dare to look
at his father's face. What took place in the shed I can't say, but
directly after their visit to that part of the house Ned went to bed,
and I hope he got up feeling better next morning.
TERRIBLE FATE OF A DARING INDIAN.
One of the most remarkable subterranean waterways in the world was
recently discovered in the northern range of the Rockies in Montana,
by the agency of a fatal accident, witnessed by me on an expedition
in which Phil Barnes and Pierre Leger, two prospectors, were my
companions, together with a Flathead Indian named Klikat.
On October 28, having struck northeast from Bonner's Ferry into a
region entered by a few white men before us, we found ourselves within
twenty-five or thirty miles of the Canadian boundary, and 7,500 feet
above sea level. In front and on the right were perpendicular cliffs,
which barred our advance. To the left was a precipice about 80 feet
high, overhanging a roaring mountain stream, and extending fully two
miles to the south.
As we stood there, looking around for some opening by which we might
advance, there came to our ears a deep, roaring sound, alternating in
force, stronger and weaker at intervals of a few seconds. It came in
jarring sounds, with a volume like thunder.
"Me know what him is," said Klikat, with a pleased air of
comprehension. "Him is Big-hole-in-the-water. You come look," he added,
throwing himself flat on the rock with his head and shoulders hanging
over. "Ugh!" he exclaimed, "Big-hole-in-the-water heap mad to-day. Him
funny. Water go in ground; never come out."
Following Klikat's example, I threw myself on the ground, and peered
down from the dizzy height. Barnes and Leger did likewise.
It was a curious sight that we beheld. Straight down below us there was
a deep pool, inclosed on three sides by high walls of eternal rock,
thus forming a perpetual barrier to the passage of the water. The noisy
mountain stream poured great volumes into this natural basin, and then
lost itself. The water in the pool swung round as on a pivot. In the
very centre was a great funnel-shaped "suck-hole," fully eight feet
across, the water rushing downward with lightning speed. In the centre
of this funnel was a mass of snow-white foam, dancing and whirling and
scattering flakes of itself around the dark-blue rim of the vortex.
At intervals of fifteen or twenty seconds there would be a greater
downward rush of water, and the pillar of foam would disappear with the
increased speed of the current; then the roar would increase in volume,
another pillar of foam would form, only to disappear a few moments
later as the previous one had done. It was a grand, a terrible sight.
As I gazed upon it suddenly there was a low, crumbling sound, and then
a mass of shelving rock right under Klikat broke loose and fell with
a fearful crash. I started to my feet just as I saw the Indian making
frantic efforts to cling to the edge of the cliff. But his hold was too
slight, and, without uttering word or sound of any kind, Klikat fell
headlong into the mad waters beneath.
Barnes rushed to one of the pack mules for a rope, but it was too late.
Three, four, five times did Klikat swing around in a spiral course, and
then, with a sudden twist, he shot into the very centre of the vortex.
Down he went with the pillar of foam, out of sight into the bowels of
the earth, and the darkness of death.
The cavity filled with water and was silent. But it was short satiety.
It quickly opened its dark and unfathomable depths again, and gave out
a roaring snore that made the very mountains tremble.
Cautiously we three withdrew from the edge of the precipice. We gazed
at each other silently and in horror.
Two weeks later we reached the Kootenai country, in British Columbia,
and prepared to camp on the south shore of Lake Kootenai. It was while
in the act of gathering driftwood along the shore for our first night's
supper that Leger discovered a very ghastly object lying in the water
within six feet of land.
It was the corpse of a man--an Indian. The face of the dead was badly
bruised and torn, and utterly disfigured.
"Heavens!" cried Barnes, as he cut a ragged cloth from the neck. "This
is a remnant of my silk handkerchief, which I gave to poor Klikat
to cover the gash he cut on his neck by that dead limb one day--do
you remember? And see! Right here in this corner is my monogram--'P.
B.'--worked in silk."
It was so. We all recognized the silken rag, and we all knew that
the corpse before us was the dead body of Klikat, who had fallen
into the funnel of that awful subterranean river, fully 250 miles
away, far up in the Rockies of Northern Montana. And yet here was
his corpse, drifted ashore on this lake, between which and the
"big-hole-in-the-water" there is not the slightest connection, so far
as mortal eyes can see. How came he to Lake Kootenai, and how long had
he been there?
We buried poor Klikat on a bit of rising ground about fifty yards from
the lake shore.
STUMBLING UPON GOLD MINES.
Gold was discovered in California in 1848, and in Colorado in 1858.
The discovery was accidental in both cases, and the fact created the
impression that mines were "lying about loose." Adventurers drifted
about in hopes of stumbling upon a mine. Here are some instances of
lucky finds.
Three men, while looking for gold in California, discovered the dead
body of a man, who evidently had been "prospecting."
"Poor fellow," said one of the trio, "he has passed in his checks."
"Let's give him a decent burial," said another. "Some wife or mother
will be glad if she ever knows it."
They began to dig a grave. Three feet below the surface they discovered
signs of gold. The stranger was buried in another place, and where they
had located a grave they opened a gold mine.
An adventurer who had drifted to Leadville, awoke one morning without
food or money. He went out and shot a deer, which, in its dying
agonies, kicked up the dirt and disclosed signs of gold. The poor man
staked out a "claim," and opened one of the most profitable mines ever
worked in Leadville.
"Dead Man Claim," the name given to another rich mine in Leadville, was
discovered by a broken-down miner while digging a grave.
A miner died when there were several feet of snow on the ground. His
comrades laid his body in a snow bank and hired a man to dig a grave.
The gravedigger, after three days' absence, was found digging a mine
instead of a grave. While excavating he had struck gold. Forgetting the
corpse and his bargain, he thought only of the fact that he had "struck
it rich."
An unsuccessful Australian miner went up and down Colorado for several
months "prospecting" for gold, and finding none. One day he sat down
upon a stone, and while musing over his hard luck, aimlessly struck a
stone with his pick. He chipped off a piece, and sprang to his feet.
The chip was rich with gold quartz.
He hurried into the little town of Rosita, and went to the assay
office, where a teamster had just dumped a load of wood. He agreed to
saw the wood to pay for assaying his chipped sample. The result of
the assay sent him back to his "claim." When he had taken out of it
$500,000, he sold the mine for $400,000 in cash and $1,000,000 in stock.
But these "stumblings" are the exception to the rule that mines are
found by painstaking, intelligent prospectors. They spend wearisome
months in exploring mountains and gulches. They are mineralogists,
geologists, and, above all, practical explorers, who can tell from a
"twist" in the grain of the rock, or from the color of a spar seam,
whether "paying gold" can be mined in the region.
YEAR OF THE COCK.
In China and Japan the year 1909 is "the year of the cock." It is
regarded as a lucky year and is symbolized by a cock sitting on a
drum. In statesmanship and literature this is called "the drum of
remonstrance." Formerly such a drum was to be found in China in front
of the imperial palace, to be struck by an official in charge whenever
a letter of remonstrance was offered to the sovereign. This practice
is said to have originated with Emperor Yao, a benevolent ruler who
reigned from 2357 to 2285 B. C. His reign and that of Emperor Shun, who
succeeded him, constituted a "golden age" of China.
It is believed by the Japanese that the cock has five virtues. His comb
represents civilization and his strong feet denote military power. When
he meets an enemy he fights well, thus demonstrating courage. When he
finds food he calls friends, thereby showing himself kind and helpful.
He keeps watch for the dawn, thus proving himself faithful.
LATEST ISSUES
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326--Gordon Keith in Zululand; or, How "Checkers" Held the Fort. By
Lawrence White, Jr.
327--The Boys' Revolt; or, Right Against Might. By Harrie Irving
Hancock.
328--The Mystic Isle; or, In Peril of His Life. By Fred Thorpe.
329--A Million a Minute; or, A Brace of Meteors. By Weldon J. Cobb.
330--Gordon Keith Under African Skies; or, Four Comrades in the
Danger Zone. By Lawrence White, Jr.
331--Two Chums Afloat; or, The Cruise of the "Arrow." By Cornelius
Shea.
332--In the Path of Duty; or, The Fortunes of Officer Dan Deering. By
Harrie Irving Hancock.
333--A Bid for Fortune; or, True as Steel. By Fred Thorpe.
334--A Battle with Fate; or, The Baseball Mascot. By Weldon J. Cobb.
335--Three Brave Boys; or Adventures in the Balloon World. By Frank
Sheridan.
336--Archie Atwood, Champion; or, An All-around Athlete's Career. By
Cornelius Shea.
337--Dick Stanhope Afloat; or, The Eventful Cruise of the _Elsinore_.
By Harrie Irving Hancock.
338--Working His Way Upward; or, From Footlights to Riches. By Fred
Thorpe.
339--The Fourteenth Boy; or, How Vin Lovell Won Out. By Weldon J.
Cobb.
MOTOR STORIES
The latest and best five-cent weekly. We won't say how interesting it
is. See for yourself. =High art colored covers. Thirty-two big pages.
Price, 5 cents.=
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, 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.
TIP TOP WEEKLY
The most popular publication for boys. The adventures of Frank and Dick
Merriwell can be had only in this weekly. =High art colored covers.
Thirty-two pages. Price, 5 cents.=
675--Frank Merriwell Cut Off; or, The Result of the Great Spring Rise.
676--Frank Merriwell's Ranch Boss; or, Big Bruce and the Blossoms.
677--Dick Merriwell's Equal; or, The Fellow with the Flying Feet.
678--Dick Merriwell's Development; or, The All-around Wonder.
679--Dick Merriwell's Eye; or, The Secret of Good Batting.
680--Frank Merriwell's Zest; or, The Spirit of the School.
681--Frank Merriwell's Patience; or, The Making of a Pitcher.
682--Frank Merriwell's Pupil; or, The Boy with the Wizard Wing.
683--Frank Merriwell's Fighters; or, The Decisive Battle with
Blackstone.
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_.
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ADVENTURES OF A BOY GENIUS
MOTOR STORIES
The boys who want to learn something from what they read, as well
as to be interested by it, will never find another publication that
will satisfy them so well as MOTOR STORIES. "Motor Matt" is not an
impossible boy character. He is simply a youth who has had considerable
training in a machine shop where motors of all kinds were repaired,
and who is possessed of a genius for mechanics. His sense of right and
wrong is strongly developed, and his endeavors to insure certain people
a square deal, lead him into a series of the most astonishing, but at
the same time the most natural adventures that ever befell a boy.
_HERE ARE THE TITLES NOW READY_:
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.
To be Published on May 17th.
13--Motor Matt's Queer Find; or, The Secret of the Iron Chest.
To be Published on May 24th.
14--Motor Matt's Promise; or, The Wreck of the "Hawk."
To be Published on May 31st.
15--Motor Matt's Submarine; or, The Strange Cruise of the "Grampus."
To be Published on June 7th.
16--Motor Matt's Quest; or, Three Chums in Strange Waters.
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:
Italics are represented with _underscores_, bold with =equal signs=.
Retained some inconsistent hyphenation from the original (e.g. "conning
tower" vs. "conning-tower").
Corrected some obvious punctuation errors.
Added table of contents.
Page 13, corrected "aligator" to "alligator."
Page 29, corrected "wtih" to "with" ("with an unsatisfied appetite")
and "itno" to "into" ("shivered into fragments").
End of Project Gutenberg's Motor Matt's Quest, by Stanley R. Matthews