A RECONCILIATION.
McGlory aroused himself for a moment, and learned what the excitement
was all about. Straightway he forgot his physical ills and became
absorbed in the wonderful race Motor Matt was running with death. By
every trick in his power the king of the motor boys was doing his
utmost to urge the _Sprite_ onward. The boat's speed became a terrific
dash, a headlong hustle, with wind and wave helping the propeller.
"We'll never make it!" groaned George.
"Buck up, George!" cried McGlory. "Motor Matt has done harder things
than this."
"But the _Stella_ will be on the rocks before we can get to her! And
there's the governor, likely to meet his fate right under my eyes! Oh,
what a scoundrel I have been! Seeing the governor like this, perhaps
for the last time, makes me realize what I have done. He was crossing
the lake to find me, Joe."
George's voice died to a whisper and ended in a dry sob.
"Pull yourself together, I tell you!" roared McGlory. "Now's the time
to show yourself a _man_!"
"Yell to them to stand ready to throw a rope," said Matt, between his
teeth. "We can't get alongside of them before they hit the rocks, but
we can come near enough so we can catch a rope if there's a strong
enough arm to pass it."
Lorry cast aside his overpowering doubts and fears and flung himself
into the fight with demoniacal energy.
"Stand ready with a rope!" he yelled, trumpeting through his hands and
doing his best to make his voice heard above the roar and crash of the
waves.
Again and again he repeated it, and McGlory joined in, timing his voice
with his cousin's.
One of the men who had been working at the engine suddenly left his
thankless labor and placed himself well forward on the _Stella_ at the
point nearest to the approaching _Sprite_.
"Make ready to grab the rope, both of you!" shouted Matt. "If you're
lucky enough to grab it, take a half-hitch around the stern stanchion,
and lay back on the end of the rope with every ounce of power in your
bodies! There, stand by! They're going to throw!"
Matt shifted the wheel and, for a minute, placed the _Sprite_ broadside
on to wind and waves. This gave the man with the rope a better mark.
Out shot the coil of hemp, but the resistance of the wind caused it to
fall pitifully short.
A cry of despair went up from Lorry.
"Once more!" yelled McGlory, as Matt pointed the _Sprite_ straight for
the _Stella_ and flung her onward.
The man rapidly coiled the rope in his hands. Another man stepped
forward and took the rope to make the next cast himself. He was a more
powerfully built man than the one who had attempted the first cast.
"This will tell the story," cried George. "If this throw fails the
_Stella_ will be smashed to pieces on the bluff."
Matt and McGlory knew that fully as well as Lorry; and those on the
_Stella_ must have realized it.
The man with the rope was cool and deliberate. It was plain he was
not going to waste any valuable chances by undue haste; then, as he
was whirling the rope to let it fly, Matt again turned the _Sprite_
broadside on.
For an instant it looked as though the rope was again to fall short;
but Lorry, stretching far out from the side of the _Sprite_, snatched
the end of the rope out of the air with convulsive fingers, and fell
with it to the bottom of the boat.
A faint cheer went up from those on the _Stella_.
But the battle was not yet won. McGlory went to the assistance of
Lorry, and the slack of the cable was jerked out of the water. This
gave sufficient rope for a half-hitch around the stanchion and a firm
hand hold. The cowboy and his cousin lay back on the line, bracing
their feet against the thwarts and clinging with all their strength.
Motor Matt, meanwhile, had been busy with his part of the work. The
instant the rope was made fast, he had shifted the bow of the _Sprite_,
switching off the power for a moment in order to lessen the shock when
the launch should begin to feel the pull.
Yet even with this precaution the shock was tremendous. But nothing
gave way, and slowly but surely the _Sprite_ took up her burden.
For a few moments the two boats seemed to stand stationary, the power
of the _Sprite_ just counterbalancing the push of wind and wave against
both boats; then, a little later, the _Sprite_ began to move, gathering
headway by slow degrees.
Anything like speed was out of the question, but the _Sprite_, without
missing a shot, plowed her way like a tugboat through the churning
waters, and brought herself and her tow safely along the yacht club's
pier.
Matt and McGlory, busy making the _Sprite_ fast, caught a glimpse of
George rushing across the pier to meet his father.
"George!" shouted the elder man.
"Dad!" cried George.
And they came together, gripping each other's hands. With arms locked
they walked the length of the pier and vanished inside the yacht club's
headquarters.
"Reconciliation?" queried McGlory. "If it isn't, I don't know the
brand. Oh, I reckon Uncle Dan will do the right thing by George. That
cold blast of mine will have to be permanently retired. Matt, give us
your paw! This is a grand day for the Lorry tribe!"
"No doubt about that, Joe," answered Matt, with feeling, as he and
McGlory shook hands.
Half an hour later Matt went into the yacht club to telephone police
headquarters about his stolen money. He had only a very faint hope of
ever seeing the money again, but he felt it his duty to do everything
possible to recover it.
Over the 'phone he gave a description of Big John, Ross, and Kinky.
The man at the other end of the line had just promised to do what he
could when Matt was caught by a strong hand and turned around. He was
once more face to face with Lorry, Sr. But there was a difference in
the Lorry of Matt's first and second meeting.
"By gad!" cried Lorry, "I want to shake hands with a hero. Nobly done,
young man! But for you we'd have gone to smash against Maple Bluff,
every last one of us on the _Stella_. We had our little differences
when we met, that other time, Motor Matt, but I didn't understand
the matter then. George here has been telling me how much he owes to
you, how much I owe to you, how much I owe to him, and we all owe to
McGlory, and everybody owes to everybody else. Gad! my head is fair
splitting with it all. Never mind that three hundred that was taken
away from you; I guess"--and the rich man laughed--"that my bank
account is good for three hundred. I'll see that _you_ don't lose
anything. We'll have more talk about this later."
Lorry, Sr., turned to where McGlory was standing, at Matt's side, his
black eyes gleaming humorously.
"Ah, Joe, you rascal," went on Lorry, placing two hands on the cowboy's
shoulders, "you've done something to make us all proud of you--and I
guess you'll find it out before you're many days older."
"What are you going to do for George, uncle?" queried McGlory.
"You watch! Keep your eyes skinned and you'll see me do something for
you as well as for George."
Lorry, Sr., pushed himself between Matt and McGlory and caught each of
them by an arm.
"Come on, my lads!" said he, "you're both going up to the house with
George and me. This is a happy day, and the Lorrys are going to
celebrate. Naturally, the celebration won't be complete without Motor
Matt and Joe. Never mind your boat--I've asked the people here to look
after it. Gus is outside with the big car, and all we've got to do is
to get in and strike out for home. _Home!_ How does that sound to you,
my son?"
"It has a truer ring, dad," answered George, "than it ever had before."
"Maybe it's a different home, George," answered Mr. Lorry. "Anyhow,
we'll try to make it so."
THE END.
THE NEXT NUMBER (23) WILL CONTAIN
MOTOR MATT'S PRIZE;
OR,
THE PLUCK THAT WINS.
A Clash in Black and Yellow--Pickerel Pete's Revenge--A "Dark
Horse"--Plans--An Order to Quit--Facing the Music--Gathering
Clouds--The Plotters--Firebugs at Work--Saving the "Sprite"--Out of
a Blazing Furnace--What About the Race?--Mart Rawlins Weakens--The
Race--The Start--The Finish--Conclusion.
MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION
NEW YORK, July 24, 1909.
TERMS TO MOTOR STORIES MAIL SUBSCRIBERS.
(_Postage Free._)
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ORMOND G. SMITH, }
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STREET & SMITH, Publishers,
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York City.
THE GUARDIAN OF THE PASS.
It was the sudden change in the color of the water that made Nick
Salveson realize something was wrong.
All day thunder had been muttering far up in the mountains, but down in
the river valley the autumn sun had been shining warm; and, busy with
his fishing, Nick had paid no attention to the heavy clouds which hung
over the jagged peaks upstream.
Suddenly the water lost its crystal clearness, and turned to a yellow,
muddy hue, and the canoe began to strain at her anchor rope.
"Reckon it's about time to quit," muttered the young fellow; and,
hastily reeling in his line, he laid the rod down and set to work to
pull up the anchor.
It was badly jammed between two rocks at the bottom. By the time he had
cleared it the river had risen at least two feet, and was roaring down
in a sheet of muddy foam.
"Guess there's been a cloud burst up in the hills," said Nick to
himself as he turned the bow of the canoe upstream.
He was not uneasy. He had spent the whole summer in Alaska, and could
handle a canoe as well as most boys of his age.
He had been anchored close in under the far bank. To reach his camp he
had to cross the whole width of the river, and return nearly a mile
upstream.
But he had not taken six strokes before he realized that two strong men
could not have paddled the canoe back against the flood that was now
coming down. The only thing to do was to get across, land anywhere he
could, pull the canoe up, and walk back.
"Great ghost! but it's strong," he muttered, as, in spite of his
efforts, the bow of the canoe was swung sideways by the weight of the
water.
He leaned forward, drove the paddle deep in the yellow flood, and, with
all his weight in the stroke, attempted to force her round.
Crack! The paddle, worn thin with weeks of hard wear, snapped like a
pipestem. Nick was left with a mere foot or so of useless stump. The
blade was gone.
Instantly the rising flood seized the canoe and sent her flying madly
downstream. Like a feather she danced and spun among the whirling
yellow eddies.
Recovering from the sudden shock of the accident, Nick made a
desperate effort to steer inshore by using the stump of the paddle. It
was useless. The flood, rising every minute, mocked his best efforts.
At last, streaming with perspiration, and with his heart beating like
a hammer, he gave it up, and sat grimly quiet and silent. There was
something of the stoicism of the Indian in this son of a San Francisco
millionaire. He had done his best. Now the only thing was to wait and
see what the river would do with him.
Mile after mile the relentless current bore him flying westward. Soon
he was past all his landmarks, and speeding through country completely
unknown to him. Once or twice the river contracted dangerously between
walls of rock, and the canoe pitched and plunged among foam-tipped
waves. But for the most part the banks were hillsides covered with
primeval forest of fir and hemlock. There was nowhere any sign of man.
"It'll take me all my time to get back even if I do manage to hit the
bank somewhere," said Nick to himself grimly, as he noted the tangled
thickness of the woods on either hand.
He was in a tight place; he knew that. What he hoped was that some
freak of the current would drive the canoe near enough to the bank to
catch hold of a branch and so pull himself ashore.
But this did not happen, and, after his mad flight had lasted for a
full hour, Nick became desperately anxious. In the distance, he could
see that the valley narrowed greatly, and he more than suspected that
he was approaching dangerous rapids.
He swung round a curve. Yes, he was right. Barely half a mile away the
whole river plunged into a gorge so narrow it looked like a mere crack
in the cliff. The shriek of the tortured waters rang high above the
roar of the flood which bore the canoe onward to its doom.
Nick was no fool. He knew that in all human possibility his fate was
sealed. No craft that man ever built could hope to pass in safety down
the raging flood that boiled through that rift in the mountain.
"Rotten luck!" he muttered. "Well, there's one comfort--there's no one
to miss me except old Rube, and I don't remember I ever did any one a
dirty trick in my life."
Every instant the scream of the rapids grew louder. Nick could see the
mouth of the rift and the yellow waves heaping themselves high against
the black precipices on either hand.
On flashed the canoe. Every moment her speed increased. She was a bare
one hundred yards from the top of the rapids, when a yell from the
right-hand bank rose high above the thunder of the flood, and Nick,
turning his head, saw a small, slight figure dashing down through the
trees.
Just above the gate of the rapids half a dozen great bowlders showed
their black heads above the yellow foam. Without a moment's hesitation
the stranger leaped from the bank to the nearest, and so from rock to
rock, till he stood far out near the centre of the raging river.
Nick watched him with straining eyes. Was there still a bare chance?
No! At that moment an eddy swept the canoe away to the left. With
a groan Nick realized that she would pass far out of reach of his
would-be rescuer.
The canoe shot like an arrow toward the lip of the fall. Nick waved the
broken stump of his paddle in farewell to the figure on the rocks.
The latter's right arm whirled up, and, with a sharp hiss, a coil of
rope flashed out and dropped clean and true across the canoe.
Nick snatched at it with the energy of despair. As it tightened, the
canoe was drawn away from under him, and he, dragged over the stern,
was struggling in the rushing water.
A minute of gasping, stifling battle among the tumbling, roaring waves.
The strain on the rope was so tremendous that it seemed to Nick that
either it must break or the man who held it must be pulled off his
slippery perch.
But neither happened, and inch by inch the boy was drawn in, until a
hand grasped him and pulled him, gasping and exhausted, onto the solid
summit of the bowlder.
"Can you jump?" He heard an anxious voice. "The water's still rising.
It'll be over the rock soon."
"You bet I can," replied Nick, struggling to his feet and shaking
himself like a dog.
"Come on, then!" cried the other. And, sure-footed as a goat, he sprang
across six feet of raging torrent to the next rock. Nick set his teeth
and followed, and in another minute was safe ashore beside his rescuer.
"Mean to say you live here all alone!" exclaimed Nick Salveson in blank
amazement, as he looked round the bare little log hut a little later.
"Yes, for the last four months, ever since my father left."
"Did he go down to the coast?"
"I wish he had. No, he went inland, over the Big Snowies!"
"Great Scott! What for?" asked Nick bluntly.
"Gold," replied the other. "I'll tell you about it. My name's
Glenn--Roger Glenn. We came here a year ago prospecting. We heard
there was gold down here, but we didn't do much, and an Indian who was
snowbound here last winter told my father that there was rich placer
ground the other side of the mountains."
"But no one's ever been across there," objected Nick. "There's no pass."
"The Indian told us there was. He made a map. Here's a copy of it."
"So your dad tried it?" said Nick, staring curiously at the rough map.
"He went the first of June last, and I've not seen or heard of him
since. He said he'd be back in six or eight weeks."
"Gee, but that's bad," replied Nick sympathetically. "What do you
reckon you are to do?"
"What can I do?" cried young Glenn bitterly. "I'm mad to go after him,
but I haven't a red cent to grubstake myself or buy a pony or dogs or a
sledge."
Nick stared in silence at the other for some seconds. Then he said
slowly:
"Say, Mr. Glenn, that flood may have done us both a good turn. What
d'ye say to taking me along in your trip over the Snowies?"
Roger stared violently.
"B-but----" he began.
"No 'buts' about it. I'm running this outfit. Look here, Roger--I guess
you don't mind my calling you by your first name--I'm pretty well
fixed. My people are dead; they were killed in the earthquake in San
Francisco. I'm my own boss, though I am only eighteen, and I came up to
Alaska this summer to get a holiday before I go to the university next
Christmas. There isn't a thing I'd like better than a trip over the
Snowies, and if we're smart we'll do it and be back before winter hits
us. Are you agreeable?"
"I don't know how to thank you," said Roger brokenly.
"Then don't worry to try, old man," replied Nick comfortably. "Just fix
up a mouthful of grub, and give me a bunk. We ought to start before
sun-up to-morrow morning."
* * * * *
"Seems to me, Rube, you were a bit out in your reckoning," said Nick as
early one morning, ten days later, he looked out of the tent and found
the landscape white with snow.
Rube shook his grizzled head.
"'Tain't that altogether, boss. I reckon we're a matter of four
thousand feet higher than your summer camp. Winter comes here a sight
sooner than down in them river valleys. Howsomever, it ain't deep, and
it'll melt when the sun gets good an' strong."
All that day the little party of three struggled up a narrow valley
that wound ever upward into the heart of a maze of great snow peaks.
Over and over again tall cliffs loomed up in front, and it seemed as if
they could go no further. But always there appeared some fresh opening,
and bit by bit they won their way upward toward the summit of the range.
"I reckoned as I knew this here country's well as any," said Rube,
staring thoughtfully up at a tremendous pyramid peak, the snow on which
was gold and crimson in the light of the setting sun. "But this beats
me. 'Tain't on any map as ever I seed."
"The Indian said no white man had ever crossed it," said Roger.
"Hed he bin across hisself?" inquired Rube.
"No. He told dad that none of his tribe had ever been across. And when
dad asked him why, he only shook his head, and said something about its
being the country of two-tailed devils."
"How did he know of this here pass then?" demanded Rube.
"The map was given him by his father. It had come down goodness knows
how many generations. He tried awfully hard to persuade dad not to go."
"They've got a mighty queer lot of legends about these mountains," put
in Nick. "You couldn't pay any Injun I ever saw to put foot on 'em."
They camped that night in bitter cold and deep snow on the very summit
of the pass. Rube took Nick aside.
"Say, boss, do you reckon we're ever going to find Roger's dad?"
Nick shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't know. Roger says that before he left his father told him he'd
blaze a trail, so as if anything went wrong his son could come along
after. Roger found his father's mark on a tree near the eastern end of
the pass."
"Seems to me the chances are ez something hez happened to old Glenn,"
said Rube thoughtfully. "Chewed by a b'ar, I reckon. Or maybe had a
fall. It's a fool job fer any man to come into country like this by
hisself."
"I guess I'm going as far as Roger wants," said Nick, "Seeing what he's
done for me, it's about the least I can do for him."
"You're right, boss," said Rube. "He's a real white, that boy is!"
"If we don't find his father, I'm going to take him back to the
States," said Nick. "But that's a bit o' news you can keep to yourself
for the present."
Next morning the sun shone brilliantly on the snow, and, looking down,
the party saw, thousands of feet below them, an unknown country covered
with a forest heavier than any of them had ever seen before.
"Mighty curious-looking country this," observed Rube doubtfully, as
they slipped and slithered down the steep snow-covered rocks. "I don't
reckon I ever seed woods as thick as them before."
"What's that queer-looking little plain halfway down?" asked Nick.
"Looks like a clearing of some kind."
A smile crossed Rube's leathery face.
"Thet's a pond, boss. It's fruz over, an' the snow's laying thick on
it."
Further down they came to a place where the only possible track lay
along the bottom of a three-hundred-foot slope, steeper than the roof
of a house and thick in snow, which glared blinding white in the
morning sun. The opposite slope was covered with the amazingly thick
forest which they had seen from above.
"Go keerful," said Rube. "'Twouldn't take a great deal to start a
snowslide down them rocks."
"Seems as if something had been falling already," said Roger suddenly.
"Look at these pits in the snow."
He pointed to a hole in the snow. It was circular and about two feet
deep.
"Now that's strange," exclaimed Nick. "There's a whole row of 'em."
Rube looked at the queer marks, grunted, and shook his head. He hadn't
a notion what they were, but did not like to betray his ignorance to
the boys.
"Reckon best not talk," he growled. "Don't take much to start snow
a-sliding."
For the next half mile no one spoke. Twice more Roger noticed a series
of the same queer marks in the snow. Also in two places there seemed to
be regular roads beaten back into the thick underbrush of the snowclad
forest on their right. He did not pay much attention. His eyes were
fixed on the tree trunks.
Suddenly he gave a shout.
"Dad's mark!" he cried, pointing to a blaze on a big trunk by the path.
The words were hardly out of his mouth before there came a deep
crashing sound from somewhere behind.
"Yew've done it now!" cried Rube. "That's the snow!"
"Not a bit of it," retorted Nick. "It's coming from the wood."
"Blamed if you ain't right!" exclaimed Rube. "Thet beats all. I never
heerd a snowslide come down through a wood afore."
"It's not snow; it's something alive!" shouted Roger. "For heaven's
sake, look there!"
Rooted to the ground with sheer amazement, the three saw the forest
wave as if it were grass, heard the crashing of great boughs and trunks
breaking like nettles under a boy's stick.
There came a scream like the escape of steam from an express engine,
and then there burst out from the forest a beast so huge and hideous
that those who saw it stood gasping, unable to believe their eyes.
As large as a four-roomed cottage, in shape it resembled an elephant.
It was covered all over with a thatch of coarse, reddish hair, and high
above its monstrous head it waved a trunk of incredible size. On each
side of this trunk curled vast tusks, and its small, bloodshot eyes
glowed with bestial fury.
Again came that awful trumpeting. Instantly both the pack ponies were
off at a mad gallop.
"Run!" shrieked Rube.
The warning was needless. Nick and Roger were off as hard as their
shaking legs could carry them, and behind them came the monster at a
shambling gallop, which, in spite of the snow, covered the ground at
terrific speed.
Again he trumpeted, and one of the pack ponies, mad with fright, tried
to wheel sideways into the wood. The poor brute slipped and fell,
rolling over and over. Before it could regain its feet the monster was
upon it, and, lifting pony, pack, and all, bodily in its trunk, flung
it against the cliffside with such frightful force as must have broken
every bone in its body.
The momentary delay gave the others a few yards' start; but almost
instantly the gigantic brute was on their track again, and the solid
ground shook beneath its ponderous weight as it thundered down the
slope.
It could not last. The monster was gaining at every stride. Already
Roger felt his breath failing. There was no cover; in fact, the pass
was opening out wider and wider as they went.
"Try the trees!" shrieked Nick to Roger.
"No," came a gasp from Rube. "The lake! That's our only chance!"
They were close by the side of the little frozen lake, and the boys saw
Rube wheel and dash down the steep bank.
It seemed madness, for on the open ice they were at the mad brute's
mercy. Roger was for going straight on, but Nick seized his arm and
swung him to the left and onto the lake.
Another of those ear-piercing squeals. Roger, glancing back over his
shoulder, saw the gigantic bulk of their enemy come plunging down the
sharp descent toward the ice. It rushed straight toward him as though
certain of its prey.
Then came a rending crack, and the whole surface of the ice rose and
fell beneath the feet of the fugitives. A crash like the explosion of
a shell, a terrific bellow, and a wave of icy water rushed across the
frozen snow.
"That's done it!" came an exulting yell from Rube; and, swinging round,
the boys were just in time to see the domelike head of their terrible
enemy sink amid a lather of broken ice and foam.
For another second or two that terrible trunk waved high in the air, as
the huge beast fought for its ancient life in the hole its ponderous
bulk had broken. Then this, too, vanished. The last of the mammoths had
sunk into the depths.
While the three stood in awe-stricken silence, watching the black water
heave and bubble, there came a loud shout from the woods at the far end
of the lake. A burly man in furs stood waving a rifle.
With a shriek of joy Roger tore away across the ice toward him.
"Reckon that's his pa," observed Rube.
"Guess so," agreed Nick. "We might as well go and see."
"Dad!" cried Roger, as Rube and Nick came up. "If it hadn't been for
these good friends I could never have come to look for you."
"Then," said the man in furs with a grave smile, "I'm afraid I should
have been hung up here for the term of my natural life."
"What--did that old hairy elephant chase yer?" exclaimed Rube.
"He did, and I got away by the skin of my teeth by climbing a cliff,"
replied Mr. Glenn. "I've been living up in the hills ever since. Time
and again I've tried to find another way out, but there isn't one, and
for the life of me I didn't dare risk conclusions a second time with
the mammoth."
"I reckon he won't trouble us no more," said Rube dryly. "Say, though,
I'd like to have had them tusks. They'd be worth a mint o' money in the
States."
"They'd be awkward to carry," smiled Mr. Glenn. "They'd weigh about a
quarter of a ton apiece. What do you suppose they'd be worth?"
"A thousand dollars, I reckon," said Rube. Such a sum represented
wealth untold to the old trapper.
Mr. Glenn put a hand in his coat pocket, and pulled out a lump of dull
yellow metal as big as his fist.
"This isn't worth quite that much," he said quietly, as he handed it to
Rube. "But I'd be glad if you'd take it as a sort of consolation prize."
"Great gosh! It's a twenty-ounce nugget!" gasped Rube.
"Yes, and plenty more where that came from," said the prospector.
He turned to his son.
"Roger, I've made the strike of a lifetime. Now to get back to Dawson
before the snow comes."
WATCH THE SKY.
The different colors of the sky are caused by certain rays of light
being more or less strongly reflected or absorbed, according to
the amount of moisture contained in the atmosphere. Such colors
do, therefore, portend to some extent the kind of weather that may
naturally be expected to follow. For instance, a red sunset indicates
a fine day to follow, because the air when dry refracts more red or
heat-making rays, and as dry air is not perfectly transparent, they are
again reflected in the horizon. A coppery or yellowish sunset generally
foretells rain. The following has been advocated as a fairly successful
way of prognosticating: Fix your eye on the smallest cloud you can
see: if it decreases and disappears, the weather will be good; if it
increases in size, rain may be looked for.
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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.
340--Among the Nomads; or, Life in the Open. By the author of
"Through Air to Fame."
341--Bob, the Acrobat; or, Hustle and Win Out. By Harrie Irving
Hancock.
342--Through the Earth; or, Jack Nelson's Invention. By Fred Thorpe.
343--The Boy Chief; or, Comrades of Camp and Trail. By John De Morgan.
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.
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.
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.=
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_.
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.
_For sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address on receipt
of price, 5 cents per copy, in money or postage stamps, by_
STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York
=IF YOU WANT ANY BACK NUMBERS= of our Weeklies and cannot procure them
from your newsdealer, they can be obtained from this office direct.
Fill out the following Order Blank and send it to us with the price
of the Weeklies you want and we will send them to you by return mail.
=POSTAGE STAMPS TAKEN THE SAME AS MONEY.=
________________________ _190_
_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, " ________________________________
DIAMOND DICK WEEKLY, " ________________________________
BUFFALO BILL STORIES, " ________________________________
BRAVE AND BOLD WEEKLY, " ________________________________
MOTOR STORIES, " ________________________________
_Name_ ________________ _Street_ ________________
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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.
To be Published on July 12th.
21--Motor Matt's Launch; or, A Friend in Need.
To be Published on July 19th.
22--Motor Matt's Enemies; or, A Struggle for the Right.
To be Published on July 26th.
23--Motor Matt's Prize; or, The Pluck That Wins.
To be Published on August 2nd.
24--Motor Matt on the Wing; or, Flying for Fame and Fortune.
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.
Bold text is represented with =equal signs=, italics with _underscores_.
Page 1, Added comma after "Joe McGlory" in list of "Characters that
appear in this story."
Page 10, restored missing period to last sentence of chapter VI.
Page 29, corrected "Rufe" to "Rube" ("miss me except old Rube").