Matt and McGlory decided that they would not use an automobile for
their morning’s work. The cowboy would go downtown by the subway and
Matt would use a surface car. They separated, McGlory rather dazed and
skeptical about his prospective fortune, and Matt more confident and
highly delighted over his chum’s unexpected good luck.
It chanced that Matt had spent some time in Arizona, and he knew, from
near-at-hand observation, how suddenly the wheel of fortune changes for
better or for worse in mining affairs.
One of Matt’s best friends, “Chub” McReady, had leaped from poverty to
wealth by such a turn of the wheel, and Matt was prepared to believe
that the same dazzling luck could come McGlory’s way.
Within half an hour after leaving his chum, the young motorist was in
the Flatiron Building, asking the man on duty at the elevators where
he could find Mr. James Arthur Lafitte, the gentleman whom Cameron
had mentioned as being interested in the problem of aëronautics.
Lafitte, Cameron had told Matt, was a member of the Aëro Club, had
owned a balloon of his own, and had made many ascensions from the
town of Pittsfield, Massachusetts--which was near Matt’s old home in
the Berkshire Hills; but, Cameron had also said, Lafitte had given up
plain ballooning for dirigibles, and, finally, had turned his back on
dirigibles for heavier-than-air machines. He was a civil engineer of
an inventive turn, and with an adventurous nature--just the sort of
person Matt would like to meet.
Having learned the number of Lafitte’s suite of rooms, Matt stepped
aboard the elevator and was whisked skyward. Getting out under the
roof, he made his way to the door bearing Lafitte’s name, and passed
inside.
A young man, in his shirt sleeves, was working at a drawing table. Matt
asked for Mr. Lafitte, and was informed, much to his disappointment,
that he was at his workshop on Long Island, and would probably not be
in the city for two or three days.
Matt introduced himself to the young man, who was a draughtsman for
Lafitte, and who immediately laid aside his compasses and pencil, and
climbed down from his high stool to grasp the caller’s hand.
“Mr. Lafitte has heard a good deal about you,” said he, “and has
followed your work pretty closely. He’ll be sorry not to have seen you,
Motor Matt. Can’t you come in again? Better still, can’t you run out to
his workshop and see him?”
“I don’t know,” Matt answered. “I’m in the city with a friend, and he
has a little business to attend to which will probably take up some of
our time.”
“I think,” went on the other, “that you won’t regret taking the time to
talk with Mr. Lafitte. He’s working on something, out there at his Long
Island place, which is going to make a big stir, one of these days.”
“Something on the aëroplane order?”
The draughtsman looked thoughtful for a moment.
“Suppose,” said he, “that something was discovered which had fifty
times the buoyancy of hydrogen gas, that the buoyancy could be
regulated at will by electrically heated platinum wires--would that
revolutionize this flying proposition?”
Matt was struck at once with the far-reaching influence of the novel
proposition.
“It would, certainly,” he declared. “Is that what----”
“I’m not saying any more than that, Motor Matt,” broke in the young
man; “in fact, I _can’t_ say anything more, but you take the trouble to
talk with Mr. Lafitte. It may be worth something to you.”
Matt lingered in the office for a few minutes longer, then went
away. The spell cast over him by the clerk’s words went with him.
He had often thought and dreamed along the lines of the subject the
draughtsman had mentioned.
The drawback, in the matter of dirigible balloons, lay in the fact
that the huge bag, necessary to keep them aloft, made them the sport
of every wind that blew. If the volume of gas could be reduced, then,
naturally, the smaller the gas bag, the more practicable the dirigible
would become. With the volume of gas reduced _fifty times_, a field
opened for power-driven balloons which fairly took Matt’s breath away.
And this lifting power of Lafitte’s was under control! This seemed to
offer realization of another of Matt’s dreams--of an automobile flying
machine, a surface and air craft which could fly along the roads as
well as leap aloft and sail through the atmosphere above him.
Carried away by his thoughts, Matt suddenly came back to his sober
senses and found himself staring blankly into a window filled with
pipes and tobacco at the V-shaped point of the Flatiron Building. He
laughed under his breath as he dismissed his wild visions.
“I won’t take any stock in this new gas,” he muttered, “until I can
see it demonstrated. Just now I’m more interested in Joe and his good
luck than in anything else.”
He looked at his watch. It was only half-past nine, and it would be
half an hour, at least, before he could expect his chum. Matt had
suddenly remembered, too, that it would probably be ten o’clock before
Joe could finish his business at the bank, and that would delay his
arrival at the Flatiron Building until after the appointed time.
Crossing over into Madison Square, Matt idled away his time, roaming
around and building air castles for McGlory. The cowboy was a fine
fellow, a lad of sterling worth, and fortune could not have visited her
favors upon one more deserving.
By ten o’clock Matt was back at the Flatiron Building. As he came
around on the Fifth Avenue side, a taxicab drew up at the curb, the
door opened, and a lad sprang out. The youth was well dressed and
carried a small tin box.
Matt supposed the lad was some one who had business inside the
building, and merely gave him a casual glance as he strolled on. Matt
had not gone far, however, before he felt a hand on his shoulder. He
whirled around, thinking it was McGlory, and was a little surprised to
observe the youth who had got out of the taxicab.
“Are you Motor Matt?” came a low voice.
“That’s my name,” answered Matt.
“And you’re waiting here for your friend, Joe McGlory?”
“He was to meet me here at ten,” said Matt, his surprise growing.
“Well,” went on the lad, a tinge of color coming into his face, “he--he
won’t be able to meet you.”
“Won’t be able to meet me?” echoed Matt. “Is business keeping him?”
“That’s it. I’m from the office of Random & Griggs, and Mr. McGlory
wants you in a hurry.”
“What does he want me for?”
“That’s more than I know. You see, I’m only a messenger in the brokers’
office.”
He was a well-dressed young fellow, for a messenger, but Matt knew that
some of the messengers, from the Wall Street section, spend a good
share of their salary on clothes, and, in fact, are required to dress
well.
“I can’t imagine what Joe wants me for,” said the wondering Matt, “but
I’ll go with you to Liberty Street and find out.”
“He’s not at the office, now,” went on the messenger, “but started into
the country with Mr. Random just as I left the office to come after
you.”
“What in the world is Joe going into the country for?”
“That’s too many for me. All he told me to tell you was that it had
something to do with the ‘Pauper’s Dream.’ He said you’d understand.”
This was startling news for Matt, inasmuch as it seemed to indicate
that McGlory had encountered a snag of some kind in the matter of the
mine.
“We’d better hurry,” urged the messenger, as Matt stood reflecting upon
the odd twist the “Pauper’s Dream” matter was taking.
“All right,” said Motor Matt.
Accompanying the young fellow to the taxicab, Matt climbed inside and
the messenger followed and closed the door. The driver, it appeared,
already had his instructions, and the machine was off the moment the
door had closed.
“My name is Granger, Motor Matt,” observed the messenger, “Harold
Granger.”
“You don’t look much like a granger,” laughed Matt, taking in the
messenger’s trim, up-to-date garments.
Harold Granger joined in the laugh.
“What’s in a name, anyhow?” he asked.
“That’s so,” answered Matt good-naturedly. “I’d give a good deal to
know what’s gone crossways with McGlory. I suppose you haven’t any
idea?”
“There are not many leaks to Mr. Random’s private room,” answered
Harold, “and I can’t even guess what’s going on. Mr. Random seemed
excited, though, and it takes a lot to make _him_ show his nerves.”
“Where are we going?”
“To Rye, a small place beyond Mamaroneck.”
“Great spark-plugs!” exclaimed Matt, watching the figures jump up in
the dial, recording the distance they were covering in dollars and
cents. “What’s the use of using a taxicab for a trip like that? You
ought to have hired a touring car by the hour.”
“Oh, this was the only car handy, and Mr. Random never stops at
expense.”
“Why couldn’t he and McGlory have come by way of the Flatiron Building
and picked me up?”
“I think Mr. McGlory said you were not expecting him until ten o’clock.”
“That needn’t have made any difference. Joe knew where I was to be in
the Flatiron Building and he could have come for me.”
“He and Mr. Random seemed to be in a hurry,” was the indefinite
response, “and that’s all I know.”
When the taxicab got beyond the place where the eight-miles-an-hour
speed limit did not interfere, the driver let the machine out, and the
figures in the dial danced a jig. But Random & Griggs were furnishing
the music for the dance, and Matt composed himself.
“You’re a stranger in New York, aren’t you?” Harold inquired.
“I haven’t been in the city for a long time,” Matt answered.
“This is the Pelham Road,” the messenger went on, “and that’s the
sound, over there.”
“I was never out this way before,” said Matt, “but----”
Just at that moment something went wrong with the taxicab. There was
a wobble, a wild lurch sidewise, a brief jump across the road, and a
terrific jolt as the machine came to a halt. The body of the car was
thrown over to a dangerous angle, Matt was flung violently against
Harold Granger, and both of them struck the door. Under the impact of
their bodies, the door yielded, and they fell out of the vehicle and
into the road.
Malt had given vent to a sharp exclamation, and his companion had
uttered a shrill cry. The next moment they were on the ground, Matt
picking himself up quickly, a little shaken but in no wise injured.
The taxicab, he saw at a glance, had dived from the road into a stone
wall. The driver had vanished, and Matt took a hurried glance over the
wall to see if he had landed on the other side of it. He was not there,
and the mystery as to his whereabouts deepened.
Turning to give his attention to Granger, Matt received another start.
The young fellow was lying beside the taxicab, lifting himself weakly
on one arm. His tin box had dropped near him, and his derby hat had
fallen off. Strands of long, yellow hair, which must have been done
into a coil and hidden under a wig of some sort, had been released and
were waving about Granger’s shoulders.
A woman! Here was a pretty tangle, and Motor Matt was astounded.