MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING
ADVENTURE
MOTOR
FICTION
NO. 24
AUG. 7, 1909
FIVE
CENTS
MOTOR MATT
ON THE WING
OR FLYING FOR
FAME AND FORTUNE
_BY THE AUTHOR
OF "MOTOR MATT"_
[Illustration: _Quick as a flash, Motor Matt
caught the lieutenant's arm
just in time to keep him
from falling._]
_STREET & SMITH._
_PUBLISHERS._
_NEW YORK._
MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION
_Issued Weekly. By subscription $2.50 per year. Copyright, 1909, by_
STREET & SMITH, _79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York, N. Y._
No. 24. NEW YORK, August 7, 1909. Price Five Cents.
Motor Matt On the Wing
OR,
FLYING FOR FAME AND FORTUNE.
By the author of "MOTOR MATT."
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. WANTED: A MAN OF NERVE.
CHAPTER II. FOILING A SCOUNDREL.
CHAPTER III. MATT MAKES AN INVESTMENT.
CHAPTER IV. MATT EXPLAINS TO M'GLORY.
CHAPTER V. PING AND THE BEAR.
CHAPTER VI. A NEW VENTURE.
CHAPTER VII. A PARTNER IN VILLAINY.
CHAPTER VIII. MATT SHIFTS HIS PLANS.
CHAPTER IX. DODGING TROUBLE.
CHAPTER X. BLANKED.
CHAPTER XI. SIWASH SHOWS HIS TEETH--AND HIS HEELS.
CHAPTER XII. "UNCLE SAM" TAKES HOLD.
CHAPTER XIII. ON THE WING.
CHAPTER XIV. DASTARDLY WORK.
CHAPTER XV. THE GOVERNMENT TRIAL.
CHAPTER XVI. FAME--AND A LITTLE FORTUNE.
TRICKED BY TWO.
IDAHO TO FEED ELKS.
NOISY AVIANS.
FISH THAT CANNOT SWIM.
CHARACTERS THAT APPEAR IN THIS STORY.
=Matt King=, otherwise Motor Matt.
=Joe McGlory=, a young cowboy who proves himself a lad of worth and
character, and whose eccentricities are all on the humorous side. A
good chum to tie to--a point Motor Matt is quick to perceive.
=Ping Pong=, a Chinese boy who insists on working for Motor Matt, and
who contrives to make himself valuable, perhaps invaluable.
=Mrs. Traquair=, wife of the inventor, Harry Traquair, who lost his
life by a fall from an aëroplane of his own invention.
=Amos Murgatroyd=, a mortgage shark who gets the Traquairs in his
clutches and becomes a bitter enemy of Motor Matt.
=Siwash Charley=, a ruffian who becomes the tool of Murgatroyd in his
desperate attempts to keep Matt from flying the Traquair aëroplane in
the government trials.
=Lieutenant Cameron=, an officer in the Signal Corps, U. S. A., who
proves to be the cousin of an old friend of Matt, and who nearly
loses his life when the aëroplane is tested.
=Mr. Black=, a friendly real estate man of Jamestown, N. D., who owns
an automobile which proves of good service to the king of the motor
boys.
=Sergeant O'Hara=, a good soldier, but who indulges in a game of
cards at an inopportune moment.
=Benner=, post trader at Fort Totten, a bluff person who falls into a
trap laid by Siwash Charley.
=Jake=, a teamster for Benner, who uses a blacksnake whip in a novel,
but effective way.
CHAPTER I.
WANTED: A MAN OF NERVE.
"Mr. Amos Murgatroyd?"
"My name."
Amos Murgatroyd whirled around in his office chair and measured his
caller with a pair of little, gimlet eyes. The caller, at the same
time, was measuring Murgatroyd.
The young man who had entered the musty office of the loan broker and
was now undergoing his scrutiny, stood straight as a plumb line, his
shoulders squared, his lithe, well-set-up form "at attention." He wore
a cap, and his clothes were of dark blue and of a semi-military cut.
He was prepossessing in appearance, which, most decidedly, the loan
broker was not.
Murgatroyd's face was too lean and hard, his eyes too sharp and shifty,
to give one a very exalted idea of his character.
The caller drew a folded newspaper from the breast pocket of his coat
and laid it on the broker's desk.
"Are you the man who put that 'ad' in the paper?" inquired the youth.
Murgatroyd picked a pair of nose glasses off his vest, carefully
adjusted them, and lifted the paper. The following marked paragraph
riveted his attention:
Wanted: A man of nerve, one who has had some experience with flying
machines and can handle a gasoline motor. To such a person a chance
is offered to fly for fame and fortune in a new aëroplane. Sand and
sagacity absolutely essential. Call on or address, A. Murgatroyd,
Brown Block, Jamestown, North Dakota.
The broker dropped the paper, leaned back in his chair, and swept the
glasses off his nose. Tapping the glasses against the knuckles of his
left hand, he continued to regard the youth.
"Well?" he growled. "It's my 'ad.' What of it?"
"I've come several hundred miles to answer it in person."
"You? Why, I advertised for a man, not a boy."
"What difference does that make, so long as I can do the work?"
Amos Murgatroyd had no answer for this, and his remarks took another
tack.
"Had any experience with aëroplanes?"
"No, but I have had a good deal to do with dirigible balloons.
If you're hunting for a man who is experienced with aëroplanes,
Mr. Murgatroyd, I guess you'll have to hunt for a long time.
Heavier-than-air machines are only just beginning to come to the front,
and the supply of experienced drivers is limited. It was the chance to
familiarize myself with flying of that kind that brought me here."
Murgatroyd continued to tap reflectively with his glasses.
"Do you know that the man who invented the aëroplane fell with one of
the machines and was killed?" he inquired.
"I heard that there had been an accident here, recently," was the
answer.
"That was ten days ago, over in the park. The aëroplane turned turtle,
dropped fifty feet, and Traquair was badly smashed. He lived about
fifteen minutes and wasn't able to speak a word. The machine may
be wrong in principle, I don't know that, but I've got to get some
reliable person, who's not too much afraid of risking his neck, to
learn the machine and then give an exhibition for the government, up at
Fort Totten. The trial is set for two weeks from to-day. There's not
much time, you see, to learn the ropes."
"I believe I could learn the ropes," said the other confidently. "I
seem to have a knack for picking up such things."
"If anything happens to you, your relatives may come at me for damages."
"So far as I know, Mr. Murgatroyd, I haven't any relatives."
The beady, gimlet eyes gleamed with undisguised satisfaction.
"You will have to sign a paper," went on Murgatroyd, "releasing me
from all responsibility, financial or otherwise, in case any accident
happens."
"I'm willing," was the cool response. "It can't be that you have very
much confidence in your aëroplane, Mr. Murgatroyd."
"Solid ground is good enough for me. If man was intended to fly
he would have been born with wings. That's where I stand in this
aëronautical game. Besides, Traquair invented the machine--I didn't;
and the fact that Traquair was killed by his own invention doesn't give
me superlative confidence in it."
The youth wondered why Murgatroyd was taking such an interest in a
machine that did not command his confidence. The next moment the broker
explained this point.
"Traquair owed me money, and the machine was the only thing belonging
to him that I could get hold of. If the test at Fort Totten is
satisfactory, the war department will buy the aëroplane at a good
figure. This is the only way I can get back the loan, you see?"
"What are you willing to pay for the work you want done?"
The youth's tone was chilling and business-like. He was anything but
favorably impressed with Murgatroyd.
"I won't pay a red cent," declared the broker. "I'll furnish the
aëroplane, and you can use it for practice. If you please the war
department, and they pay fifteen thousand for the machine, we'll split
the amount even. That's fair enough. I won't be throwing good money
after bad, and success or failure is put up to you."
"Is the machine you have the one that killed Traquair?"
Murgatroyd gave a choppy laugh.
"I should say not! There was nothing but kindling wood left of that
machine. Traquair was intending to fly for the government, and he had a
machine constructed especially for the purpose. It's in storage at Fort
Totten now. The machine he was using here was the first one he built.
By the way, young man, what's your name?"
"King, Matt King."
Murgatroyd gave a grunt of surprise, jammed his glasses on his nose,
and stared at his caller with renewed interest; then, suddenly, he
pressed a push button at the side of his desk.
A clerk appeared, a wizened, dried-up little man, who came in with a
cringing air.
"Yes, Mr. Murgatroyd?"
"File 'K,' Prebbles. And dust it off. Why don't you go around this
place with a duster, once in a while? The older you get, Prebbles, the
less you seem to know."
The clerk winced. With a deferential bow, he turned and slunk out of
the room. He returned in a few minutes, a duster in one hand and a
battered letter file in the other. Murgatroyd took the file on his desk
and sent Prebbles away with a curt gesture.
After a brief search through the file, the broker developed a number of
newspaper clippings.
"That your picture?" he asked, holding up a clipping with an
electrotype reproduction of the king of the motor boys at the top of it.
"It's supposed to be," smiled Matt, wondering why this close-fisted
broker had gone to so much trouble to collect the clippings.
"You had a flying machine called the _Hawk_, quite a while ago, didn't
you?" pursued Murgatroyd, studying the clippings.
"It was a dirigible balloon," explained Matt. "Correctly speaking, a
flying machine is not a motor suspended from a gas bag."
"Quite right. I got these clippings from a clipping bureau in the East,
and ever since I found this aëroplane on my hands I've been trying to
locate you. Finally I had to give up, and then it was that I put that
'ad' in the paper. And now, here you come answering the 'ad'! Looks
like fate had something to do with this, eh?"
"Just a coincidence," answered Matt, "and not such a remarkable
coincidence, either. If you knew me better, Mr. Murgatroyd, you'd
understand how anxious I am to become familiar with every sort of
machine propelled by a gasoline motor. It's the coming power"--Matt's
gray eyes brightened enthusiastically--"and as motors are improved, and
their weight reduced in direct ratio with the increase in the horse
power, the explosive engine will be used in ways as yet----"
"That's all right," cut in Murgatroyd, who was coldly commercial and
as far removed from anything like enthusiasm as night is from day. "A
gasoline engine is a noisy, dirty machine and smells to high heaven.
But that's neither here nor there. Will you take hold of this aëroplane
matter, learn how to run the Traquair invention, and then test it out
at Fort Totten, two weeks from to-day?"
"I'll think it over," said Motor Matt.
He would not have taken a minute to consider the matter if he had been
more favorably impressed with Murgatroyd.
"I can't wait very long for you to make up your mind," went on the
broker, visibly disappointed. "There's only two weeks between now and
the Fort Totten trials."
"I'll give you an answer by to-morrow morning," and Matt turned toward
the door.
"Fame and fortune are in your grasp," urged Murgatroyd. "Don't let 'em
slide through your fingers."
Without answering, but nodding a good day to the broker, Matt stepped
into the outer room.
As he passed through this other office, he saw Prebbles on a high
stool, humped over a ledger. The clerk's eye shade and little bald
head, and his thin, crooked body, gave him the grotesque appearance of
a frog, roosting on a stone, and getting ready to jump.
Matt passed on into the hall. Before he could descend the stairs he
heard a hissing sound behind him. Turning, he saw the clerk standing in
the open door, touching his lips with a finger in token of silence.
Matt paused with his hand on the stair rail, and the clerk came gliding
toward him.
"Don't have anythin' to do with him," said Prebbles, in a tremulous
whisper; "he's a robber."
"Who's a robber?" returned Matt.
"Murgatroyd. He's a skinflint and hasn't any more heart than a stone.
He's a robber, I tell you; and, anyhow, if you try to run that machine
you'll get killed. Traquair got killed, and he invented it, and knew
more about it than you can ever learn. If----"
A buzzer began to sound its call in the outer office. Prebbles whirled
and shuffled away. Pausing at the door, he turned to repeat, in a stage
whisper:
"Leave him alone, I tell you. He's a robber, and you'll get killed."
Then Prebbles vanished, and Matt went thoughtfully down the stairs.