THE END OF THE MID-AIR TRAIL.
The failure of Carl, Harris and Jerrold to make a landing on the
"island" has already been recorded.
They had seen the Hawk, moored at one edge of the cleared space,
and they had seen Brady and the others; but, of course, it had been
impossible for them to see anything of Matt. The young motorist, at
that time, was bound hand and foot and lying on the cot in the hut.
With bullets flying around them and threatening injury to the Eagle,
it was not policy to remain hovering over such a nest of desperate
scoundrels very long.
"We'll get out of here," cried Harris, angrily, "and come back with men
and guns enough to give those fellows a taste of their own medicine.
Don't let any harm come to the air-ship, Jerrold. We're going to need
her, later."
Just as Harris finished speaking, a bullet slapped into the motor and
the machinery at once began to go wrong.
"Too late," responded Jerrold grimly; "they've already nipped us."
"Py chimineddy," roared Carl, "I vish I hat somet'ing vat I could shoot
mit ad dem fillains!"
Limping and staggering, Jerrold managed to urge the Eagle out of harm's
way.
"She won't drop on us, will she?" asked Harris, looking anxiously
downward at the tree-tops.
"No," replied Jerrold, "the gas-bag is uninjured, so we can't fall; and
the motor is working, too, after a fashion, and that enables us to make
a slow rate of speed. But there will have to be some repairs before we
can do anything more with the air-ship."
"Where'll we go to make them? Back to South Chicago?"
"Lake Station is nearer. We'll come down there and ascertain the extent
of the damage. It may be that we shall have to go back to South Chicago
if the injury is at all serious."
"All right," acquiesced Harris. "I'll be able to do some telephoning
and get a few more men out here from headquarters. I'll have them bring
rifles, and then we'll give Brady a set-to that he'll remember."
"I ditn't see Matt in der blace," mourned Carl.
"He may have been there," said Harris. "There were two sheds, and they
may be keeping your chum a prisoner in one of them."
"Vell, vile ve're avay fixing oop der Eagle, meppy dose fellers pack
dere vill fly off mit demselufs in der Hawk. Oof dey do dot, den ve
vill have some drouple for our pains."
"We shall have to keep watch of the sky in the direction of the swamp,"
said Jerrold. "By doing that we can tell whether or not the Hawk gets
away."
Carl made that his work.
"I don'd know how I can see mit der naked eye ven ve ged py Lake
Sdation," he remarked.
"We'll have to hunt up a spyglass, or a pair of binoculars," suggested
Harris.
"Vat oof der Hawk moofs pefore we ged dem?"
"Then we'll be up against it, and no mistake."
There was a lot of excitement in the little town of Lake Station when a
real, sure enough air-ship descended close to the blacksmith shop. The
whole population gathered and stared.
While Jerrold was busy tinkering with his crippled motor, Carl
succeeded in finding an old-fashioned spyglass and climbed with it
to the top of the highest building in town. There he perched himself
on the edge of the roof and watched continually in the direction of
Willoughby's swamp.
Meanwhile, Harris had been talking with police headquarters in South
Chicago. As a result, three officers were detailed to catch the first
train for Lake Station.
The repairs to be made to the Eagle were somewhat extensive, and taxed
the capacity of the blacksmith shop. Had Jerrold been in his own
workroom he could have fixed up the motor more easily and quickly, but
to take the Eagle back to South Chicago would have resulted in a loss
of time.
Hour after hour the inventor labored, helped by the blacksmith and
eyed with wonder by the townspeople. The detail of officers arrived,
and they could do nothing but wait until the Eagle was ready to carry
them to the "island" in the swamp. Any attempt to reach the "island" on
foot was hardly to be considered.
While Jerrold's labors were nearing completion, a yell from Carl called
the attention of Harris.
"What's the matter with you?" he shouted.
Carl was dancing around on the roof top, waving the spyglass
frantically.
"Come oop!" he cried, wildly. "Der Hawk is gedding avay mit itseluf!
Ach, plazes, vat a luck!"
Harris made haste to reach the top of the building where Carl had been
patiently waiting and watching.
"Pud der spyglass to your eye, Harris," said Carl, "und look off to der
nort'. Ach, dose fellers haf made some ged-avays, und I bed you dey
have dook Matt along!"
With the glass at his eye, Harris swept the horizon in the direction
indicated by Carl. Finally he found what he was looking for--an
oblong blot gliding through the heavens and proceeding in a northerly
direction.
"That's the Hawk, all right," said he, in a tone of intense
disappointment, "but why is it heading in that direction?"
"Prady vouldn't dare go pack by Sout' Chicago," said Carl. "I bed you
somet'ing for nodding he has got anodder hang-oudt in dot tirections.
Ach, vat vill I do for dot bard oof mine?"
Gloomily the two descended from the roof, and Carl returned the
spyglass to its owner.
Half an hour later the Eagle was ready for flight, and the officers and
Carl got aboard. It was decided to proceed to the swamp and look over
the "island" and then, if nothing of importance developed, to return to
South Chicago.
The Eagle's motor, apparently, worked as well as ever, and the four
miles separating Willoughby's swamp from Lake Station were covered in
record time.
As they neared the "island" the officers made ready to use their
guns. There was no hostile demonstration, however, and not a soul was
anywhere in sight. The Eagle descended, and the officers, accompanied
by the anxious Carl, proceeded to make a search.
They found nothing but two meagerly furnished houses, apparently
recently deserted. Silence reigned everywhere, ominous of events that
had happened.
"Vell," said Carl, gloomily, "dis means dot I haf got to do some more
looking for Modor Matt. Der gang haf made off mit him some more, und I
vas so tisappointed as I can't dell."
For that matter, they were all disappointed--Jerrold in particular.
Motor Matt had served Jerrold well, and the inventor had been anxious
to make him some repayment in kind.
But there was nothing left for the air-ship party to do but to point
the Eagle toward home. As the air-ship passed the rolling mills and
came close to the balloon house where Brady had formerly housed the
Hawk, it was observed by those in the car that the doors of the big
building were closed, and that two officers had mounted guard in front
of them.
"That means something," muttered Harris. "Drop lower, Jerrold, so I can
talk with those two cops."
Jerrold descended until the top of the car was nearly on a level with
the balloon house, and Harris leaned over the guard rail.
"Hello!" he called. "What are you fellows doing there?"
"Watching the air-ship," was the astounding answer.
"Do you mean to say that Brady's air-ship is in that balloon house?"
"Sure."
"Has Brady been captured?"
"Why, no. You went after him, didn't you?"
"We went after him, but he and his men fired on us and damaged our
motor. We went to Lake Station to fix the machinery, and while we were
there we caught sight of the Hawk, through a spyglass, making north. As
soon as we could, we started for the swamp, but there was no one there.
Naturally, we supposed that Brady and his gang had made their escape,
and it's mighty surprising to hear that the Hawk is back in its old
cage and didn't bring Brady along."
"The Hawk brought Motor Matt----"
Carl gave a yell and nearly fell out of the car.
"Modor Matt?" he shouted. "Vas you shdringing me, oder iss it shdraight
goots?"
"I'm giving it to you straight," answered the officer on the ground.
"Motor Matt got away from the swamp and brought two prisoners with him,
in the Hawk. They were two of the men who robbed Jerrold of his plans."
"Zum lauderbach haben, mich shtets----" began Carl, singing loudly and
then interrupting himself to gloat. "Dot's my bard vat dit dot! Yah,
so! Leedle Modor Matt who iss alvays doing t'ings vat you don'd oxbect.
He has shtarred himseluf some more, you bed you! Vere iss Modor Matt
now, officer?" Carl called down.
"He took a train into Chicago--said he was behind his schedule for that
five-day race. The two prisoners are at police headquarters."
"Well, by thunder!" muttered Harris, mopping his face with a red
handkerchief, "that Motor Matt must be a regular young phenomenon!"
"I never heard of anything to beat him!" averred Jerrold.
"Und you nefer vill!" declared Carl. "He iss vone oof dose fellers vat
can't be peat."
"You might take us to police headquarters, Jerrold," suggested Harris.
"Und you mighdt shtop on der vay py der railroadt sdation," piped Carl.
"I vant to ged py Chicago so kevick as der nation vill led me."
* * * * *
When Carl next saw Matt, the young motorist was spinning around the
great oval in a Jarrot machine, which he knew so well and had driven
to victory in Kansas. The five-day race was not for one driver alone,
but several drivers were to be at the steering wheel of each car. Matt
had reached the Coliseum just in time to take his place in the racing
schedule.
Every time Matt whirled around the oval, Carl had something to say
to him, but it was not until evening that the boys were able to get
together for a talk.
They decided between them that Brady, and those whom Matt had left on
the "island," must have made their escape from the swamp by a secret
route known only to themselves.
Where Harper, the driver of the Hawk was, was likewise a mystery to the
police.
Matt had turned the bag of loot stolen from Hartz & Greer over to the
police with instructions to say that it was recovered by Miss Brady,
and that no reward would be accepted for its return.
"How you tink dot air-ship pitzness is, anyvays, Matt?" asked Carl,
when the boys had had their talk out and were ready to crawl into bed.
"I _like_ it," answered Matt, enthusiastically, "and I wish I could
have more of it!"
His wish was destined to fulfillment, for, as events proved, his
thrilling work in South Chicago and at Willoughby's swamp was but
the beginning of a series of air-ship experiences. Matt may have
congratulated himself with the thought that he was through with Hector
Brady, but Brady was by no means done with Matt--as will be made clear
in the story to follow.
THE END.
THE NEXT NUMBER (10) WILL CONTAIN
Motor Matt's Hard Luck;
OR,
THE BALLOON-HOUSE PLOT.
An Old Friend--A Trap--Overboard--Rescued--Buying the Hawk--Matt
Scores Against Jameson--At the Balloon House--The Plot of the Brady
Gang--Carl is Surprised--Helen Brady's Clue--Jerrold Gives His
Aid--Grand Haven--The Line On Brady--The Woods by the River--Brady a
Prisoner--Back in South Chicago.
MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION
NEW YORK, April 24, 1909.
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79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York City.
THE BIG CYPRESS.
The rifle cracked and the piece of boiler plate, which had been erected
as target against the bank fifty yards away, fell shattered like a pane
of glass.
"How's that, Colonel Fearon?" coolly inquired the young fellow, who had
fired the shot, as he turned to the tall, sallow-faced man who stood
beside him.
A curious expression crossed the latter's face, but he answered
quickly, "Amazing, Rutherford! Simply astonishing. I could never have
believed such a thing possible. A pom-pom shell could hardly have
smashed the plate more effectually."
The boy--he was hardly more--laughed. "I thought it would startle you,
colonel. Will you feel justified in sending me up to Washington?"
"I reckon that's the place for you to go to, Rutherford. The war
department'll need that new bullet of yours in their business. You mean
to tell me you invented that bullet all by yourself?"
"I did, colonel. You see, I was always fond of dabbling in chemistry
and the idea for this came to me one day when I was at work in my
father's store. I didn't worry about it much, until the poor old man
went broke, and then it struck me there was money in it. It was the
mayor of our town, Orangeville, told me to come to you. He said that
you could give me the proper introductions."
"He was right," said Colonel Fearon. "I can fix you up with the proper
people. Let me have a shot."
Lionel Rutherford handed the colonel a cartridge, which outwardly
looked precisely similar to an ordinary rifle cartridge. He then walked
across the lawn of fine Bermuda grass, put a fresh piece of steel plate
in position, and came back.
The colonel fired, and, as before, the tough steel simply sprang to
pieces and lay in scattered fragments on the grass.
"I reckon there's more money in this than in keeping store," said the
colonel thoughtfully. "Rutherford, I'll be pleased if you'll stay here
at my house for a day or two till I can write to the proper people."
Young Rutherford thanked him warmly and the two walked back toward the
long, low, wide verandaed house.
Late that night the colonel and his son, Randal Fearon, sat together in
the well-appointed smoking room and talked earnestly in low tones.
"There's thousands in it, father," said the younger man sharply.
"Thousands!"
"I know that as well as yourself," returned the other irritably. "But
the invention's not yours or mine."
"What's Rutherford?" sneered Randal. "Here he is, a fellow who's never
known anything of life, who's lived all his days in a little one-horse
backwoods town, and now he's going to roll in riches while we are on
the edge of bankruptcy."
He paused, and glanced at his father, who sat fidgeting uneasily. The
colonel, fine-looking man that he was, was as weak-willed as his tall,
thin, sharp-faced son was strong.
"A real nice scandal there'll be when we go smash," went on Randal
Fearon. "Think of the headlines. 'Fraudulent Bankruptcy. Prominent
Floridian lives beyond his means.' How the yellow press'll revel in it!"
Again the colonel moved uneasily. "I don't see how you're going to get
the specifications from him, anyhow," he said at last.
"You leave that to me," replied Randal with sneering emphasis.
"Look you here, Randal, I won't have any violence." For once Colonel
Fearon spoke decidedly.
"I guess you needn't worry your head about that," answered Randal.
"I've got the whole plan cut and dried. You've asked him to stay?"
"Yes," said the colonel. "He will stay."
Randal laughed as if pleased. "That's all right. To-morrow we'll settle
it, Pete Dally and I."
"How?"
"I'll tell you in the morning. Don't worry yourself. As you are so
anxious to avoid it, I promise you there shall be no violence."
Randal chuckled in ugly fashion as he got up, flung the stump of his
cigar into the fireplace, and, lighting a small hand lamp, left the
room.
* * * * *
"How much farther have we got to go before we run into any of this game
you talked about, Mr. Fearon?" asked Rutherford as he stopped and wiped
the perspiration from his streaming face.
"I thought we'd have seen a buck before now," replied Randal Fearon.
"We don't often have to come this far into the Big Cypress to find
game, do we, Pete?"
"No, sah; we gen'rally finds it quite clos' to the aidge of de swamp,"
said Pete, who was a burly, square-shouldered negro with a face as
black as ebony.
Rutherford was rather puzzled. That morning Randal Fearon had suggested
that it would be very good fun to go shooting in the Big Cypress, a
huge tract of wild, swampy forest, the edge of which was about five
miles from Colonel Fearon's place.
"You might try the effect of some of your explosive bullets," Randal
had suggested; and Rutherford had laughed and said that there wouldn't
be much left of any game smaller than a buffalo or an elephant if
struck by one of his projectiles.
All the same, being a keen sportsman, he had willingly agreed to the
shoot. What puzzled him was that they should have tramped for hours
through this steaming bush, which reeked with signs of game, and yet
not seen a single thing to shoot at.
"Don't you worry. We shall find deer soon," said Randal when Rutherford
expressed his astonishment. "We're getting near a good place now. I
reckon we'd better stop and eat our dinner first. Pete, make a fire."
Pete Dally dropped the big haversack he was carrying over his broad
shoulders, and obeyed. In a very few minutes a fire was blazing,
and the fragrant fumes of frying bacon and strong coffee filled the
close, steamy air. Lionel Rutherford, tired by the long tramp and the
hot-house atmosphere of the jungle, enjoyed the meal greatly.
After they had finished they marched on again. They had left the pine
trees behind, and were pushing along a narrow track through a forest
of great ilex, bastard oak, and magnolia. The undergrowth was of saw
palmetto, growing in huge, impenetrable clumps, among which the muddy
track wound in and out.
The scent of yellow jasmine was almost stifling, but the only life
visible was an occasional cardinal bird with its vivid crimson
plumage, or a stub-tailed water moccasin which raised its triangular,
copper-hued head with an ugly hiss and dragged itself sluggishly out of
sight among the tangled herbage.
The path was so narrow that they were compelled to walk in single file.
Randal made Pete lead the way. More than once the negro had tried to
drop behind, but each time Randal roughly ordered him to push ahead.
The silence of the swamp grew as oppressive as the intense heat. It
began to get upon young Rutherford's nerves.
"A tough place to get lost in," he said at last.
Randal turned quickly. There was a queer expression on his sharp face
as he replied:
"Yes, pretty bad, I reckon."
Somehow, Rutherford fancied there was something sinister in his tone.
"I don't like the chap," he thought to himself. "I wish I hadn't come."
Then common sense got the better of his fears. "It's the place, not the
people, that's worrying me. These big hamaks are worse than a desert.
There you can see the sky; here it's like one great, green prison."
"Look out, sah. Dah's a wild cat in dat tree," suddenly hissed Pete
Dally, and slipped out of the path into the thicket. "Quiet or youse
done frighten him."
Rutherford, all excitement, slipped his rifle from his shoulder.
But Randal barred his way. He was standing still, peering up into the
tree indicated.
"Where? I don't see it," he exclaimed harshly.
"Dere it am, sah. On dat big fork," declared Pete, pointing. And then
as Randal stepped forward, the negro slipped back round a clump of
palmetto, and Rutherford felt a hand fall sharply on his arm, while
these words were whispered in his ear:
"Dat man mean you no good, sah. Watch me, an' doan' do what he say."
He turned in amazement, but Peter was already gone. He had glided back,
and was standing at Randal's elbow, pointing out the exact spot where
he alleged he had seen the cat.
But there was no cat there now, and Rutherford wondered if there ever
had been. Randal cursed Pete angrily, and once more they moved forward.
Rutherford, more worried than he cared to own even to himself,
followed, as before, the last of the little procession.
It was getting late and the bullfrogs had begun to bellow harshly in
unseen pools in the forest. But there was no decrease in the sullen
heat. Not a breath stirred the moist, stagnant air, and the farther
they went the thicker grew the tangled vegetation till there was no
longer any sign of a path. In unbroken silence the three forced their
way through primeval forest.
Presently trees broke away, and they stood upon the muddy marge of a
reedy lagoon, across the stagnant waters of which the low sun cast a
lurid light.
"Here we are," said Randal Fearon sharply. "This is where the deer come
down to drink. You wait, Rutherford, in the bushes here, and you'll
soon get a shot. Pete and I will take up our places on the far side.
Then whatever comes some of us will get a buck."
"Watch me, and don't do what he says." Pete's words were ringing in
Rutherford's ears. He cast a glance at the negro. Pete made a quick
sign, which the English boy took to mean that he was to follow instead
of remaining.
Next moment Randal had plunged off through the palmetto with Pete at
his heels.
"What's it all mean?" muttered Rutherford angrily. "Is Fearon fooling
me, or is it Pete? Of the two, I infinitely prefer the nigger. I'll do
what he says."
He left his shelter, and moved as quietly as possible on the track of
the other two.
Sure enough, they did go round the pool! Rutherford began to wonder if
he was wrong; whether Pete for some unknown reason was fooling him.
The going was dreadful. The ground below the almost impenetrable
palmetto was deep mud. Swarms of mosquitoes rose and stung viciously.
Lionel was afraid that the crashing of the parted bushes would betray
him.
He knew he was falling a long way behind, and panic seized him that he
might lose the others. Though young Rutherford had lived all his life
in America, yet he had never been in a big swamp like this. The store
had kept him busy.
At last he reached the spot which Randal had pointed out as his own
shooting station. To his horror, there was no one there. Randal and
Pete had both disappeared. He was alone in the tangled heart of this
monstrous swamp, and knew that without help he could never hope to find
his way out.
After the first moment of panic Lionel Rutherford pulled himself
together. He had plenty of pluck. He rapidly considered the situation.
For some reason best known to himself Randal Fearon wished to abandon
him, to lose him in the swamp. But he himself had no idea of dying of
hunger, fever, or snakebite in this impenetrable wilderness. He had two
courses open--go back and try to find his way out along the trail they
had come by, or follow after Randal and Pete.
There were no objections to the first. It was a very long way, and it
was doubtful if he could find it even in broad daylight. As it was,
it would be dark in an hour. Besides, Pete had certainly meant him to
follow.
Randal must mean to spend the night in the swamp. That was clear.
Therefore he must have some camping place.
"I'll follow," muttered the boy between set teeth, and started off.
Though the sun was not yet down, it was already dusk beneath the thick
shade of the towering timber, and in the half light the trail was most
difficult to follow. The others had long ago passed out of hearing.
The night life of the swamp was waking. Enormous owls hooted weirdly,
then came the thundering bellow of a bull alligator, and presently
above all these the ghastly, half-human shriek of a panther calling to
its mate.
Stumbling and struggling, Lionel hurried on. In a little he came to a
thick belt of tall saw grass. The two pairs of footmarks entered it,
but the trails beyond were so confused with the passage of deer and
other animals that the boy recognized with a shock that he could not
follow the human footsteps.
Very near despair, he turned back. No, he could not find Randal's
trail. He stopped. "I'm done!" he muttered hopelessly, and stood
straining his ears for any sound of his former companions.
Just then, as he was almost giving up, he caught sight of a morsel of
something white stuck on a broken stem beside the trail. It was a tiny
piece of paper, and on it, marked with a muddy finger tip, an arrow
pointing in a certain direction.
"Pete!" exclaimed Lionel joyfully. A load rolled off his mind. Marking
the direction carefully, he pushed on fast. Now he was on the lookout,
he found other signs; a broken twig, a stick, laid in the path.
Darkness fell rapidly. There is little twilight in Florida.
"They can't go much farther," he said. He was right. In a very short
time the dull glow of a fire showed where the others had camped.
"What shall I do?" he asked himself. "Go right up and tackle Randal
Fearon? No; he'd have some excuse ready, and I'd only get Pete into
trouble. I must wait till Randal goes to sleep."
The mosquitoes were savage. Young Rutherford, tired and hungry, found
it maddening to wait in the damp gloom, and watch Randal gorge on the
supper which Pete cooked. Nearly two hours passed before Randal, having
finished a cigar, rolled himself, head and all, in a blanket and lay
down.
A few minutes more, and a snore told Rutherford it was safe to venture
closer.
Pete heard him, and glided out. The black man chuckled silently when he
saw the boy. "Reckoned you'd be along, sah. You foun' de sign Pete lef'
for you. Now de firs' thing is you eat. Den we talk."
He put corn, bread, and bacon into Rutherford's hands, and the boy made
a hearty meal.
"Now, sah," said Pete. "You see what dat man want to do. He lose you in
de swamp, den go home, say you fell in de water and was drowned. Den he
an' his dad, dey take dat blow-up bullet ob yours an' sell him."
Lionel Rutherford was aghast. He had never dreamed of such wickedness.
"But we beat dem," went on Pete, with a chuckle. "I like you, an' I
hate dat Randal."
"What can we do?" asked Lionel eagerly.
"Why, we play de same trick on him he try play on you. We take all de
stuff, go off, an' leab him. He no more find his way out of de Big
Cypress dan you. Only Pete know de trails."
"That won't do, Pete," returned Lionel sharply. "I won't be any party
to murder."
Pete was amazed. He expostulated strongly.
"No, I'll tell you what we will do, Pete. We'll go off and hide, and
let him think he's lost. We'll follow and watch, and when he's got the
soul nearly scared out of him we'll find him again. See?"
Pete saw. He chuckled again in high good humor. "Dat's a very fine
game, sah. We play dat to-morrow morning. Now I take de things away,
an' when Randal wake he find no breakfast, no Pete, no nothing."
* * * * *
"He done lost hisself, sure pop!" declared Pete.
It was nine o'clock next morning, and Lionel Rutherford and the negro
had been following Randal for more than an hour.
His language when he woke up and found Pete gone had been something
appalling.
Having found that this did no good, he had started off back along
the track they had come by on the previous day, but in less than
ten minutes he was off it; and the two, who followed at a discreet
distance, had watched his growing fury and fright when he found himself
quite lost in the pathless depths of the wilderness.
"He can't go dat way much furder," observed Pete. "He gettin' down in
de deal bad swamp. He go in up to his fool neck if he don't be keerful."
Sure enough the quaking muck-land broke beneath the young scoundrel's
weight, and in he went. With a yell of fright he caught at a branch,
pulled himself out, and staggered back.
"What's he going to do now?" whispered Lionel.
"Reckon he going climb dat tree an' see whar he am."
Pete was right. Randal began shinning up the stem of a tall, slender
tree by the water's edge, the only one which seemed to give a possible
view of any of the surrounding country. No doubt he thought he might
spot the trail from the summit.
Rutherford, who had been staring hard at the tree, suddenly clutched
Pete's arm. "What's that thing up in the branches just above him?" he
asked sharply.
Pete took a long stare. "By golly, sah, it am a snake! An' a mighty big
one, sure!"
Rutherford started forward, slipping a cartridge into his rifle.
"Don't shoot, sah," whispered Pete. "Dat ain't no poison snake. It am
only a old white oak snake."
"Looks like an ugly customer," muttered Lionel.
At this moment Randal reached the first boughs and stood up. The
movement alarmed the snake, which raised its ugly head and hissed
sharply.
Randal heard the hiss, and, turning, saw the reptile. He gave a scream
of terror, and almost lost his hold. Then he backed rapidly on to a
branch which actually overhung the creek.
"Time to end this now," said Rutherford, raising his rifle. "I shall
shoot the snake."
Pete seized his arm. "De snake won't hurt him, sah. But dey will."
He pointed to the water. The big alligator had seen Randal, and
silently moved up till it was just beneath him. Another of almost equal
size had also risen to the surface. Yellow eyes agleam, the hideous
brutes were watching for this rash intruder upon their domain.
At the very instant there was a snapping crackle. The bough on which
Randal cowered was breaking. And the wretched man, clinging vainly for
a hold, had caught sight of the huge reptiles below. He screamed till
the forest resounded with his agonizing cries.
He snatched at the branches above, but could reach only twigs, which
broke in his grasp. He was falling clean into the open jaws of the
alligators.
If Rutherford's rifle had been loaded only with an ordinary cartridge
nothing could have saved Randal. It was just pure luck that he had
flung one of his explosives into the breech.
Simultaneous with Randal's fall the rifle spoke. The bullet caught the
nearest alligator on the side of the head, and the air was full of
mangled fragments of flesh and bone.
Into this horrible geyser Randal dropped heavily and vanished.
Next moment he rose again, and struck out madly for the bank.
"I can't shoot again," cried Lionel. "I should kill him if I did."
"Dere ain't no need to," said the negro. "You done scared de stuffin'
out ob dat oder gator."
"Thank goodness he's safe," exclaimed Lionel as Randal scrambled ashore
and fell in a heap on the bank. "Now we'd better get him home."
Pete laughed. "Yes, sah. I reckon he done had enough ob de Big Cypress."
When Randal came round Rutherford soon realized he had no more to
fear. The fellow's nerve was broken. He shivered and trembled like a
frightened child.
They took him home, and then Lionel went boldly to Colonel Fearon, and
told him the whole story plump and plain. When he had finished the
colonel sat speechless. His face was gray and pinched.
Lionel looked at him. "I shan't make any trouble for you," he said
coolly. "All I want is those introductions. Write them now, and I'll
take them myself to Washington."
Without a word the colonel obeyed.
Lionel Rutherford is now a rich and rising man. Pete is his faithful
major-domo. Whenever Lionel gets a holiday the two go off down south
for a week or two of shooting. But they never again penetrated the
desolate depths of the Great Cypress.
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ADVENTURES OF A BOY GENIUS
MOTOR STORIES
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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
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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."
No. 5.--Motor Matt's Mystery; or, Foiling a Secret Plot.
No. 6.--Motor Matt's Red Flier; or, On the High Gear.
No. 7.--Motor Matt's Clue; or, The Phantom Auto.
TO BE PUBLISHED ON APRIL 12th
No. 8.--Motor Matt's Triumph; or, Three Speeds Forward.
TO BE PUBLISHED ON APRIL 19th
No. 9.--Motor Matt's Air-ship; or, The Rival Inventors.
TO BE PUBLISHED ON APRIL 26th
No. 10.--Motor Matt's Hard Luck; or, The Balloon House Plot.
TO BE PUBLISHED ON MAY 3d
No. 11.--Motor Matt's Daring Rescue; or, The Strange Case of Helen Brady.
TO BE PUBLISHED ON MAY 10th
No. 12.--Motor Matt's Peril; or, Cast Away in the Bahamas.
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Transcriber's Notes:
Italics are represented with _underscores_; bold with =equal signs=.
Retained inconsistent hyphenation ("reentered" vs. "re-entered").
Page 12, changed "anyhere" to "anywhere" ("we can go anywhere").
Page 13, removed unnecessary quote before "In the letter, over his own
signature." Changed "propellor" to "propeller" ("propeller forces the
air-ship").
Page 16, changed "Yon" to "You" ("You can handle the machine").
Page 18, changed "times" to "time" ("right time arrives").
Page 19, changed "geen" to "been" ("chum has been getting").
Page 26, changed "Mat" to "Matt" ("get a look at Matt").
Page 27, changed "nearer" to "neared" ("As they neared").
Page 28, changed "bulding" to "building" ("big building were closed").
Page 29, changed "crossel" to "crossed" ("curious expression crossed").
Changed "outwarlly" to "outwardly" ("outwardly looked precisely").
Changed "varandaed" to "verandaed."
Page 30, changed "thicked" to "thicker" ("thicker grew the").
Page 31, changed "clutchel" to "clutched" ("clutched Pete's arm").
End of Project Gutenberg's Motor Matt's Air Ship, by Stanley R. Matthews