THE FLIGHT OF THE "COMET."
Matt King was on his mettle. Phoenix was sixteen miles away, and he
had, as he figured it, forty minutes to get there and make his way to
the park. Could he do it? He _could_ and WOULD!
The presence of Hawley in his crack machine added an element of danger,
but Matt knew in his soul he could slide away from the motor-car as a
jack-rabbit slips clear of a bounding greyhound.
He saw the dust-fog of the coming car as he whirled past the forks of
the road. It was jumping at him with terrific speed, and he saw the
chauffeur and the cowboy in front of the big machine and Hawley in the
tonneau, standing and leaning over their heads in his excitement and
determination.
If Matt got clear, Dirk Hawley stood to lose a lot of money; and to
touch the gambler in his pocketbook was to touch him in his tenderest
spot.
Matt laughed as he rushed onward. He felt that the race was his,
barring accidents; and the _Comet_ was brand-new, and careful handling
made accidents a remote possibility.
Seven horses were purring in the cylinders, whirling the racing tires,
and showing heels such as seven horses never showed before. The steady
murmur of the machine filled Matt's heart with exultation. He was
flying, and the tires seemed scarcely to touch the ground they covered.
Cactus, rock, greasewood brush shot toward him and were lost behind.
At the start he was four miles from the bridge over the Arizona Canal;
now the bridge lay before him at the foot of a long slope with a slight
curve at the end. In two minutes he would be there!
As the dust was left behind, he saw a dim figure standing by the
bridge. Then he remembered what Penny had said about Hawley dropping
one of his passengers at that point, and a sudden fear shot through
Matt's nerves. The man waved his hand, ducked downward and disappeared
under the canal. In the space of a breath, almost, he reappeared and
dashed back toward the roadside. Then on Matt's startled ears there
burst the dull _boom_ of an explosion. Under his eyes the bridge seemed
to rise up and drop back into the canal.
Matt slowed down, his heart in his throat and his nerves in rags.
Hawley had left that man behind to blow up the bridge, well knowing
that Matt could not pass the chasm on his motor-cycle, and that the
nearest bridge he could reach was miles away.
The whirr of the car behind him grew loud and louder in his ears, and
above it came yells of triumph. Dazed and feeling himself all but
beaten, Matt nevertheless continued on toward the wrecked bridge.
The next moment he saw something that aroused his hopes. One stringer
was left, spanning the gulf from bank to bank--a square timber that
offered possibilities, albeit dangerous ones. A nail in the stringer
would mean a bursted tire! Even a sliver might cause damage that would
stop the _Comet's_ flight. Gritting his teeth Matt speeded up the
machine, tore down the slope and took the end of the timber at a bound.
The motor-car was close and he dared not look behind him. Every faculty
had to be centered upon that narrow, dangerous path over which he was
rushing at perilous speed. He could not see what the cowboy was doing,
nor know how a scant forty feet of rope fell short, for the cowboy,
past master at throwing the lariat, had leaned forward over the long
bonnet and made a cast.
"A thousand dollars if you stop that boy!" Motor Matt heard this yelled
fiercely in Hawley's voice, and behind him the noose fell short!
If there were nails or slivers in that square timber, the rubber tires
missed them. Matt gained the opposite side of the canal and sped up the
bridge approach. The man who had set off the explosion leaped into the
road, swinging his arms and shouting; then very suddenly he leaped out
again, for the hundred-and-fifty-pound motor-cycle was coming toward
him at deadly speed. Matt was abreast of the man and beyond him in the
space of a heart-beat, and he stole a quick look behind.
Dirk Hawley had overreached himself. His evil machinations had resulted
in destroying the bridge, but he had foiled himself and not the daring
youngster who had taken a bold risk and crossed the gap. The motor-car
was at a dead stop on the other side of the canal, and a baffled group
of three surrounded it and called wild words to the man on the other
side.
A loud laugh escaped Matt's lips and dwindled behind him in a mere wisp
of sound. He was safe! Now his race was against time alone.
Fortunately there were few travelers on the Black Cañon road. The
traveling for that part of the day had mostly been done, and people
from all the ranches were at the park. He had to slow down and turn out
for a Mexican wood-hauler, and the few other people he passed gave him
a wide berth and watched wonderingly as he whizzed by.
Alfalfa-fields sped past him, and the cottonwood-trees lining the
roadside ditches trooped behind so quickly that they became a mere
blur. The road was like asphalt and rubber tires never had better going.
Like a dart Matt hurled onward, minute after minute, ranch-houses doing
strange dances as he met and left them. Before he fairly realized it he
was turning into Grand Avenue and plunging along beside the street-car
track. Into the Five Points he whirled, striking pavement that
appreciably increased his gait. The stores seemed deserted, and only
here and there could a man be seen on the streets. A yellow cur pranced
yipping out at him, then whirled with his tail between his legs and ran
howling from the monster that devoured distance with the combined speed
of a dozen dogs.
Turning into Washington Street, Matt found himself with a straight-away
stretch clear to the park. There was more travel here, for this was
the main thoroughfare of the town. Every store and shop was dressed in
bunting. Matt must have been recognized as he raced, for everything got
out of his way, and more than one cheer went up as he flickered by.
In passing the Court House Plaza he caught the time from the face of
the big clock. Six minutes of four! He opened her out a little more,
and the _Comet_ ate up the miles as she had not yet done. Mile-a-minute
Matt! He was true to the name, now, and Phoenix had never been
traversed from end to end as he was doing it.
Presently he was in the outskirts of the city, another minute and he
was close to the park fence, another and he had slowed down for the
wagon-gate. The man on duty there recognized him and leaped aside.
"Hoop-a-la!" roared the man, waving his hat. "In with you! Not a minute
to spare."
Toward the race-course he guided the _Comet_. Everywhere the edge of
the great oval was black with people. Like wild-fire the word traveled,
"King is coming! Here comes King! Bully for King!"
Close to the dressing-rooms Matt pulled up. The major was there, Chub
was there, Susie was there--and Perk. They _knew_ he would arrive, and
they had everything ready.
"Oh, you!" howled the delighted Chub, throwing his arms about Matt and
pulling him out of the saddle. "King of the Motor Boys, that's what you
are."
Susie grabbed him and, in her excitement, landed an ecstatic kiss on
his dusty face.
"Motor Matt!" she cried, waving the high-school colors. "_Now_ will
Prescott High be good?"
"Shade o' Gallopin' Dick!" yelled Welcome, doing an odd war-dance on
his wooden pin. "He's my pard, he is! Watch me soothe my turbulent soul
with a grip o' his honest pa'm."
Matt was torn from the selfsame grip by Major Woolford.
"You're the boy!" said the major. "No time to lose, for the starter is
calling the men for the race. Here's your wheel. No time to change your
clothes, but you can peel off your coat. McReady, help with his shoes."
Matt threw off his cap and coat. Chub had unlaced one shoe and Susie
the other. Matt kicked out of them and into lighter foot-gear. Then,
with time for hardly a word, he grabbed the racing-wheel that was
waiting for him, and made his way to the track.
"Matt King is entered to race for Phoenix in the one-heat one-mile
bicycle contest," the starter was yelling through a megaphone. "As King
is not here, and as, according to the rules, the race starts at four
sharp, Phoenix substitutes her second choice, Dace----"
"_King is here!_"
It was the booming voice of Major Woolford, just crossing the track to
take his place in the judges' stand.
Simultaneously with the words, Matt, in his nondescript racing-attire,
made his way along the track toward the tape.
There followed a breathless pause. Although the word had gone around
that King was coming, the Prescott rooters tried to treat it as a
canard. They didn't want King.
Dace Perry, as Matt walked toward him, reeled back from his machine.
His face went white as death, and a hopeless look arose in his eyes.
Without a word he caught his machine by the handle-bars and made for
the paddock. His thunderstruck adherents, Spangler, Drake and the
others, were waiting to offer what consolation they could give.
Following the breathless pause, a veritable roar went up from the grand
stand and all around the track. It was a Phoenix roar, of course, and
it was Phoenix people who stood on their seats, threw up hats and shook
canes and handkerchiefs. The high-school boys, clustered together,
let loose with their triumphant yell. Colors were waved--Phoenix
colors--and the flags of Prescott High were temporarily retired.
"King, King, King-King-King!" chanted Phoenix High, in unison.
"Oh, he ain't so much!" came a feeble wail through a megaphone. "Hold
your shouting until after the race!"
"Drown him!" whooped Phoenix. "Send him to the asylum! Back, back to
the padded cell!"
O'Day took Matt's sizing with a troubled eye, then clenched his teeth.
He would do his best--but he had doubts. A half-confidence is worse
than no confidence at all.
"Buck up, O'Day!" implored the Prescott rooters. "You can do the trick!
Don't let him throw a scare into you. _He's ridden twenty miles and he
must be about all in!_"
That last was the key-note. When O'Day heard it he brightened. Matt was
in from a trying trip, just in, and he had to go the round on a pound
of crackers and cheese! But Prescott didn't know him.
The two racers took their places, hugged by a couple of men at the
saddles.
"All ready?" _Bang!_
Matt was hurled down the track. For the first time since he had left
Clip and Penny his feet were busy, more than busy.