MOTOR MATT, KING OF THE WHEEL!
There have been walkaways and walkaways, but never before such a
walkaway as King had over O'Day, the crack cyclist from Prescott. For
Matt all that had gone before seemed only to have paved the way for
the best that was in him. He was "on his toes" every second, and left
O'Day at the quarter; at the half O'Day was twice the length of his
wheel behind and pedaling like mad; at the three-quarters O'Day was
hopelessly in the rear and working his feet in a mechanical way, merely
as a matter of duty. Matt crossed the tape a winner by fifteen feet and
Prescott put its head in its hands and groaned.
Phoenix swarmed down from the grand stand and tumbled over fences all
around the oval. The Phoenix high-school boys charged down upon the
victor, yanked him off his machine, took him on their shoulders and
galloped up and down the track.
"'Rah! 'rah! 'rah! Do or die!
Phoenix! Phoenix! Phoenix High!"
Prescott made up its mind it had better go home. The special train
left at six, anyway, and the bicycle-race closed the list of events.
Phoenix was a winner on points, although losing the one-mile sprint on
account of the absence of Clipperton, one of the shorter dashes and the
hammer-throw.
Poor old Welcome, howling for joy, tried in vain to tear his way
through the high-school crowd and get at Matt. Susie, her face glowing
with happiness, watched the conquering hero as he was bounced and
slammed about on the shoulders of Splinters and a few more of the
seniors. The governor, forcing his way through the throng, reached up
to grasp Matt's hand.
"Well done!" cried the governor. "You're a marvel, King--not merely
because you got the best of O'Day but on account of the way you got
here from the Bluebell to do it."
Matt flushed. His honors, falling thick upon him, were embarrassing,
and he would rather have taken himself off to some quiet spot and
clasped just a few friendly hands.
"This is yours, King," called Major Woolford blithely, pointing to the
_Comet_, now well groomed after her dusty trip, and sparkling like a
brand-new dollar. "Will you ride it home or shall we send it?"
"Send it, major!" cried Chub, "he's going home with us!"
A little later Matt, finally tearing himself away from his adoring
friends--and nearly every one seemed to be his friend now--got into a
carryall with Chub, Susie and Welcome Perkins and was driven to the
McReady home.
While Susie was getting the meal ready, Matt sat in the place of honor
and recounted all that had happened to him since he had left his
friends on the preceding evening.
Just as he finished, Tom Clipperton showed himself in the doorway.
"Heard you were here, King," said he hesitatingly. "Penny and I rode in
with a freighter. It was all over but the yelling by then. I'm mighty
glad you won out."
Clip would have turned away from the open door had Chub not jumped for
him and dragged him inside.
"No, you don't, Clip," said Chub. "We're going to have a feast here,
and you're invited. Besides, I've got something to say to you. In the
eyes of the McReady outfit, and of old Perk, the ex-heathen, you stand
as high as Bunker Hill monument. Now, listen. I threw that rock down by
the canal, and I threw it at Perry----"
"I know," answered Clip. "Got it out of Drake."
"Are we pards? If I've ever said anything you don't like, I ask your
pardon. How's that? Shucks! I'm so plumb happy this afternoon I want
to be at peace with all creation. Shake!"
Chub extended his hand, and Clipperton, with a slow, quiet smile rarely
seen on his face, caught the same heartily.
"I've been foolish," said Clip, shaking hands all around. "It takes
experience to show us some things. I've had a heap of experience since
last night. But I don't want to butt in. It's your supper-party----"
"Get away if you can!" snorted Chub, "I----"
The sounder in the corner began to click. Chub broke off abruptly and
leaped for the machine.
"Dry up, all of you!" he cried. "Delray's telling me something."
"He must have fixed the machine, then," said Matt. "It went wrong a
little just after we had got through with it at the Bluebell."
"She's all right now, anyway. Listen to this: Delray wants to know if
Matt got here in time for the race. Watch me knock the tar out of the
ether in sending him the news!"
Chub grabbed the key and rattled away at it until the spark-gap was
fairly blue.
"I reckon that will put _him_ next," laughed Chub; "hear what he's
sending now--it's just one word--'Hooray!'"
A few minutes later a jolly party sat around the dining-table. Matt
interrupted the flow of conversation to do a little justice to one who
had not, as yet, been prominently mentioned.
"I want to propose a toast," said he, "and we'll drink it in Adam's
ale--standing, if you please."
The party arose and picked up their water-glasses.
"I give you Miss Susie McReady," said Matt, "without whose efficient
aid I should never have been able to get here from the Bluebell or to
meet O'Day!"
"Hear, hear!" yelped Welcome Perkins, pounding with his wooden leg.
Susie blushed crimson and sank into her chair.
"Just a minute, before you sit down," said Chub. "Allow _me_ to give
you Tom Clipperton, who was jointly responsible with Miss McReady for
the success of Motor Matt. Tom Clipperton, the fastest boy on the mile
and the twenty miles in Phoenix High or any other school!"
This was greeted with cheers and it could be seen that Clip was
mightily pleased. A warm glow smoldered in his dark eyes.
"Jest one more," piped Welcome, "an' keep on yer feet. I'm givin' ye
ole Lucretia Borgia, who's more dangerous than what she looks--I mean,
looks more dangerous than what she is. Lucretia Borgia, notches an'
all, pards!"
A roar of laughter greeted this toast.
"Now, it's my turn," said Clip. "Take this one from me. I give you Matt
King. A firm friend and a generous foe. Mile-a-minute Matt, King of the
Motor Boys! Motor Matt, the best ever!"
Bedlam was at once let loose, and Welcome Perkins made a noise like a
menagerie at feeding-time. Matt, raising his hand, kept his friends on
their feet.
"I want to give you just one more, pards," said he, "and what Clip said
about a 'generous foe' reminds me of the duty. I give you O'Day, Dace
Perry, Ratty Spangler and Tubbits Drake. What's the use of holding any
sort of a grouch at this joyous time? If they can't be friends of ours,
let's treat them honestly as foes. Will you take them?"
A scowl had leaped to Clipperton's face. The toast was intended for
him, for his was a nature that rarely forgave an injury. Perry had
gained his enmity and Matt was seeking to bridge the gulf to the extent
of keeping Clip from taking the offensive and doing something he might
be sorry for.
"They say that Perry lost a pile of money backing O'Day," said Chub,
breaking an embarrassing silence, "and that he's head over heels in
debt to Hawley. This has been a rough day for Perry."
"He brought it on himself," growled Clipperton. "He made a fool out of
me. I owe him something. Man to man I want to pay the debt."
"Will you drink the toast, Clip?" asked Matt, fixing his eyes on the
shining orbs of the quarter-blood.
"I--I wish I was more like you, King," faltered Clip.
"O'Day, Perry, Spangler and Drake," went on Matt. "Will you take them,
pards?"
Every glass was lifted but Clipperton's. He continued to look at Matt,
then slowly raised his glass to his lips.
It was a trifling thing, perhaps, but for Tom Clipperton it meant much.
THE END.
The next number (2) will contain another rousing motor story, in which
Matchless Matt and some of his friends figure, and a stirring drama is
unfolded in a fashion to delight the reader. It will be entitled:
MOTOR MATT'S DARING;
OR,
TRUE TO HIS FRIENDS.
The Runaway Motor-cycle--Underhand Work--McReady's "Strike"--Dace
Perry's Duplicity--A Disagreeable Surprise--Overhauling the
Thief--Back to the Bluebell--Too Late--Held at Bay--A Daring
Escape--A Hard Journey--A Stout Heart and Plenty of Rope--Matt Wins
and Loses--A Queer Tangle--The Last Surprise--Motor Matt's Triumph.
MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION
NEW YORK, February 27, 1909.
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THE MAN-HUNTER.
Jack Percival started when an ugly black face peered through the long
grass not two yards from where he sat, and his hands stole cautiously
toward the butt of his rifle. 'Twas seven weeks since he had seen a
man, black or white, other than his chum, Paul Armstrong, but he felt
no overwhelming rapture at the breaking of the monotony. When one is in
a country inhabited only by cannibals, it is surprising how strong the
love of solitude becomes.
Before him he could see the mountain of darkness thrusting its flat
peak into the clear blue of the African sky; on every side the jungle
closed him in like a wall--a dense mass of greenery spangled with
flaming flowers. For the rest, he was encompassed by a most unutterable
silence, and a hideous misshapen visage, black as coal, was staring
at him from beyond the tangle of monkey-ropes that hung from the
yellow-wood trees.
Jack was no greenhorn, and he kept perfectly cool, although he was
expecting every instant to feel an assegai piercing his breast.
Turning his eyes from the direction of the ebon face, he fixed them
thoughtfully on the camp-fire, as if oblivious to the presence of
the motionless native. But all the time his right hand was creeping,
creeping toward the rifle that lay within easy reach.
It was nerve-shaking work, and he could not repress a gasp of relief
as his gripping fingers closed upon the stock. The moment had come for
action. With a lightning movement, he covered the impassive face beyond
the curtain of monkey-ropes, and his forefinger was hard pressed upon
the trigger as he bounded to his feet.
"Now, then, you black beast!" he hissed angrily. "What you think of
that, eh? No soup for you to-night, old chap! I've got the drop on you,
and I mean to keep it. Cooee!"
He ended his sentence with a long-drawn Australian yell, and it was
answered immediately by another from the gloomy interior of the jungle.
Jack had expected the aborigine to make an attempt to escape, but
he did nothing of the sort. Parting the trailing creepers with both
hands, he continued his scrutiny with as much interest as if the young
man had been the first specimen of his kind to penetrate into the
region.
"Makes me feel like the fat lady in a side-show," Jack muttered,
shifting uneasily beneath this intent regard. "I wonder what's up with
the beggar? Ah, here's Paul!"
Paul it was. He came leaping cheerfully through the undergrowth, with a
brilliant-plumaged paroquet slung over his shoulder, his gun swinging
in one hand. For a second he halted in amazement as he caught sight of
the unwelcome visitor, and then, dropping the bird, he advanced warily,
his firearm raised for action.
"Where on earth did you get that, Jack?" he whispered. "Is it tame?"
"Blessed if I know. He simply crept up and peered at me through the
monkey-ropes, and he hasn't said as much as a word yet."
Paul, who had a tolerably wide acquaintance with the natives of the
interior, surveyed the black wonderingly. He was a gigantic figure of
a man, clothed only in a breech-clout, and armed with a wooden-pointed
assegai. In appearance he was a cross between a full-blooded Zulu and a
Kafir, but he seemed to possess all the immobility of an Indian chief.
"A new breed," Paul announced, in a puzzled way. "All the other natives
that I have tumbled across would have left their assegais as a sort of
visiting-card before this. I'll try him with a bit of Seleke. He looks
like them, to my mind, and I've heard yarns about their trekking into
the interior to escape the persecution of the Zulus--don't blame 'em,
either."
Lowering his rifle, he turned to the black man, who had gravely
squatted down upon the ground, with his bare hands upturned as a sign
of peace.
"Greeting, child of the Seleke," he said solemnly. "Have you any wish
to lay before the white travelers who venture into your domains?"
The native's face lighted visibly at sound of the Seleke tongue, and
he made reply in the same language, although in a slightly different
dialect.
"Greeting, white men from the sun! You are welcome, and doubly welcome,
to the realm of Moshesh, chief of the Dumalas. You are sent for a
purpose, godsmen, and I am sent to pray you to break your march at the
village of N'koto, not a noon's march from here."
Both Paul and Jack surveyed him suspiciously.
His friendliness was both unexpected and extraordinary to any one
cognizant, as they were, with the customs of the African of the
interior.
True, they might have some surviving veneer of civilization, being an
offshoot from the Selekes, but it was a very slender thread of safety
to trust to.
"We are sent for a purpose, are we?" Paul muttered. "For the purpose
of being converted into black man's pork pie, I suppose. Jack, what on
earth are we to do with this chap? He's getting on my nerves. I wish
he'd move, and not look so much like a stuffed monkey."
"Ask him what he wants," proposed the other. "If we kick him out, he'll
be potting at us with that sardine-opener."
Nodding, Paul turned to the native again.
"What are you called, O child of the Seleke?" he asked, reverting to
the man's own dialect.
"I am called N'tshu Gontze," was the dignified response.
"The dickens you are! Sounds like a kind of fish," interjected Jack,
who would have joked in the face of a simoon. "Ask him what his
grandfather's name is, Paul."
"Why is our presence desired in the kraal of your chief?" Paul
continued, maintaining his gravity by an effort, and frowning at
his irrepressible comrade. He knew that a Seleke whose dignity has
been tampered with is a more unpleasant companion than an enraged
orang-otang.
"We are the victims of a terrible scourge, and we would seek the
lightning-rods of the brave white princes to aid us," Gontze answered
earnestly. "In a month our numbers have been decreased by dozens. Every
other night a man, a woman, or a child perishes, and we are powerless
to help ourselves. We dare not hunt, our women scarce dare to venture
beyond the bounds of N'koto, and we starve for want of food."
The two hunters listened to this impassioned harangue with close
attention.
It not only explained the native's curious appearance, but, if true, it
was a guarantee of their own safety.
"We are not willing to break our march without reward," Paul returned,
after a short interval of thought. "The Selekes are rich; they have
much gold, and the white men need it in their kraals."
Gontze nodded.
"It is known. Follow me, godsmen from the sun, and you shall be feasted
and rewarded royally."
Paul, who was quick in coming to a decision, nodded assent.
In addition to the prospect of a rich haul of gold or ivory, from which
he was by no means averse, the sporting fever had awakened in his blood
at the prospect of a bout with a man-eating tiger, as he had surmised
the terror of N'koto to be, and, having assisted Jack to stamp out the
ashes of the fire, he signified to Gontze their readiness to follow.
The man turned on his heel and strode into the jungle. The two lads
hastily gathered together their goods, and silently followed the track
he made.
It was late evening when the thatched roofs of N'koto came in view, and
the sun was painting the sky with a dye of crimson, touching the trees
with rosy fingers, and transforming the crocodile streams to pools of
blood. A strange silence fell for a few minutes, as though every living
thing in the jungle lay frightened by the gathering gloom. Then the
night fell suddenly, and they were struggling through pitch-darkness,
relieved only by the red glare of the fading sunglow in the western
horizon.
The village had been erected in a clearing made in the very heart of
the forest, and was surrounded by a high stockade of tree trunks.
Within, the darkness was dispelled by the flare of a hundred torches,
and, as the two white men and their guide approached, the central gate
opened and a party of men burst into view, all shouting like demons,
and thrashing the ground with their torches as they capered to and fro,
filling the air with wreaths of smoke and flying sparks.
"They are trying to frighten something--a lion, probably," Paul
whispered to Jack, who was rather scared by the frenzied uproar.
"Haven't you noticed Gontze lately? He has been nearly frightened out
of his skin for the last half-mile."
Paul's conjecture proved a correct one.
The instant that the white men had passed through the gateway the
turmoil ceased as if by magic, and the Selekes hurried after them, as
though, like Tam o' Shanter, they had seen the evil one at their heels.
It was an impressive scene within the compound. The way to the royal
kraal was lined by three hundred men and women, all decked in gay
plumes and brightly colored garments woven of dyed grasses, and the
lights of the torches glittered on spear-points and greasy skins with
weird effect, which was enhanced by the guttural thud-thud of the
tom-toms and the eery, demoniac blast of cowhide horns.
When they entered the kraal of Moshesh, however, the uproar ceased
abruptly, and in the midst of intense stillness they walked across
the rush-covered floor to where the chief was seated upon a throne of
buffalo-robes. He was an elderly, white-haired man, with a circlet of
ivory upon his brow, as a symbol of his authority. He seemed even more
civilized than the tribe, and as Paul and Jack bowed before him he
addressed them in fluent English.
"Welcome, white men! May you live forever, and remember always the
kraal of Moshesh with happiness! Be you seated."
The two hunters obeyed in silence, knowing that it would not be
etiquette to speak until food had been placed before them. Moshesh,
descending from his throne, squatted before them in a very unkinglike
manner, and they were soon partaking of roast monkey, pressed
betel-nuts, and similar dishes, to which they had become inured by
custom.
The repast concluded, Moshesh, who had eaten enough for four ordinary
men, rolled over so that he could lean his fat back against the wall,
and in a few melancholy sentences conveyed to his guests the story that
had already been told in part by Gontze.
The substance of his recital was that, a month previously, the headman
of the village had mysteriously disappeared, and as--the chief said
gravely--he was very useful, a search-party had been organized by the
bereaved relatives. During the hunt they had come upon the lair of a
monster lion, and one of the party had paid the penalty with his life.
The lion, in a few days, had proved not only to be a man-eater, but
a man-hunter. If a Seleke ventured alone beyond the stockade, he was
seldom seen again, and two men had been snatched literally from the
very gates. Hunting was at an end; they could only go for their water
in a strong body and at a great risk, and were, in fact, living in
a state of siege, while the man-hunter slowly but surely diminished
their numbers, with a cunning and ferocity that proved him to be the
dwelling-place of a very evil spirit indeed. If they organized a
hunt, he disappeared entirely, and, said Moshesh, they were at their
wit's end when they heard that the mighty white hunters, with their
lightning-rods, had honored the country of the Seleke with their
distinguished presence.
Paul, who was the spokesman, allowed the chief to bring his rambling
recital to an end before he spoke.
"We have been on the march all day and are weary," he said then. "But
in the morning we will rid you of this scourge." He spoke as though
he had only to raise his hand and the thing would be done. "But, O
Moshesh, if it find favor in your sight, we would crave a reward for
the loss of our time."
"Two golden tusks shall be yours," the chief rejoined, with an air
of indifference. "It is well. May my guests sleep long and happily,
free from the spirit of evil dreams, and awake with the strength of
fourscore lions. I have spoken."
He made a signal, and three men came forward to conduct the white
hunters to the hut that had been allotted to them. In spite of the
strangeness of their quarters, they were soon wrapped in deep slumber,
secure in the fact that their mission would protect them from the
rapacity of the Selekes.
At ten o'clock the next morning the hunt set forth. Conquering his
fears, Moshesh had made the occasion a species of celebration, and the
Selekes had turned out almost en masse to witness the destruction of
the beast that had terrorized them for so long.
Gontze, who appeared to possess as much bravery as all the rest of the
tribe put together, had constituted himself guide, as he was aware of
the exact situation of the animal's lair.
For half an hour they walked on through the jungle, which grew more and
more impenetrable as they progressed, until they were forced to have a
party of men with knives to carve a way through the undergrowth.
"We near the spot, Strongarm," Gontze murmured presently, pointing
to a cross hacked in the wood of a date-palm. "I placed that mark
there myself when I was here before, knowing that the creepers spread
themselves faster than one can cut them down. The lion's lair is
through there."
He paused as he spoke, pointing with outstretched arm to a dim,
mysterious glade that lay directly ahead. It was a wild, bushy kloof,
covered by a maze of Kafir bean, acacia, spekboem, geranium, plumbago,
euphorbia, and a score of other growths to which no man can put a
name. Shielded from the hot rays of the copper-colored sun, it looked
cool and delightful to the eye, but the party of Selekes shrank
back at Gontze's words, surveying the place with a horror that was
half-superstitious.
"So that is where my lord lives, is it?" Paul muttered, as he stooped
to peer along the dim aisles of jungle, starred with flowers like
candles in some vast cathedral. "I see no sign of a spoor."
"Said I not that the weeds grow almost visibly, O Strongarm?" Gontze,
to whom the remark was addressed, returned. "The lion gorged himself
two suns ago, and still lies sleeping. The grass has covered his spoor."
Paul Armstrong nodded, and stepped aside to confer with his chum.
They were both anxious to obtain the two golden tusks that the chief
had promised them, and they wanted to make sure of the man-eater at the
first shot, if possible. If they allowed him to escape from his lair,
it might be days before they could entice him within firing distance
again.
However, their plan of campaign was soon formed, and they returned to
the place where they had left Gontze, to find that the chief, with most
of his retainers, had drawn off and left them to their own devices, a
fact for which they were duly thankful. Three of the Selekes had been
left behind--Gontze and two other men, who had evidently been picked
for their strength, to judge by their gigantic stature.
"I am going to walk up to the lair and entice the beast out," Paul said
calmly. "My friend will be seated up in a tree, and will pop off Mr.
Man-eater as he passes. You three had better be up in the trees, too;
only don't stick those assegais into me by accident, please."
The Seleke listened in amazement to this proposition.
"But the white man is surely mad!" he broke out, in dismay, so soon as
he could speak. "It is sure death to walk up to the lair!"
"It will take a lively lion to catch me, in this maze of trees," Paul
answered carelessly. "You'd better hurry up, I think, or the lion might
take a fancy to come out before we are ready."
Jack Percival was already settling himself, with a grimly determined
air, in the tree that Paul had indicated, and at a word from Gontze,
who still shook his head dismally, the two natives followed suit,
clambering into a tree on the opposite side of the glade, and holding
their assegais ready for instant use.
Waving his hand to Jack, Paul gripped his rifle firmly, and stepped
carefully through the tangle of weeds that carpeted the kloof. Before
he had gone far he came suddenly upon a cavernous opening in the clay
bank, around the mouth of which hundreds of bones were strewn, picked
to an ivory whiteness by the voracious driver-ants, which swarmed in
hordes, like poor relations, about the entrance to the great beast's
den.
With his heart thumping wildly, Paul paused to listen, shuddering at
the noisome odor that was wafted to his nostrils. From within he could
hear the sound of deep, harsh breathing, varied occasionally by a
long-drawn snore.
Stooping, he picked up a great chunk of earth and flung it with all his
force into the cavern. He heard the dull thud of its fall distinctly,
followed by the patter of the spreading fragments, and then a cry rose
to his lips, but was resolutely stifled.
The noise of the lion's snoring had ceased!
In spite of himself, he shrank farther and farther from the mouth of
the lair, and it was only by a tremendous effort of will that he could
prevent himself from taking to his heels in precipitate flight. He
could hear a soft pad-pad of velvety footsteps, and the rattling of
dry bones one against the other. Then suddenly came a roar louder than
thunder, and before Paul could move a step a tawny form flashed into
view, as the lion, with one tremendous spring, bounded toward him.
There was no time to fire. Flinging his rifle aside, he fled like the
wind, straight for the spot where his friend was waiting. Another roar
from behind seemed to shake the forest to its foundations, and he put
all his strength into a mighty effort to distance the great beast that
was overtaking him with enormous leaps. Then a cry of agony burst from
his lips as, catching his toe in a trailing creeper, he went headlong
to the earth.
In spite of the suddenness of the shock, he never lost consciousness
for a moment. He felt a heavy, evil-smelling body come crashing down
onto his own, and his right arm was seized in a grip that brought
a shout of agony from between his clenched teeth. Next instant the
man-eater lifted him into the air with as much ease as if he had been
a baby, and stood gazing round in splendid defiance, its tail lashing
slowly from side to side.
"I'm afraid to shoot from here, Paul. I'm coming down."
Paul heard Jack's voice as in a dream. He was beginning to feel faint
with the pain of his crushed arm, but he did not mean to die without
a struggle. Stealthily drawing his hunting-knife, he raised it in the
air to the full extent of his arm and plunged it up to the hilt in the
lion's side, aiming for the heart.
Phat! Phat!
The sharp report of a rifle seared his brain, as Jack, stealing up
behind, gave the brute both barrels in quick succession. Simultaneously
with the detonations, as it seemed, the grip of those cruel jaws
relaxed, and even as he fell back in a dead faint he had a vision of
the Selekes plunging their assegais again and again into the quivering
body of the man-hunter.
THE RAT CRUSADE.
The crusade against rats, begun in Norway a few years ago, is gradually
extending over the world. For many months San Francisco has been waging
remorseless warfare upon the rodent dwellers of the city, and several
hundred thousand of the pests have been destroyed. The persons who are
active in directing the slaughter predict that if the other cities of
the State can be induced to assist, California can be entirely cleared
of rats in the course of a couple of years.
Long ago scientists proved that the rat family is one of the worst
enemies of mankind. By nature the rat is an unclean animal, and,
dwelling in multitudes as it does, in the most populous parts of
cities, it is a constant menace to public health. Microscopic
examination of fresh rat hides invariably reveals myriads of disease
germs. Almost every contagion known to the medical profession may
be communicated, or, rather, is communicated, to persons living in
rat-infested neighborhoods.
The methods employed by the San Francisco rat-hunters are simple,
inexpensive, and most effective. Traps are being used, but ferrets
and terriers are most frequently employed. A ferret is started into
the burrow of a rat community, while three or four dogs are kept in
leash without. The tiny ferret explores the galleries of the house,
sometimes chasing a dozen or more rats into the open. Then begins the
work of the dogs. The ferret is a bloodthirsty little creature, and
is held in terror by most animals of several times his size. Three or
four diminutive ferrets and a half-dozen trained terriers will destroy
several hundred rats in a day.
ESPECIALLY IMPORTANT!!
MOTOR STORIES
_A New Idea in the Way of Five-Cent Weeklies._
Boys everywhere will be delighted to hear that Street & Smith are now
issuing this new five-cent weekly which will be known by the name of
MOTOR STORIES.
This weekly is entirely different from anything now being published.
It details the astonishing adventures of a young mechanic who owned
a motor cycle. Is there a boy who has not longed to possess one of
these swift little machines that scud about the roads everywhere
throughout the United States? Is there a boy, therefore, who will not
be intensely interested in the adventures of "Motor Matt," as he is
familiarly called by his comrades?
Boys, you have never read anything half so exciting, half so humorous
and entertaining as the first story listed for publication in this
line, called ="Motor Matt; or, The King of the Wheel."= Its fame is
bound to spread like wildfire, causing the biggest demand for the
other numbers in this line, that was ever heard of in the history of
this class of literature.
Here are the titles to be issued during the next few weeks. Do not
fail to place an order for them with your newsdealer.
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_.
32 LARGE SIZE PAGES SPLENDID COLORED COVERS
PRICE, FIVE CENTS PER COPY
AT ALL NEWSDEALERS, OR SENT POSTPAID BY THE PUBLISHERS UPON RECEIPT OF
THE PRICE.
_STREET & SMITH, Publishers, NEW YORK_
NUMBERS 1 TO 396
TIP TOP WEEKLY
ARE CONTAINED IN THE MEDAL LIBRARY
We know that there are thousands of boys who are very much interested
in the early adventures of Frank and Dick Merriwell and who want to
read everything that was written about them.
We desire to inform these boys that numbers 1 to 396 are pretty well
out of print in the TIP TOP WEEKLY, but all of them can be secured in
the numbers of the NEW MEDAL LIBRARY given below.
_The_ NEW
MEDAL
LIBRARY
AT
FIFTEEN CENTS
[Illustration]
150--Frank Merriwell's School-days.
167--Frank Merriwell's Chums.
178--Frank Merriwell's Foes.
184--Frank Merriwell's Trip West.
189--Frank Merriwell Down South.
193--Frank Merriwell's Bravery.
197--Frank Merriwell's Hunting Tour.
201--Frank Merriwell in Europe.
205--Frank Merriwell at Yale.
209--Frank Merriwell's Sports Afield.
213--Frank Merriwell's Races.
217--Frank Merriwell's Bicycle Tour.
225--Frank Merriwell's Courage.
229--Frank Merriwell's Daring.
233--Frank Merriwell's Athletes.
237--Frank Merriwell's Skill.
240--Frank Merriwell's Champions.
244--Frank Merriwell's Return to Yale.
247--Frank Merriwell's Secret.
251--Frank Merriwell's Danger.
254--Frank Merriwell's Loyalty.
258--Frank Merriwell in Camp.
262--Frank Merriwell's Vacation.
267--Frank Merriwell's Cruise.
271--Frank Merriwell's Chase.
276--Frank Merriwell in Maine.
280--Frank Merriwell's Struggle.
284--Frank Merriwell's First Job.
288--Frank Merriwell's Opportunity.
292--Frank Merriwell's Hard Luck.
296--Frank Merriwell's Protégé.
300--Frank Merriwell on the Road.
304--Frank Merriwell's Own Company.
308--Frank Merriwell's Fame.
312--Frank Merriwell's College Chums.
316--Frank Merriwell's Problem.
320--Frank Merriwell's Fortune.
324--Frank Merriwell's New Comedian.
328--Frank Merriwell's Prosperity.
332--Frank Merriwell's Stage Hit.
336--Frank Merriwell's Great Scheme.
340--Frank Merriwell in England.
344--Frank Merriwell on the Boulevards.
348--Frank Merriwell's Duel.
352--Frank Merriwell's Double Shot.
356--Frank Merriwell's Baseball Victories.
359--Frank Merriwell's Confidence.
362--Frank Merriwell's Auto.
365--Frank Merriwell's Fun.
368--Frank Merriwell's Generosity.
371--Frank Merriwell's Tricks.
374--Frank Merriwell's Temptation.
377--Frank Merriwell on Top.
380--Frank Merriwell's Luck.
383--Frank Merriwell's Mascot.
386--Frank Merriwell's Reward.
389--Frank Merriwell's Phantom.
392--Frank Merriwell's Faith.
395--Frank Merriwell's Victories.
398--Frank Merriwell's Iron Nerve.
401--Frank Merriwell in Kentucky.
404--Frank Merriwell's Power.
407--Frank Merriwell's Shrewdness.
410--Frank Merriwell's Set-back.
413--Frank Merriwell's Search.
416--Frank Merriwell's Club.
419--Frank Merriwell's Trust.
422--Frank Merriwell's False Friend.
425--Frank Merriwell's Strong Arm.
428--Frank Merriwell as Coach.
431--Frank Merriwell's Brother.
434--Frank Merriwell's Marvel.
437--Frank Merriwell's Support.
440--Dick Merriwell at Fardale.
443--Dick Merriwell's Glory.
446--Dick Merriwell's Promise.
449--Dick Merriwell's Rescue.
452--Dick Merriwell's Narrow Escape.
455--Dick Merriwell's Racket.
458--Dick Merriwell's Revenge.
461--Dick Merriwell's Ruse.
464--Dick Merriwell's Delivery.
467--Dick Merriwell's Wonders.
470--Frank Merriwell's Honor.
473--Dick Merriwell's Diamond.
476--Frank Merriwell's Winners.
479--Dick Merriwell's Dash.
482--Dick Merriwell's Ability.
485--Dick Merriwell's Trap.
488--Dick Merriwell's Defense.
491--Dick Merriwell's Model.
494--Dick Merriwell's Mystery.
=Published About January 5th=
497--Frank Merriwell's Backers.
=Published About January 26th=
500--Dick Merriwell's Backstop.
=Published About February 16th=
503--Dick Merriwell's Western Mission.
=Published About March 9th=
506--Frank Merriwell's Rescue.
=Published About March 30th=
509--Frank Merriwell's Encounter.
=Published About April 20th=
512--Dick Merriwell's Marked Money.
=Published About May 11th=
515--Frank Merriwell's Nomads.
=Published About June 1st=
518--Dick Merriwell on the Gridiron.
=Published About June 22nd=
521--Dick Merriwell's Disguise.
STREET & SMITH, _Publishers_, NEW YORK CITY
Transcriber's Notes:
Added table of contents.
Some inconsistent hyphenation retained (e.g. "wildfire" vs.
"wild-fire").
Oe ligatures have been replaced with "oe" in this text edition; the
HTML version retains the ligatures.
Italics are represented by _underscores_, bold by =equal signs=.
Page 5, changed "wiseless" to "wireless."
Page 7, added missing "s" to "chum's."
Page 9, changed "fencee" to "fence."
Page 14, added missing period after "superstitious" and changed
"ringing" to "bringing."
Page 20, changed single to double quote after "ye yours."
Page 25, added missing t's to "Matt" at start of chapter XV.
Page 30, changed "ascent" to "assent."