MART RAWLINS WEAKENS.
"Hello, Lorry!" said Rawlins, hesitating, just over the threshold, as though a little undecided as to how he would be received.
"Hello, Rawlins!" answered Lorry coldly. "You want to see Motor Matt?"
"That's why I came. I hope he isn't hurt very much?"
"There he is," said Lorry, pushing a chair up to the bed; "you can ask him about that for yourself."
McGlory, feeling sure that Merton was guiltily concerned in the fire, was far from amiably disposed toward such a close friend of Merton's as Rawlins. As Rawlins advanced to the bed the cowboy got up, turned his back, and looked out of a window.
"I'm sorry you had such a rough time of it, Motor Matt," said Rawlins, visibly embarrassed.
"I was in luck to get out of the scrape as well as I did," returned Matt. "You're a friend of Merton's?"
"I was. Early this morning we had a quarrel, so we're not quite so friendly. Have you any idea what caused the fire?"
"Yes," said Matt bluntly; "firebugs."
"You're positive of that?"
"My friend McGlory, there, was watching outside the boathouse. He was set upon by two negroes, knocked down, tied hand and foot, gagged and dragged off where he would not be in the way. Then the two scoundrels set fire to the building while Lorry, the Chinese boy, and I were sound asleep inside."
Something like trepidation crossed Mart Rawlins' face.
"McGlory is sure that the men were negroes who assaulted him?" queried Rawlins in a shaking voice.
"He's positive."
"Then," breathed Rawlins, as though to himself, "there's no doubt about it."
"No doubt about what?" demanded McGlory sharply, whirling away from the window.
"Why," was the answer, "that there was a conspiracy to destroy the boathouse and theSprite, and that Ollie Merton was back of it."
Rawlins had paled, and he was nervous, but he spoke deliberately.
Matt, Lorry, and McGlory were surprised at the trend Rawlins' talk was taking. They were still a little bit suspicious of him, especially McGlory.
"What makes you think that?" asked Matt, eying his caller keenly.
"Did you lose a roll of drawings a few days ago?"
"Yes."
"And did you have a disagreement with the little negro called Pickerel Pete?"
"Yes."
"Well, Pete stole those drawings and took them to Merton. It was just after"—Rawlins flushed—"just after you were stopped in the woods by Merton and the rest of us, and ordered to quit helping Lorry. We had got back to Merton's house, and Pete came there with the roll of papers. Merton bought them from Pete, gave Pete five dollars, and asked him to come to see him Sunday afternoon at four o'clock—yesterday afternoon. Merton said he had a plan he was going to carry out that would make success sure for the Winnequa boat in the race. He wouldn't tell us what the plan was, but when I heard that the boathouse had been burned I went over to Merton's and had a talk with him. It wasn't a pleasant talk, and there was a coldness between Merton and me when I left."
"You think, then," said Matt, "that Merton hired Pete to get those negroes to set fire to the boathouse?"
"That's the way it looks to me. As a member of the Winnequa club, and a representative member, I won't stand for any such work. It's—it's unsportsman-like, to say the least."
"It's worse than that, Mart," frowned Lorry.
"It was unsportsman-like to stop Matt, drag him off into the woods, and try to bribe him to leave town, or to 'throw' the race, wasn't it?" cried McGlory scornfully.
Rawlins stirred uncomfortably.
"Certainly it was," he admitted.
"And yet you helped Merton in that!"
"Merton fooled me. He said Motor Matt was an unscrupulous adventurer, and a professional motorist, and that the good of the sport made it necessary for us to get him out of that race. He didn't say he was going to bribe him to 'throw' the race. I didn't know that offer was going to be made, and I think there were some others who didn't know it. If we could have hired Motor Matt to leave town, I'd have been willing. I've got up all the money I can spare on the race, and naturally I want our boat to win—but I won't stand for any unfair practices. Nor will the Winnequa Club, as a whole. We're game to let our boat face the start on its own merits. If we can't win by fair means, I want to lose my money."
Rawlins got up.
"That's all I came here for—to find out how you are, Motor Matt, and to let you know how I stand, and how the rest of the club stands. I have come out flat-footed, and for the good of motor boating in this section I hope you will not press this matter to its conclusion. We all know what that conclusion would mean. It would go hard with Merton, and there would be a scandal. In order to avoid the scandal, it may be necessary to spare Merton."
"Sufferin' hoodlums!" cried McGlory. "That's a nice way to tune up. Here's Merton, pulling off a raw deal, and coming within one of killing my two pards, say nothing of the way I was treated, and now you want him spared for the sake of avoiding a scandal!"
A silence followed this outburst.
When Rawlins continued, he turned and addressed himself to Matt.
"I think I know your calibre pretty well, Motor Matt," said he. "The way you turned down that bribe in the woods and declared that you'd stand by Lorry at all costs, showed us all you were the right sort. Of course, I can't presume to influence you; but, if you won't spare Merton on account of the scandal and the good of the sport, or on his own account, then think of his father and mother. They'll get back from abroad to-morrow morning in time for the race. That's all. I'd like to shake hands with you, if you don't mind."
Rawlins stepped closer to the bed.
"You'll have to take my left hand," laughed Matt. "The right's temporarily out of business. You're the clear quill, Rawlins," he added, as they shook hands, "and I'll take no steps against Merton, providing heacts on the square from now on. You can tell your club members that."
"Thank you. I half expected you'd say that."
"Will Merton be allowed to race the boat in the contest?" inquired Lorry.
"We can't very well avoid it. It's his boat, and it's the only entry on our side. He'll have to race her, with Halloran. The club will make that concession. After that—well, Merton will cease to act as commodore, and will no longer be a member of the club. Good-by, Motor Matt, and may the best boat win, no matter who's at the motor!"
As Rawlins went out, Ethel Lorry and her father stepped into the room. They had heard the loud voices, and inferring that Matt was able to receive company, had come upstairs.
"You'd hardly think there was a sick person up here," said Mr. Lorry, "from the talk that's been going on. How are you, my lad?" and he stepped toward Matt.
"Doing finely," said Matt.
"I'm glad," said Ethel, drawing close to the bed and slipping her arm through her father's.
"He's going to race theSpriteto-morrow, Uncle Dan," chirped McGlory.
"No!" exclaimed the astounded Mr. Lorry.
"Fact. You can't down him. He's in that race with only one hand—and the left, at that."
"It will be the death of you!" cried Ethel. "You mustn't think of it."
"You know, my boy," added Mr. Lorry gravely, "it won't do to take chances."
"I know that, sir," returned Matt, "but I'm as well as ever, barring my arm. I can't lie here and let theSpriteget beaten for lack of a man at the motor who understands her. I'd be in a bad way, for sure, if I had to do that."
"I think he's a bit flighty," grinned McGlory. "I reckon I can prove that by telling you what just happened."
"What happened?" and Mr. Lorry turned to face McGlory.
The cowboy repeated all that Rawlins had said, winding up with the promise Matt had made to spare Merton.
A soft light crept into Ethel's eyes.
"What else could you expect from Motor Matt?" she asked.
"I shall have to shake hands with you myself, Matt," said Mr. Lorry, taking Matt's left hand and pressing it cordially. "That was fine of you, but, as Ethel says, no more than we ought to expect. I hope you'll be able to drive theSpriteto victory, but you'll have to have less talk in the room and more rest if you're going to be able to take your place in the boat to-morrow. Come on, Ethel."
Mr. Lorry and his daughter left the room and Lorry and McGlory resumed their chairs, but gave over their conversation.
An hour later Matt called for something to eat, and a substantial meal was served to him, piping hot.
The doctor came while he was eating.
"Well," laughed the doctor, "I guess you'll do. Don't eat too much, that's all."
"He's got to corral enough ginger to get into that race to-morrow afternoon, doc," sang out the cowboy.
"He don't intend to try that, does he?" asked the doctor aghast.
"I've got to, doctor," said Matt.
"It may be," remarked the doctor, "that action is the sort of tonic you need. But, whatever you do, don't attempt to use that arm. That'll be about all. If you do get into the race, though, be sure and win. You see," he added whimsically, "I live on the Fourth Lake side of the town."
THE RACE—THE START.
The Winnequa-Yahara race was open to all boats of the respective clubs under forty feet, each boat with a beam one-fifth the water-line length. It was to be a five-mile contest, each end of the course marked by a stake boat anchored at each end of Fourth Lake. The stake boat, with the judges, was to be moored off Maple Bluff. From this boat the racers would start, round the other stake boat, and finish at the starting point.
Furthermore, although the race was open to all members of the two respective clubs with boats under the extreme length, there was a mutual agreement, from the beginning, that one member of each club should be commissioned to provide the boat to be entered in the contest. Inasmuch as a speed boat costs money, it was natural that the sons of rich men should be told off to carry the honors.
Mr. Merton and Mr. Lorry were both millionaires. They were known to be indulgent fathers, and it had not been foreseen that Mr. Lorry would rebel, at first, against George's extravagance.
But George had gone too far. Mr. Lorry, even at that, might have paid for George's $5,000 hydroplane had he understood that his son was bearing the Yahara honors on his own shoulders and had been lured into extravagance by a misguided notion of his responsibility.
However, this initial misunderstanding, with all its disastrous entanglements, was a thing of the past. Both Mr. Lorry and George had buried it deep, and were meeting each other in a closer relationship than they had ever known before.
The struggle for the De Lancey cup had become, to Madison, what the fight for the America Cup had becometo the United States. Only, in the case of the De Lancey cup, the city was divided against itself.
The entire population had ranged itself on one side or the other.
The gun that started the race was to be fired at 2 o'clock, but early in the forenoon launches began passing through the chain of lakes, and through the canal and locks that led to the scene of the contest.
The distance had already been measured and the stake boats placed. All along the course buoys marked the boundaries. Later there were to be police boats, darting here and there to see that the boundary line was respected and the course kept clear. Through this lane of water, hemmed in by craft of every description, the two boats were to speed to victory or defeat.
Observers, however, did not confine themselves to the boats. The cottages on Maple Bluff, and the surrounding heights, offered splendid vantage ground for sightseers. Early in the forenoon automobiles began moving out toward Maple Bluff, loaded with passengers. And each automobile carried a hamper with lunch for those who traveled with it. Most of the citizens made of the event a picnic affair.
The asylum grounds also held their quota of sightseers with opera glasses or more powerful binoculars; and Governor's Island, and the shore all the way around to Picnic Point.
The day was perfect. Fortunately for the many craft assembled, the wind was light, and what little there was was not from the west. Fourth Lake was to be as calm as a pond.
Steadily, up to 1 o'clock, the throng of sightseers afloat and ashore was added to.
The sixty-five-foot motor yacht, serving as stake boat at the starting and finishing point, was boarded by Mr. Lorry and Ethel. The judges were from both clubs, and so the boat was given over to the use of a limited number of Winnequas and Yaharas and their partisans.
As Mr. Lorry and Ethel came over the side of the yacht they were greeted by a tall, gray-haired man and a stout, middle-aged lady.
"Why, Merton!" exclaimed Mr. Lorry. "You had to get back in time for the race, eh? Madam," and he doffed his hat to the lady at Merton's side, "I trust I find you well?"
"Very well, thank you, Mr. Lorry," replied Mrs. Merton. "How are you, my dear?" and the lady turned and gave her hand to Ethel.
"There's where they start and finish, Lorry," said Mr. Merton, pointing to the port side of the boat. "Bring up chairs and we'll preëmpt our places now."
When the four were all comfortably seated, a certain embarrassment born of the fact that each man was there to watch the performance of his son's boat crept into their talk.
"Will George be in his boat?" inquired Mr. Merton, taking a glance around at the gay bunting with which the assembled craft were dressed.
"No," said Mr. Lorry.
"Ollie will be inhislaunch," and there was ever so small a taunt in the words.
"Ollie's boat is bigger than George's, Merton," answered the other mildly. "George's driver figured that an extra hundred-and-forty pounds had better stay out of theSprite."
"Who drives for George?"
"Motor Matt."
Mr. Merton was startled.
"Why," said he, "I thought he was hurt in that boathouse fire and couldn't be out of bed?"
"He's hurt, and only one-handed, but he's too plucky to stay out of the race."
"Probably," said Mr. Merton coolly, "the pay he receives is quite an item. I understand Motor Matt is poor, and out for all the money he can get."
"You have been wrongly informed, Merton. Not a word as to what he shall receive has passed between George and Motor Matt. The boys are friends."
"I'd be a little careful, if I were you, how I allowed my son to pick up with a needy adventurer."
"Motor Matt is neither needy nor an adventurer," said Mr. Lorry warmly. "I'm proud to have George on intimate terms with him."
"Oh, well," laughed Mr. Merton; "have a cigar."
Ethel was having a conversation along similar lines with Mrs. Merton, and she was as staunchly upholding Motor Matt as was her father. So earnestly did the girl speak that the elder lady drew back and eyed her through a lorgnette.
"Careful, my dear," said she.
Ethel knew what she meant, and flushed with temper. But both Ethel and her father, deep down in their hearts, pitied Mr. and Mrs. Merton. If they had known of the unscrupulous attack their son had caused to be made on Motor Matt, they would perhaps have spoken differently—or not at all.
Fortunately, it may be, for the four comprising the little party, a band on a near-by cruising boat began to play.
Then, a moment later, a din of cheers rolled over the lake.
"There's Ollie!" cried Mrs. Merton, starting up excitedly to flutter her handkerchief.
Yes, theDartwas coming down the open lane, having entered the course from the boathouse, where she had been lying ever since early morning. She was a 25-foot boat, with trim racing lines, and she shot through the water in a way that left no doubt of her speed.
"How's that?" cried Mr. Merton, nudging Mr. Lorrywith his elbow. "Nearly everybody was expecting theWyandotte, and just look what we're springing on you!"
"She looks pretty good," acknowledged Mr. Lorry.
"Well, I should say so!"
"But not good enough," went on Mr. Lorry.
"Have you got five thousand that thinks the same way?"
"No, Merton. I quit betting a good many years ago."
TheDartraced up and down the course, showing what she could do in short stretches, but not going over the line for a record. Halloran, the red-haired driver of theDart, and Ollie Merton were fine-looking young fellows in their white yachting caps, white flannel shirts, and white duck trousers.
From time to time Mr. Lorry consulted his watch, checking off the quarter hours impatiently and wondering why Motor Matt and theSpritedid not put in an appearance. Could it be possible that Matt had not been able to leave the house on Yankee Hill, after all? If he was able to be out, then why didn't he come along and give theSpritea little warming up?
The boat had not had an actual try-out since the changes had been made in her.
Mr. Lorry did not realize that it was too late, then, for a try-out; nor did he know that Matt was saving himself for the contest, and not intending to reach the course much before the time arrived for the starting gun to be fired.
Five minutes before two a little saluting gun barked sharply from the forward deck of the stake boat.
"I guess your boat isn't coming, Lorry," said Mr. Merton. "There's only five minutes left for——"
The words were taken out of his mouth by a roaring cheer from down the line of boats. The cheer was caught up and repeated from boat to boat until the whole surface of the lake seemed to echo back the frantic yells.
Mr. Lorry leaped to his feet and waved his hat, while Ethel sprang up in her chair and excitedly shook her veil.
For theSpritewas coming!
Motor Matt, a little pale and carrying his right arm in a sling, came jogging down the wide lane toward the stake boat. There was a resolute light in his keen, gray eyes, and his trained left hand performed its many duties unerringly.
The danger from which Matt had plucked theSpriteat the burning boathouse was known far and wide, and it was his gameness in entering the race handicapped as he was that called forth the tremendous ovation.
Dexterously he passed the stake boat and brought theSpriteslowly around for the start.
TheSpritewas charred and blistered, and, as McGlory had humorously put it, the "skin was barked all off her nose," because of her collision with the water door; but there she was, fit and ready for the race of her life.
She did not compare favorably with the handsomeDart; but then, beauty is only skin deep. It's what's inside of a boat, as well as of a man, that counts.
Slowly the boats manœuvred, waiting for the gun. The silence was intense, breathless. Then——
Bang!
The little saluting gun puffed out its vapory breath. Matt could be seen leaning against the wheel, holding it firm with his body while his left hand played over the levers.
It was a pretty start. Both theSpriteand theDartpassed the stake boat neck and neck.
"They're off," muttered Lorry, with a wheeze, drawing a handkerchief over his forehead.
It is nothing to his discredit that his hand shook a little.
"Oh, dad," whispered Ethel, clasping her father's arm, "didn't he look fine and—and determined? I know he'll win, I justknowit."
"Say, Lorry," asked Mr. Merton, "who's that youngster over there on that launch—the one that's making such a fool of himself."
"That?" asked Mr. Lorry, squinting in the direction indicated. "Oh, that's my nephew, McGlory. But don't blame him for acting the fool—I feel a little inclined that way myself."
THE FINISH.
The doctor's guess was a good one. The excitement of that race was exactly what Motor Matt needed. It was a tonic, and from the moment he had entered theSpritein the Yahara Club boathouse, he was the Mile-a-Minute Matt of motor cycle and automobile days. His nerves were like steel wires, his brain was steady, and his eye keen and true.
There was a good deal of vibration—much more, in fact, than Matt had really thought there would be. The more power used up in vibration, the less power delivered at the wheel. But what would the vibration have been if he had not exercised so much care in preparing the engine's bed?
Perfectly oblivious of the spectators, and with eyes only for his course, Matt saw nothing and no one apart from the boundary buoys, until he turned theSpritefor the start. Then, while waiting for the starting gun, he caught a glimpse of the taunting face of Ollie Merton.
"Fooled you, eh?" called Merton. "You'll do sixteen miles, at your best, and we'll go over twenty."
Motor Matt did not reply. If Merton had only known what was under the hood of theSprite, his gibe would never have been uttered.
As they passed the stake boat side by side, Merton and Halloran began to suspect something. TheSpritehung to them too persistently for a sixteen-mile-an-hour boat.
"He's got something in that boat of his," breathed Halloran, "that we don't know anything about."
"Confound him!" snorted Merton, enraged at the very suspicion. "If he fools us with any of his low-down tricks, I'll fix him before he leaves that made-over catamaran of his."
"You'll treat him white, Merton, win or lose," scowled Halloran.
"Then you see to it that you win!" said Merton.
Along the double line of boats rushed the racers. The waves tossed up from the bows rose high, creamed into froth, and the spray drifted and eddied around Matt, Halloran, and Merton. At the edge of the lane, the craft of the sightseers rocked with the heave the flying boats kicked up.
Halfway between the stake boats theDartbegan to draw ahead. A shout of exultation went up from Merton.
"Good boy, Halloran! In another minute we'll show him our heels."
But what Matt lost on the outward stretch of the course he more than made up at the turn around the stake boat. The shorter length of theSpriteenabled her to be brought around with more facility, and she came to on the inner side and was reaching for the home-stretch when theDartgot pointed for the straight-away.
The hum of the engine was like a crooning song of victory in Matt's ears. Heknewhe was going to win; he felt it in his bones.
Halloran's juggling with gasoline and spark brought theDartslowly alongside and gave her the lead by half a length.
But still Matt did not waver. He could juggle a little with the make-and-break ignition and the fuel supply himself. His brain was full of calculations. He knew where he was at every minute of the race, and he knew just when to begin making the throbbing motor spin the wheel at its maximum.
The rack of the hull was tremendous. It seemed to grow instead of to lessen.
Would the hull stand the strain with the engine urging the wheel at its best?
Itmuststand the strain! The crisis was at hand and there was nothing else for it.
Hugging the steering wheel with his body, Matt's left hand toyed with switch and lever. The yacht at the finish line was in plain view.
Matt did not see the waving hats or fluttering handkerchiefs, nor did he hear the bedlam of yells that went up on every side. All he saw was theDart, his eye marking the gain of theSprite.
It was already apparent to Ollie Merton and Halloran that the race was lost—unless something unexpected happened to Motor Matt or the Sprite.
Halloran was getting the last particle of speed out of theDart'sengine, and steadily, relentlessly, theSpritewas creeping ahead.
Deep down in Merton's soul a desperate purpose was fighting with his better nature. Suddenly the evil got the upper hand. Merton waited, his sinister face full of relentless determination.
"When theSpritetakes the lead," he said to himself, "something is going to happen."
In one minute more Matt forged ahead. The finish line was close now, and Merton was already stung with the bitterness of defeat.
His hand reached inside his sweater. When it was withdrawn, a revolver came with it.
Why Merton had brought that revolver with him, he alone could tell. It may have been for some such purpose as this.
Matt's back was toward Merton, and Matt's eyes were peering steadily ahead.
If that left hand could be touched—just scratched—the king of the motor boys would be powerless to manage theSprite.
Many of the spectators saw the leveling of the weapon. Cries of "Coward!" and "Shame!" and "Stop him!" went up from a hundred throats.
Mr. Merton, watching breathlessly, saw the glimmering revolver, and something very like a sob rushed through his lips as he bowed his head. What those who saw felt for his son,hefelt for him—and for himself.
Before Merton could press the trigger, Halloran turned partly around.
"You're mad!" shouted Halloran, gripping Merton's wrist with a deft hand and shoving the point of the revolver high in the air.
Unaware of his narrow escape, the king of the motor boys flung theSpriteonward to victory.
A good half-length ahead of theDart, Matt and his boat crossed the finish line—regaining the De Lancey cup for the Yahara Club, winning the race for George Lorry and gaining untold honors for himself.
The lake went wild; and the enthusiasm spilled over its edges and ran riot along the shores. Steam launches tooted their sirens, and motor boats emptied their compressed air tanks through their toy whistles; the band played, but there was so much other noise that it was not heard. The Yaharas and their partisans went wild.
Somewhere in that jumble of humanity was Newt Higgins, adding his joyful clamor to the roar of delight; and somewhere, also, was the doctor, letting off the steam of his pent-up excitement.
But there was one man on the stake boat whose heartwas heavy, who had no word for any one but his wife. To her he offered his arm.
"Come," said he, in a stifled voice, "this is no place for us. Let us go."
Matt, as soon as he had checked the speed of theSpriteand pointed her the other way, jogged back along the line of boats and picked Lorry and McGlory off one of the launches.
Lorry was radiant.
"You've done it, old boy!" he cried. "By Jupiter! you've done it. You sit down and take it easy—I'll look after theSprite!"
"Speak to me about this!" whooped McGlory, throwing his arms around Matt in a bear's hug. "Oh, recite this to me, in years to come, and the blood will bound through my veins with all the—er—the—— Hang it, pard, you know what I mean! I've gone off the jump entirely. Hooray for Motor Matt!"
As Lorry laid theSpritealongside the stake boat, somebody tossed her a line.
"Come aboard, all of you," called a voice.
It was Spicer, commodore of the Yahara Club.
While Matt, Lorry, and McGlory were going up one side of the yacht, Mr. and Mrs. Merton were descending the other, getting into the boat that was to take them ashore to their waiting automobile.
Mr. Lorry, red as a beet, his collar wilted, his high hat on the back of his head, and his necktie around under his ear, met the victors, giving one hand to Matt and the other to George.
"Jove!" he said huskily, "I've yelled myself hoarse. Oh, but it was fine!"
Ethel threw her arms around Matt's neck and gave him a hearty kiss.
"Nice way to treat a one-armed fellow that can't defend himself," whooped McGlory; "and sick, at that. He ought to be in bed, this minute—the doctor said so!"
"I—I thought it was George," faltered Ethel.
"Oh, bang!" howled McGlory. "It's a wonder you didn't think it was me."
The vice commodore of the Winnequa Club came forward, carrying the silver cup in both hands. He looked sad enough, but he was game.
In a neat little speech, during which he emphasized the sportsman-like conduct which should prevail at all such events as the one that had just passed, he tendered the cup to Lorry. Lorry, blushing with pleasure, in turn tendered it to the commodore of the Yahara Club.
One of the judges, coming forward with an oblong slip of paper in his hands, waved it to command silence. When a measure of quiet prevailed, he eased himself of a few pertinent remarks.
"Gentlemen, there was another supplementary prize offered in this contest. Unlike the De Lancey cup, which may be fought for again next year, this additional prize inheres to the victor for so long as he can keep it by him. It is not for the owner of the boat, but to the gallant youth who presided at the steering wheel and bore the brunt of the battle. Had theDartwon, this extra prize would have gone to Halloran, just as surely as it now goes to Motor Matt. It consists of a check for two thousand dollars, place for the name blank, and signed by Mr. Daniel Lorry. There you are, son," and the judge pushed the check into the hand of the astounded Matt.
"Great spark-plugs!" exclaimed Matt. "I—I—— Well, I hardly know what to say. I was in the game for the love of it, and—and I was not expecting this!"
"That was dad's idea," said Ethel happily.
"Bully for the governor!" cried George, grabbing his father's hand. "Why, I didn't know anything about this, myself."
"It was a 'dark horse,'" chuckled Mr. Lorry. "Come on, now, and let's go home and get out of this hubbub. Matt, you and McGlory will come with us. We're going to have a spread."
CONCLUSION.
All that happened, after Matt received that check for $2,000, was a good deal like a dream to him. He remembered descending into theSpritefor a return to the clubhouse, and finding Ping Pong in the boat.
Where Ping Pong had come from no one seemed to know. Not much attention had been paid to him after Matt boarded theSpriteand started for the stake boat. Yet there the little Chinaman was, kneeling at the bulkhead of the boat, fondling the steering wheel, patting the levers, laying his yellow cheek against the gunwale, and all the while crooning a lot of heathen gibberish.
"What's the blooming idiot trying to do?" McGlory shouted.
It seemed impossible for the cowboy to do anything but yell. His exultation suggested noise, and he talked at the top of his lungs.
"Don't you understand, Joe?" said Lorry. "He's trying to thank theSpritefor winning the race."
"Sufferin' Hottentots! Why don't he thank the king of the motor boys?"
The next moment Ping was alongside of Matt, sitting in the bottom of the boat and looking up at him with soulful admiration.
"Him allee same my boss," pattered Ping, catching his breath. "He one-piecee scoot."
"Oh, tell me about that!" guffawed McGlory. "One-piecee scoot! Say, Ping's not so far wide of his trail, after all."
The next thing Matt remembered was standing in theclubhouse, in the locker room, receiving the vociferous congratulations of the Yaharas. Before he realized what was going on, he and Lorry had been picked up on the members' shoulders.
"Three times three and a tiger for Motor Matt and Lorry!" went up a shout.
Well, the Yaharas didn't exactly raise the roof, but they came pretty near it. Matt was voted an honorary member of the club on the spot, and given free and perpetual use of all the clubhouse privileges.
"There isn't any one going around handing me ninety-nine-year leases on a bunch of boats and a lot of bathing suits," caroled McGlory. "But then, I don't count. I'm only carrying the banner in this procession. Matt's the big high boy; but he's my pard, don't forget that."
McGlory's wail caused the Yaharas to vote him an honorary membership; and then, in order not to slight anybody, or make a misdeal while felicitations were being handed around, Ping was likewise voted in.
After that there was a ride to Yankee Hill in the Lorry motor car, with Gus at the steering wheel; then a spread, the like of which Motor Matt had never sat down to before. A good deal was eaten, and a great many things were said, but Matt was still in a daze.
Every time he made a move he seemed to feel the vibration of the twenty-horse-power motor sending queer little shivers through his body.
What was the matter with him? he asked himself. Could it be possible that he was going to be on the sick list?
He remembered crawling into the same big brass bed with the mosquito-bar canopy, and then he dropped off into dreamless sleep.
When he came to himself he was pleased to find that his brain was clear, and that he could move around without feeling the vibrations of the motor.
His health was first class, after all, and he never had felt brighter in his life.
While he was dressing, McGlory and Lorry came into the room.
"What you going to do with that check, pard?" asked McGlory.
"I'm going to cash it, divide the money into three piles, give one pile to you, one to Ping, and keep the other for myself," said Matt.
"Don't be foolish, Matt," implored the cowboy. "A third of two thousand is more'n six hundred and fifty dollars. What do you suppose would happen to me if all that wealth was shoved into my face?"
"Give it up," laughed Matt; "but I'm going to find out."
"And Ping! Say, the Chink will be crazy."
"I can't help that, Joe. He's entitled to the money. I wonder if you fellows realize that we've never yet paid Ping for theSprite? Here's where he gets what's coming to him. He's full of grit, that Ping. You ought to have seen how he helped me at the burning boathouse."
"What are you going to do with Ping, Matt?" queried Lorry.
"I haven't given that a thought," said Matt, a little blankly.
"Well," suggested McGlory, "you'd better hurry up and think it over. He's walking around the servants' quarters lording it like a mandarin. He says he's working for Motor Matt, and that you're the High Mucky-muck of everything between Waunakee and the Forbidden City. Better find something for him to do."
"We'll talk that over later," said Matt. "What about Ollie Merton?"
"You can hear all sorts of things, Matt," answered Lorry. "They say he had a violent scene with his father, that he has squandered fifteen thousand dollars while his parents were in Europe, and that he is to be sent to a military school where there are men who will know how to handle him."
There was a silence between the boys for a moment, broken, at last, by Matt.
"That's pretty tough!"
"Tough?" echoed McGlory. "If Merton had what's coming to him he'd be in the reform school. Don't waste any sympathy on him."
"Why," spoke up George, with feeling, "he's just the fellow that needs sympathy. It's too bad he hasn't a Motor Matt to stand by him and help him over the rough places he has made for himself."
George Lorry was speaking from the heart. He knew what he was talking about, for he had "been through the mill" himself.
THE END.
THE NEXT NUMBER (24) WILL CONTAIN
Motor Matt On the Wing;
OR,
Fighting for Fame and Fortune
Wanted: A Man of Nerve—Foiling a Scoundrel—Matt Makes an Investment—Matt Explains to McGlory—Ping and the Bear—A New Venture—A Partner in Villainy—Matt Shifts His Plans—Dodging Trouble—Blanked—Siwash Shows His Teeth; and His Heels—"Uncle Sam" Takes Hold—On the Wing—Dastardly Work—The Government Trial—Fame; and a Little Fortune.
Wanted: A Man of Nerve—Foiling a Scoundrel—Matt Makes an Investment—Matt Explains to McGlory—Ping and the Bear—A New Venture—A Partner in Villainy—Matt Shifts His Plans—Dodging Trouble—Blanked—Siwash Shows His Teeth; and His Heels—"Uncle Sam" Takes Hold—On the Wing—Dastardly Work—The Government Trial—Fame; and a Little Fortune.
NEW YORK, July 31, 1909.
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"This is a public path," said Guy Hereford quietly.
"Ay, but you can't use it," returned the man he faced, with an ugly glint in his eyes.
"All the same, I'm going to," said Guy coolly. "I'll trouble you to move out of my way, Mr. Harvey Blissett."
For a moment the two faced one another on the narrow sandy road between the bare, barbed-wire fences over which hung the fragrantly blooming orange branches. Both were mounted, Hereford on a well-groomed Florida pony, Blissett on a big, rough Montana, an ugly beast with a nose like a camel and a savage eye.
"I'll give you one more chance," growled Blissett. "Turn and make tracks."
"This is my road," said Hereford, as serenely as ever.
"Then 'twill be your road to kingdom come," roared Blissett, and flashed his pistol from his hip pocket.
But Hereford's steady eyes had never wavered. He was no tenderfoot. With the bully's movement he ducked, and at the same moment drove spurs into his pony's flanks.
As Blissett's bullet whistled harmlessly into the opposite trees the chest of Hereford's pony met the shoulder of the Montana with a shock that staggered it, and before Blissett could pull trigger a second time the loaded end of the other's quirt crashed across his head.
Blissett dropped like a shot rabbit. At the same time the Montana gave a vicious squeal, lashed out violently, and bolted.
Hereford was off his pony in a moment, and, with an exclamation of horror ran to Blissett and stooped over him. But a single glance was enough. One of the Montana's heels had caught the unfortunate man exactly on the same spot where Hereford's blow had fallen and crushed his skull like an eggshell.
He was dead as a log.
"This is a rough deal!" said Hereford slowly, as he rose to his feet. "Wonder what I'd better do."
The trouble was that every one for miles round knew the bad blood which existed between the young orange grower and his neighbor.
Blissett was a cattleman who had bitterly resented the fencing of the land which Hereford had bought. He had deliberately cut the wires and let his scrub cattle in among the young trees, doing endless damage. Hereford had retaliated by pounding the whole bunch so that Blissett had to pay heavily to regain them.
Then Blissett had brought a law suit to force Hereford to give a public road through his place. He had won his suit, but done more than he intended, for the authorities extended the road through Blissett's own land and forced him to fence it.
It was on this extension of the road that the tragedy had taken place.
"If I go to the sheriff there's sure to be trouble," said Hereford aloud. "Ten to one they'll bring it in manslaughter."
"Murder, more likely," came a voice from behind, and Hereford, starting round, found himself face to face with his cousin, Oliver Deacon, who, hoe in hand, had just come through the fence from among the orange trees.
"Why murder?" asked Hereford sharply.
The other, a sallow-faced man some years older than Hereford, gave a disagreeable chuckle. "My dear Guy, every one knows the terms you and Blissett were on. There'll be a jury of crackers, all pals of the late unlamented, and they'll be only too glad to have a chance of taking it out of a man they think an aristocrat."
"What's the good of talking rot?" exclaimed Hereford impatiently. "If you were working in the grove I suppose you saw the whole thing?"
"Yes, I saw it," replied Deacon slowly.
"That's all right then. You know he brought it on himself."
There was a very peculiar look in Deacon's close-set eyes as he glanced at his cousin.
"I saw you hit Blissett over the head with the lead end of your quirt," he said in the same measured tones.
"What in thunder do you mean, Oliver? Didn't you see his pony kick him on the head?"
"I'm not so sure about that," was Deacon's reply.
Guy Hereford stared at his cousin in blank amazement.
"Will you kindly tell me what you do mean?" he asked icily.
"Yes, I'll tell you," said Deacon harshly. "Look here, Guy, I'm full up with playing bottle washer, and it seems to me this gives me just the chance I've been looking for. Need I explain?"
"I think you'd better," said Guy Hereford grimly.
"All right. I'll give you straight goods. I want to be paid, and well paid, for my evidence. Here are you with a place of your own and a good allowance from your father, you've a decent house and a first-class pony. And as for me, I haven't a red cent, and am forced to do grove work like an infernal nigger. As I said before, I'm sick of it, and it's going to stop right here."
Hereford looked his cousin up and down. Then he said, "I knew you'd sunk pretty low, Oliver, but I didn't quite realize the depths you've dropped to. Whose fault is it you are hard up? Your own. You had more than I ever had, and chucked it all away. People were decent to you down here until you were caught cheating at poker. And now you want to force me to pay you hush money under threats of false evidence. May I ask how much you consider your evidence worth?"
Guy's tone of icy contempt brought a dull red flush to the other's sallow cheeks. But he answered brazenly, "I'll take a thousand dollars."
Guy laughed.
"I wouldn't give you a thousand cents."
"Then you'll hang," retorted Oliver viciously.
"Well, that won't do you any good."
"Oh, won't it? Plainly, you don't know much about Florida law, my good Guy. I'm your cousin. Don't forgetthat. And by the law of this State I'm your next heir. See? When you've left this vale of tears I come in for the whole outfit—your grove and everything. Now, perhaps, you'll sing another song."
Guy's face went white. Not with fear, but anger. And his gray eyes blazed with a sudden fury that made the other step hastily backward.
"You mean, skulking hound!" he cried. "You're worse—a thousand times worse—than that fellow who lies dead there. Get out of my sight before I kill you."
Oliver's eyes had the look of a vicious cur. "All right," he snarled. "You'll change your tune before I'm done with you. If you don't fork up the cash by this time to-morrow I'll go and give the sheriff a full and particular account of how you murdered Harvey Blissett."
"What's de matter, boss. Warn't dat supper cooked to suit you?"
"Supper was first-rate, Rufe. Only I've got no appetite," replied Guy.
"You done seem plumb disgruntled 'bout something ebber since you come in dis evening," said Rufus, Guy's faithful negro retainer.
Guy looked at the man's sympathetic face. He felt a longing to talk over the black business with somebody, and Rufe, he knew, would never repeat a word to any one else.
"Heard about Harvey Blissett?" he asked.
"No, sah. What he been doing?"
"He won't do anything more, Rufe. He's dead."
"You doan' mean tell me dat man dead?"
"It's quite true."
"How dat come about?" inquired Rufus, his eyes fairly goggling with eager interest.
Guy explained how Blissett had come by his end.
"Well, boss, I doan' see nuffin to worry about. 'Twaren't your fault as dat Montanny animile kick him on de head. An' anyways, we's mighty well rid ob him. Dat's my 'pinion."
"But suppose I'm accused of killing him, Rufe?"
"Dere ain't nobody as would believe dat, sah," stoutly declared Rufus.
"But if some one who hated me had seen it and gave evidence against me?"
Rufus started.
"I bet five dollar dat's dat low-down white man, Mistah Deacon!" he exclaimed.
"You're perfectly right, Rufus. That's who it is."
"And he see you, and sw'ar dat it wasn't de hawse, but your quirt done it?"
"That's about the size of it."
"Hab you done told de sheriff, sah?"
"Yes, I did that at once. Rode straight into Pine Lake."
"And what he say?"
"Told me I must come into the inquest the day after to-morrow."
"Den seem to me, sah, you done took de wind out of dat Deacon's sail. He ain't seen de sheriff befoah you."
"That's all right, Rufe, as far as it goes. Trouble is that he'll be in at the inquest to-morrow and he'll swear that it was my quirt did the trick. That is, unless I give him a thousand dollars to keep his mouth shut."
The negro's face changed suddenly from its usual smiling expression. "Den I tell you what, Massa Guy," he exclaimed with sudden ferocity. "You gib me your gun, an' I sw'ar dat man nebber go to dat inquest to-morrow."
Guy knew well that Rufe meant what he said. He was touched. "You're a good chap, Rufe, but I'm afraid your plan is hardly workable. You see you'd be hung, too."
"Not dis nigger! I nebber be found out!" cried Rufe.
"Still we won't try it," said Guy in his quiet way.
Rufe stood silent for some moments. Then he turned to go back to the kitchen.
His silence was ominous.
"Mind, Rufe," said Guy sharply. "No violence. You're not to lay a hand on my cousin."
"All right, sah," said Rufe reluctantly. "I try t'ink ob some odder plan."
The time dragged by slowly. Guy tried to write letters, but found he could not settle to anything. The fact was that he was desperately anxious.
He knew Deacon's callous, revengeful nature, and was perfectly certain that he would carry out his threat if the money to bribe him was not forthcoming. It was all true what his cousin had said. A jury of cattle owners, "crackers," as they are called in Florida, would certainly find him guilty on his cousin's evidence, and even if he escaped hanging his fate would be the awful one of twenty years' penitentiary.
For a moment he weakened and thought of paying the price. But to do so meant selling his place. He could not otherwise raise the money. Sell the place on which he had spent four years of steady, hard work! No, by Jove; anything rather than that. And even if he did so, what guarantee had he that this would be the full extent of his cousin's demands?
Absolutely none. No, he laid himself open to be blackmailed for the rest of his life. He hardened his heart, and resolved that, come what would, he would stick it out and let the beggar do his worst.
Presently he got up and went out of his tiny living room onto the veranda. The house was only a little bit of a two-roomed shack with a penthouse veranda in front. He had built it when he first came, and had been intending for some time past to put up a bigger place. Now that dream was over.
Sick at heart, Guy flung himself into a long cane chair, and presently, worn out by worry, fell asleep.
He was wakened by the pad pad of a trotting horse, and looking up sharply saw in the faint light of a late-risen moon a figure mounted on one horse and leading another passing rapidly along the sandy track outside his boundary fence.
The something familiar about the figure of the man struck him like a blow.
"By thunder, it's Deacon! What mischief is the skunk up to?" he muttered. And on the impulse of the moment he sprang from the veranda, and, slipping round the dark end of the house, made for the stable.
In a minute he had saddle and bridle on Dandy, and, leading the animal out through the bars at the far end of the grove, was riding cautiously on his cousin's track.
At first he made sure Deacon was going to Pine Lake. To his great surprise the man presently turned off the main road and took a cut across a creek ford, and round the end of a long cypress swamp.
"Must be going to Orange Port," he muttered. "There's something very odd about this. And what in thunder is he doing with that second horse?"
They came to a bit of open savanna dotted with great islands of live oak. The moon was higher now, and the grassy plain was bathed in soft, silver light. As Deacon passed out of the deep shadow of the pine forest Guy gave a gasp.
The horse that Deacon was leading was Blissett's Montana pony.
Guy actually chuckled.
"I'll bet a farm he's picked it up and means to sell it in Orange Port," he said to himself. "Well, it mayn't save me, but at any rate I'll be able to make things hot for him."
It was sixteen miles to Orange Port. Deacon, with Guy still at his heels, reached the place about six in the morning, and took the animal straight to a small livery stable, the owner of which was Sebastian Gomez, a mulatto of anything but good repute.
Guy dogged him cautiously, and when he had left thestable and ridden off, went in himself, put Dandy up, and had him fed.
Then he went to work cautiously, and by dint of a tip to one of the colored men about the place, found that his precious cousin had indeed sold the Montana to the owner of the stable, and had got fifty dollars for the animal.
"Not such a bad night's work," said Guy to himself as, after breakfast and a bath, he rode home again. He reached his place about nine to find Rufus much disturbed at his long absence. Merely telling the negro that he had been away on business, he lay down and had a much-needed sleep.
At four he woke and rode off to Pine Lake. He meant to find a lawyer to whom he could intrust his case on the following day, but to his deep disappointment Vanbuten, a clever young Bostonian and a great pal of his, was away at Ormond for a week's sea bathing. There was nothing for it but to send him an urgent telegram, begging him to return at once, and then ride home through the warm tropic starlight.
"Wonder if I shall ever ride back to the dear little old shop again," thought Guy sadly, as he opened the gate and led his pony in and up the neat path through the palmetto scrub. He loved every inch of his place, as a man can only love a property which by the sweat of his own brow he has carved out of the primeval forest.
Arrived at the house, he stabled Dandy and fed him, a job which he never trusted to any one else, not even the faithful Rufe.
As he entered the house he could hear Rufe busy with pots and pans in the kitchen. "He'll miss me, if no one else does," muttered Guy; and, feeling desperately depressed, he went into his bedroom to change his boots and coat. Hereford, being a Boston-bred man, was one of those who, even when baching it alone in the wilds, still try to keep up something of their old home customs.
He struck a match and lighted the lamp, then, as the glow fell upon his cot, he started back with a cry of horror.
TO BE CONCLUDED.
The Mexican Indian huts in the villages and upon the ranches of the lower Rio Grande border region of Texas have a style of architecture and construction that is distinctly their own. This type of primitive buildings is rapidly passing out of existence. Modern structures are taking their places. At many places on the border families of Mexicans have abandoned their jacals and moved into more pretentious homes.
One thing that recommended the old style of residence to the poorer Mexicans was its cheapness of construction. No money outlay is necessary in erecting the picturesque structures, neither is a knowledge of carpentry needed. A double row of upright poles firmly set or driven into the ground forms the framework for the walls. Between these two rows of poles are placed other poles or sticks of shorter length, forming a thick and compact wall. At each of the four corners of the building posts are set, reaching to a height of about eight feet. Roughly hewn stringers are laid from one post to another and to these stringers are tied the other poles that form the framework of the walls. The strong fibre from the maguey plant or strips of buckskin are used to tie the poles into position. The rafters are tied to the ridgepole and stringers in the same manner. At one end of the building is built the opening through which the smoke of the inside fire may ascend. Stoves are unknown among these Mexicans and the cooking is all done upon the ground.
When the rafters are in position the thatched roof is put on. Palm leaves form the most satisfactory roof, both as to durability and effectiveness in shedding the rain, but owing to the scarcity of this material on the Texas side of the international boundary stream, grasses and the leaves of plants are used for the purpose. The roofing material is tied to the rafters in layers. Some of the Mexican house builders exercise great ingenuity in putting on the thatched roofs.
The only opening in most of these Mexican jacals is the door which extends from the ground to the roof. The floor is the bare earth. The ventilation is obtained through the crude chimney opening. The door itself is seldom closed. The Mexican Indian is usually a man of large family. A one-room house accommodates all. Perhaps several dogs and a pig or two may share the comforts of the room with them on cool or disagreeable nights.
Many wonderful feats have been credited to the instinct of the homing or carrier pigeon, but "the limit," to quote the phrase of the moment, seems to have been reached by Herr Neubronner, a Kronberg chemist, who has actually trained pigeons to take photographs. For some time Herr Neubronner has been utilizing pigeons, not only for the transmission of messages to doctors in the neighborhood, but also to carry small quantities of medicine. The latter are inclosed in glove fingers slung about the birds' wings. The method has proved entirely successful, experiments showing that the pigeon can carry a properly distributed load of 2-1/2 ounces a distance of 100 miles.
Toward the end of last year one of the birds lost its way and did not arrive at its cote until after the expiration of four weeks. There was, of course, no means of ascertaining where and how the bird had got lost. It then occurred to Herr Neubronner that a pigeon, equipped with a self-acting camera, would bring in a photographic record of its journey. He thereupon constructed a camera, weighing less than 3 ounces, which he fixed to the bird's breast by an elastic strap, leaving the wings completely free. The process of snapshotting is, of course, automatic. At regular intervals the machine operates by a clockwork arrangement, and registers pictures of the various places covered by the bird in its flight.
The German government has taken a keen interest in Herr Neubronner's notion of utilizing pigeons as photographers, and there certainly seem great possibilities in the idea. The carrier-pigeon photographer would prove extremely valuable for obtaining information in times of war of the country, position, and strength of the enemy.
The carrier pigeon flies at a height of between 150 feet and 300 feet, safe from small shot and very difficult to hit with bullets. Pigeons might be released from air ships at any height within the enemy's lines, and they would carry home with them pictures of great value. The carrier pigeon is peculiarly well suited to service of this character, because when set free in a strange place it commences its flight by describing a spiral curve, in the course of which several pictures could be taken from various points of view.
Then, when the pigeon has determined the position of its goal, it flies thither in a straight line at a uniform speed of about 40 miles an hour. As the moment of exposure can be regulated with a fair amount of precision, the object which it is desired to photograph can generally be caught.
In besieged fortresses information concerning the besiegers can be obtained by tumbler pigeons, which, when released at their home, fly in circles for a time and then return to their cotes.