FORTY-EIGHT HOURS OF DARKNESS.
Motor Matt had never felt in better spirits, worn and weary though he was, than when he had climbed the stairs to his room that Saturday evening. He had gone over the course three times that day, and the cylinders of the Number Thirteen had pulled nobly. There had been a little tire trouble during the first two rounds, but nothing had gone wrong on the last circuit, and Trueman had held the watch on him. He had done the fifty-two miles in less than an hour.
"You'll improve on that," Trueman had said, "when you've got a man in front of you to overhaul. There'll be twelve ahead of you at the start, and among the twelve will be two of the fast Stark-Frisbie cars and one of the Bly-Lambert machines as pacemakers."
Matt was well pleased with the prospect. Every car entered for the race had passed under his scrutiny, and he felt positive the chance for the Number Thirteen to win was excellent.
Sitting in a comfortable chair in his room, he rang for his ice-water and fell to going over the course of the race in his mind. Every foot of the road was plainly mapped before him.
The water came and he took a long drink. Perhaps the very chill of it served to disguise the slightly astringent taste caused by the drug. At any rate, he did not notice that anything was wrong.
Carl came by, rapped on the door and said good-night. While Matt listened, Carl's feet seemed to go on and on along the hall interminably. It was a queer delusion, and Matt shook back his shoulders and laughed softly.
"I mustn't let this race get on my nerves so much," he said to himself. "Nerves are bad things for a racing-driver. I'm tired out, and I guess I'll turn in."
He started toward the bed, and that was the last thing he remembered for some time.
When he came to himself he saw glittering little lights above him. At first he thought he was dreaming, and sat up, rubbing his eyes.
Even then he thought he was dreaming, his surroundings were so different from what they should have been—from what he had every reason to expect them to be.
The lights far over his head were stars—or seemed to be stars. He was out-doors, and had been lying on a heap of straw at the bottom of a stack. On his right was a large barn, and beyond the barn were the shadowy outlines of a house.
These odd discoveries confused and bewildered Matt. What sort of witchcraft was here? A moment before, as he reckoned the time, he had started for bed in his room at the hotel. Now he woke up in a heap of straw, out of doors and apparently on somebody's farm.
Staggering to his feet, he leaned heavily against the side of the straw-stack and drummed his knuckles against his forehead. A horrible illusion gradually took hold of him. Had he been in an accident with the racing-car? Was he just recovering from the effects of a bad smash?
His brain seemed a bit hazy, but otherwise he appeared to be as well as ever. Stepping away from the stack, with the view of making further investigations, he stumbled over something. Picking up the object, he found it to be his satchel.
This added a further mystery to his situation. He had evidently left the hotel with the intention of going somewhere to stay for a while.
In the dim light his satchel looked frayed and worn, as though it had seen hard usage. His clothes, too, from what he could see of them, offered the same evidence of wear and tear.
"Well, great guns!" he muttered. "I wish somebody would kindly explain how I came to be here! And while the explaining is going on, I wish somebody would let me know whether I am really Matt King or another fellow. This would read like a page out of the 'Thousand and One Nights.' I'll just go up to the house and ask where I am."
The next moment he changed his mind about going to that particular house. A vicious bulldog rushed out at him, and he got over a near-by fence with more haste than grace. Picking up a stone, he drove the dog back, then stepped off toward another house which he could see in the dim distance.
All the while he was moving about, his mind was grappling with the situation—and carrying him nowhere. Had his mind been unbalanced? Had he lost his reason in some strange manner and only just recovered it?
This was a terrible thought, but it was the only explanation that occurred to Matt.
There was no dog at the next house, and he walked up to the front door and rapped loudly. A long time elapsed, and then a window was thrown open in the second story and a head was poked out.
"Who in the name o' goodness is bangin' at my front door at this time o' night?" demanded a fretful voice.
"I'm sorry to disturb you," answered Matt, "but I've lost my way and would like you to tell me how far I am from Ottawa."
"Ottawa?" returned the voice. "Well, you're twenty miles from Ottawa, an' four miles from Lawrence."
"Twenty—miles!" gasped Matt.
"That's it. Lawrence is right ahead over that hill yonder. It's purty dark, but I guess that hill's plain enough. Anythin' else I can tell you? Now I'm up I might as well tell you all you want to know."
"What time is it?" asked Matt in a subdued voice.
"Goin' on four o'clock in the mornin'."
"What morning? Sunday?"
"Say, but you're dumb! Tuesday morning—the day of the race at Ottawa. My boy Joe went down yesterday to see it—all dumb foolishness, too, as I told him.Them automobiles'll go by so tarnation fast he won't be able to see 'em. Jest a-buzzin' like a swarm o' bees, a whiff of gasoline, an' that's all."
Matt was so astounded that he heard little of what the farmer had been saying. He had gone to bed in Ottawa on Saturday night, and here it was four o'clock Tuesday morning and he was four miles from Lawrence. He had been plunged in oblivion for forty-eight hours—buthow, andwhy?
"Hey, down there!" shouted the farmer. "You gone to sleep?"
"No," called back Matt, recovering himself with a start; "do you want to make ten dollars, friend?"
"How?" asked the man suspiciously.
"By hitching up and driving me to Ottawa."
"Sho! That's a heap o' money to spend for a ride. Why, you can walk to Lawrence and ketch a train. Then t'll only cost you fifty cents to get to Ottawa."
"Can I get a train between now and seven o'clock?"
"I head one whistlin' every mornin' about six-thirty or seven, but whether it's goin' or comin' from Ottawa I don't know. Anyhow, I couldn't leave. My boy's away an' I got to stay home an' do the work."
"All right," said Matt; "much obliged."
"Sure you ain't from the Ossawatomie Insane Asylum? You talk kinder queer, seems like."
"I don't know but I ought to be in Ossawatomie," answered Matt as he started off down the road.
The window closed with a bang.
"Well," murmured Matt, striding along the road toward the hill, "what do you think of that! I've lost two whole days—haven't a notion what I've been doing in all that time. Wonder what's been going on in Ottawa? I was to meet Trueman Sunday morning for a talk. What'll he think? And Carl! Great Scott! I wonder if they'll get the idea I've run away? The race starts at eight o'clock, and I'll have less than four hours to get to Ottawa! What if I can't catch a train?"
The possibility of missing the race bothered him more than the cause of his predicament.
As he strode along the quiet country highway the cool night air beat against his face and freshened his wits. He began wondering if Sercomb and his gang hadn't had something to do with his mysterious departure from Ottawa? That was the only way he could account for what had happened.
A steely resolution arose in his breast. He would get to Ottawa, and he would get there in time to drive the Jarrot car. If Sercomb had plotted against him, then he would beat the scoundrel at his own game.
It was nearly five o'clock when Matt reached the Lawrence railroad station. There was no train to Ottawa, the nightman told him, until half-past nine in the morning—neither passenger nor freight.
Matt was dumfounded.
"I was told that there was a train at six-thirty, or seven," said he.
"Sure," answered the nightman, "but it goes the other way."
"This is tough luck!" exclaimed Matt. "You see," he explained, "I'm to drive a car in that race this morning, and the first car starts off at eight. My car is Number Thirteen. There's a two-minute interval between each car, and that starts me about twenty-four minutes after eight. How far is Ottawa from here?"
"Twenty-four miles."
"Any way I can get there in time for the race?"
"You couldn't get there with a horse an' buggy, that's sure. There's a gasoline speeder in the shed, and the track-inspector sleeps on t'other side the yards in Hooligan's boarding house. You might get the inspector to take you down."
Here was a ray of hope. Matt inquired hastily how to find Hooligan's place, and set out to get the inspector. He was an hour getting the man, and another half-hour getting him to agree to run the speeder to Ottawa. Matt had to promise the inspector twenty-five dollars for making the trip. Another half-hour was lost filling the speeder's tank and getting the machine ready for the road, and the sun was rising before they chugged off along the glimmering rails.
The motor had a chronic habit of misfiring, and there were numberless stops ranging in length from one minute to ten while the machinery was tinkered with.
The entrance to Forest Park was not more than a stone's throw from the railroad track, and as the speeder came close to the town Matt saw the first car leap through the gap in the fence and bear away in the direction of the river road.
It was Number One, a Stark-Frisbie car, with Joe Mings at the steering-wheel!
Matt had twenty minutes, perhaps, left him for getting to the track.
Throwing himself from the speeder at the point nearest the entrance to the park, he flung wildly away through the press of vehicles and pedestrians.
AT THE LAST MINUTE.
At midnight, Monday night, the police of Ottawa arrested a man who was trying to get out of town on a freight train. The man was Slocum.
Slocum was taken immediately to jail. His nerve had entirely failed him and he was in a pitiable state of collapse. He admitted his guilt in the matter of Motor Matt's disappearance, and offered to make a confession providing no legal steps were taken in his case and he was allowed to go free.
Trueman was sent for; also the district attorney. Both recognized that Slocum was only a tool, and in order to get at those who were more culpable it was agreed to accept his sworn confession and to release him in case it developed that no harm had befallen Motor Matt.
Slocum's confession implicated indirectly every member of the Drivers' Club, but had most to do with Sercomb, Mings, and Packard, and held up Sercomb as the ringleader.
It was Sercomb who had prepared the two typewritten papers—one for Matt toreadand the other for him tosign—which Slocum had juggled with so successfully in the Denver hotel; and it was Sercomb who had paid Slocum's fare and expenses to Kansas in order that, at the right moment, he might administer thecannibis indica.
On the basis of this confession, a warrant was issued for Sercomb but was to be held back and not served until just before he was to get away in the race. Also thewhole matter dealing with Slocum's arrest and confession was kept a secret so that the arrest and removing from the contest of Stark-Frisbie's crack racer might be successfully accomplished.
This work of the police filled Trueman with a negative satisfaction. It did not help him out of his own particular difficulty for he was still minus a driver.
Chub who was so worked up over Matt's disappearance and his helplessness in doing anything to find him that he could not keep down his impatience and restlessness, offered to drive the car in Matt's place, or to ride as mechanic with whoever did drive it. Chub had taken lessons from Matt in driving a motor-car, and he had always been wonderfully handy about machinery.
Trueman, however, had made up his mind to drive the car himself, but he was glad to have Chub along to attend to the various duties ofmecanicien.
While Chub had thus found something to do to take his mind temporarily away from Matt, Carl was in different condition. He moped around the hotel, filled with gloom and discouragement and waiting hopelessly for news.
The town was filled with an enthusiastic mob of people, and the only thing that was talked about, or thought about, was race, race, race! But Carl had lost interest in the race now that it seemed certain Matt was out of it. Chub had all he could do to get Carl to go to the Park when he and Trueman took out the red racer.
"Vat's der use oof going any blace or doing anyt'ing?" said Carl dejectedly. "Matt vas down und oudt mit a dope und life don'd vas vort' der lifing. Vell, meppy I go along mit you, Chub. I got to be somevere."
Although Trueman was a terribly disappointed man, and expected only to finish the course, and had no thought of winning, he made his preparations with as much care as though Matt was to be at the steering-wheel and perhaps drive No. 13 to victory. New tires and new chains were put on, and the hundred and one little things always demanded by a big race were attended to.
The grand stand at the Park was choked with people. Overflowing the seats, the throng packed itself densely along the fences on both sides of the race-track. But the crowds were not confined to the Ottawa end of the course. Over its whole extent from the Park to Le Loup, from Le Loup to Coal Run, and from Coal Run back to the Park again, the circuit was lined with people. They came from the contiguous country in wagons, from various parts of the state in automobiles, and from all over the West by train. The sportsman instinct animated the majority of them, and others had a morbid interest in an affair that might be filled with wreck and tragedy.
Mounted officers patrolled the circuit and kept the crowd back of the danger line.
Each car's weight, with tanks empty, was limited to fifteen hundred pounds. The weighing-in was going forward when Trueman, Chub, and Carl reached the track. The owners of cars that were overweight had to do some more stripping while those that were under the limit found that they could take aboard some necessary appliances of which they were quick to avail themselves.
Mr. Borden, the gray-haired patron of the race, was in evidence here and there about the grounds. It was the first of the races, for which he stood sponsor, ever run in the vicinity of his home town, and he was as pleased as a four-year-old with a tin whistle.
Colonel Plympton was prominently in the public eye, mingling with the Stark-Frisbie drivers and mechanics and giving personal attention to every car. Lambert, of the rival concern, was filling a corresponding position with his own cars and drivers. Many other firms had their representatives on the spot.
The first car to start was a Stark-Frisbie, 70-h.-p., with Joe Mings at the wheel. It got away in a perfect bedlam of cheers.
Two minutes later, car Number Two with Patsy Grier driving for Bly-Lambert, was sent from the tape. It shot away like a streak, and was through the gap in the fence and bound for the river before the wild yelling had died away.
Next came three touring-cars, driven by local celebrities, all out for a good time and caring little about the race.
Then came a No. 6 Bly-Lambert with Balt Finn up, then another touring-car, then a little 40-horse racer, then a No. 9 Stark-Frisbie, Packard driving.
As Packard got away, a wild-eyed, disheveled youth shot through the crowd lining the track and broke into the banked racers that were waiting for the start.
"Mr. Trueman! Out of there, quick! Give me your racing clothes."
Trueman and Chub, sitting in the No. 13 and gloomily awaiting the word to come forward for the start, nearly jumped from their seats.
"Matt!" gasped Trueman.
His face cleared as if by magic. There was no time for explanations—no time for anything but to attend to the business immediately in hand.
"Hooray!" cried Chub. "How are you, pard?"
Matt stopped and stared as he got into the gear Trueman was throwing at him.
"Chub!" he exclaimed. "Well, thisisa surprise! I've been having a lot of surprises lately."
"We've found out all about what happened," said Trueman. "Slocum doped you. He tried to get away but was caught and has made a confession. On the basis of that confession a warrant is out for Sercomb, and he will be arrested and taken from his car before he starts."
Matt's eyes drifted through the parked automobiles until they rested on the driver of No. 19. Through his goggles the driver was staring at Matt. It was Sercomb, and Motor Matt's appearance evidently astounded him.
"Don't arrest him, Mr. Trueman, until the race is over," said Matt.
"But——"
"I mean it! Let's make this a clean race and a clean win. It will be better for the Jarrot people, better for me, better for everybody."
"Well, if you insist——"
"I do insist. That's the way I want it."
Matt climbed into the low-hung body of the car and lost himself to the head and shoulders in the driver's seat. The starter was looking toward them and throwing up his hand. Trueman jumped to "turn over" the engine, and Matt made for the starting tape.
In spite of cap and goggles some of those in the grandstand recognized Matt. They were those who had seen him working like a Trojan over the circuit for a week, who had heard about his mysterious disappearance, and who now welcomed his return with hearty cheers.
Matt got away in grand style, whisked around the track and darted through the break in the fence.
As soon as Sercomb, in the last Stark-Frisbie car, had started, Plympton went over to where Trueman was standing.
"I'm glad King got back," said the colonel. "His disappearance had an ugly look."
"It still has an ugly look, Plympton," returned Trueman.
"Of course! But King's all right. That's the main point."
"It's a good thing for you that he got back," went on Trueman.
"I don't see how you figure that. If what I hear of him is true, he's a star-driver. It isn't a good thing for us to have star-drivers running cars against us."
"But for King, Plympton, one of your crack men would have been out of this race."
"What do you mean, Trueman?" asked the colonel curiously.
"Do you see that sandy-whiskered man over there?" asked Trueman, pointing.
"Yes."
"Well, he's an officer in plain-clothes. In his pocket he has a warrant for Sercomb's arrest. He'd have served the warrant and taken Sercomb out of the race if King hadn't said No."
"A put-up job, eh, to get rid of our best man!" scowled Plympton.
"No put-up job about it," answered Trueman. "Sercomb was responsible for the hocussing of King."
"Come, come!" growled Plympton angrily. "You've got too much sense, Trueman, to take any stock in such a yarn as that."
"Have I? Well, read this over and then tell me how much stock you take in it."
With that, he handed Slocum's confession to Plympton. The latter read it with consternation in his face.
"It seems incredible!" he muttered, as he passed the paper back. "Whether he wins or loses, this is Sercomb's last race for Stark-Frisbie."
"I thought so!" chuckled Trueman, returning the document to his pocket.
THE FIRST HALF OF THE RACE.
Motor Matt had made up his mind, before starting, that he would take the first round steadily and easily. Elimination would be going on steadily, and it was just as well to see what was going to happen before taking the long chances.
The morning was bright and sunny. There was not a cloud in the sky. A gentle breeze fanned the course and dissipated the dust raised by the cars.
And there was plenty of dust! It circled, and eddied, and rolled, outlining the course as far as the eye could see.
At the difficult turn leading into the river road, Matt passed Patsy Grier's overturned car. Grier had failed to negotiate the turn and had gone into the ditch. Grier himself seemed to have escaped without injury, but he was busily bandaging his mechanic's arm.
The river road was an exceedingly difficult part of the circuit. The timber kept the wind from dissipating the dust, and it spread out like a fog. Matt could hear cars ahead and behind, but he could not see them. Intuition, rather than anything else, carried him safely by two of the touring-cars, one of which was suffering from tire-trouble.
Mings, in the Stark-Frisbie, and Balt Finn, in the Bly-Lambert, were both ahead of Matt, and he thought only of getting past them. He was not intending, however, to do much more than hold his own against the better cars during the first round.
The motor was pulling magnificently. Matt, his heart leaping with the joy of the sport, opened the machine out a little more on the fine road from the river to Le Loup.
He passed several more cars, but not Mings', or Finn's. The climb to Coal Run was splendidly made. Between that village and the track he shot past the little "40," smashed into a scrap-heap, and with driver and mechanic standing hopelessly by. Something must have gone wrong with the "40's" steering-gear, for it had left the road and smashed into a big boulder.
All the cars had got well away before Matt came plunging along the track in front of the grand stand. The first round had taken him exactly fifty-eight minutes.
There were only two cars ahead of him—those driven by Mings and Finn.
"Bravo, Matt!" the young motorist heard Trueman shout, high over the ripple of cheering as he dashed past; "only two ahead and you're——"
What the last of it was Matt could not hear. For this second round he was going to cram on all the speed he could. His one idea was to pass Mings and Finn.
The No. 13 was holding up under the strain in fine shape. Nothing had gone wrong with either car or motor.
Chub had strapped himself to his seat. He was busying himself with the lubrication and the fuel supply, keeping tab on everything that was purely mechanical so that Matt would have nothing to do but drive.
Both chums had a deep curiosity to learn what had befallen each other; but that was a time when personal considerations of every nature were of minor importance. Nothing was thought of but the race; every faculty was centered upon the question of speed, and more speed, and then a little more.
The passing of Finn, on the beautiful sweep of road between the river and Le Loup, was an exciting event. In every way possible Finn sought to block the road; yet steadily, persistently, Matt crept alongside the Bly-Lambert car, swung into the lead and hurled through Le Loup.
In the distance, well up the slope toward Coal Run, Matt and Chub could see the moving dust kicked up by Mings' car.
With teeth set and eyes flashing behind his goggles, Matt hurled the No. 13 at the hill. The car jumped up the ascent with incredible speed.
Swiftly, surely, Mings was being overhauled. The spectators in the grand stand had an excellent view of the sharp little scrimmage which put Matt in the lead. The No. 13 appeared to leap alongside the No. 1 car, both drivers turning the very last ounce of power into their cylinders. For the space of a breath it seemed asthough the wheels of the two cars would lock. As they rushed around the curve in the track, Matt swung ahead and took the inside course.
The roar from the crowd was tremendous. But Matt was not thinking of that. He was in the lead, now, and his one idea was to keep it.
Mings had left the starting-tape twenty-four minutes ahead of him, and if Matt had come over the last lap a fraction less than that behind Mings, the race would still have gone to the Jarrot people.
There were still cars on the course, and Matt began meeting and passing those that had left behind him.
"Overhaul Sercomb! Pass Sercomb!"
These were the first words Chub had spoken since the beginning of the race.
It was a startling feat he suggested, that of traveling clear around the circuit and overtaking Sercomb—an impossible feat, Matt thought, but the impossible is not always a thing to be scoffed at so much as to be striven for.
But troubles were in store for Matt. They began close to Le Loup when Matt found that his governor was not working. Every time he took the clutch out the engine raced, making everything terribly hot, and also making it necessary before changing speed to choke down the motor by the ignition.
A halt was necessary, and Chub let off a groan as Matt slowed down and they got busy repairing the machine. Two cars swept past, while they were tinkering. Both were Stark-Frisbie cars, one, of course, driven by Mings, and the other by Sercomb.
"Instead of our overtaking Sercomb, Chub," said Matt grimly, "it's the other way around. He's overcome the lead we had of him and has passedus."
"If the governor works now, pard," replied Chub, leaping into the car, "we'll make up for lost time. Push ahead!"
The governor worked as usual, and Matt began reaching out to regain what he had lost. He flew past Sercomb, and had another struggle with Mings on the track.
Those in the grand stand knew that some accident must have happened, or Matt would never have lost the lead he had gained in the previous round.
Trueman was beginning to feel disheartened. The No. 13 was beginning to "act up," and there was no telling what would happen, or where the disasters would stop.
In Le Loup, Trueman had placed a supply of gasoline. Matt halted to replenish his tank. Sercomb passed, but Mings, for some reason, did not show up.
Shortly after leaving Le Loup the governor went wrong again.
"Don't stop, Matt!" counseled Chub; "we can't waste any more time. I'll switch off at the corners and see if that won't help."
Chub, by switching off at the corners and then switching on again when they got round, enabled Matt to take the turns with the clutch out. For some time they kept up this rough method of driving, and, while engaged in it, they got by Sercomb again.
The Stark-Frisbie machine was at a standstill, and Sercomb and his mechanic were working like beavers.
"Oh, I don't know, pard," laughed Chub. "There's others. I wonder what's become of Mings?"
"Perhaps he's had an accident. We can tell on the next round."
"If we don't have anything worse than what we've got already to buck against, we'll do well enough. I'm satisfied that——"
Just then a very serious accident happened. They were taking the corner that led to the track, clutch out and switch off; the switch went on a fraction of a second too soon, and as the engine, racing tremendously, was dropped into gear on the third speed, there was a loud crash in the gear-box.
"Jumpin' horned-toads!" yelled Chub; "what's was that, Matt?"
"Our third speed's gone," Matt answered. "It's first, second, fourth, second, first from now on."
"That means we're out of it," growled Chub gloomily.
"I don't know about that," answered Matt. "The race seems to be between us, Sercomb, and Mings. We'll hang on and do our best. Maybe Mings is out of it—he's lagging terribly, even if he isn't—and we know Sercomb is having troubles."
As the No. 13 rushed past the grand stand amid the cheers of the people, Trueman could see that something was wrong; but he was feeling more hopeful. Matt was in the lead and if he could keep it and fight down the mishaps that assailed him, there was still a chance that he would hold the lead and win.
As if the troubles Matt had had were not enough, on the road toward the river the motor began to misfire. Having to run on three cylinders instead of four diminished the speed materially, and Chub groaned in his discouragement.
"Don't take it so hard, Chub," said Matt. "Be jeerful, as Carl says. There's Mings' car piled up against a tree."
As they dashed past along the river road they saw the No. 1 smashed badly, and Mings and his mechanic limping around the wreck in extreme dejection.
Miles farther around the circuit they came upon Sercomb. He and his assistant had just finished their repairs and were starting on again.
Matt and Chub had made the complete round of the track and had overhauled Sercomb, but Sercomb was now bidding fair to recover lost ground and take the race from the crippled Jarrot car.
"Did you ever see such measly luck?" growled Chub.
WELL WON, KING!
The narrowing down of the contestants in the race had brought the interest of the onlookers to a focal point. The excitement everywhere was intense.
Carl Pretzel had not seen Motor Matt when he reached the track and took his place in the car, but, from a point in the grand stand he had recognized him when the car leaped away.
For a while the Dutch boy was dazed and dumfounded. Could he believe his eyes? Was that Motor Matt in the car, going over the course with Chub?
For almost an hour Carl kept his post in the grand stand, waiting for No. 13 to come around, so he could give closer attention to the driver and make sure it was Matt.
He made certain; there could be no doubting the evidence of his senses; Motor Matt was really driving the Jarrot car.
But where had he come from? And what was Sercomb doing in the race? Carl had been told that Sercomb was to be arrested and taken out of the contest, and he was wondering why this had not been done.
In a highly excited condition, Carl left the grand stand and went hunting for Mr. Trueman. He found him in a place reserved for the representatives of firms who had machines in the race.
"Misder Drooman," demanded Carl, "vat has peen going on, hey? I see dot Modor Matt iss in der car. How it come aboudt? Vas I treaming, oder vas it somepody vat looks like Matt und don'd vas him?"
"It's Motor Matt, all right, Carl," replied Trueman.
"Vere he come from?"
"Give it up. He blew in here just in time to take the car out for the start. He didn't have a chance to explain a thing."
"Ach, I feel so habby as I don'd know! Matt vas pack, some more, und he iss racing like vat he used to. Dere ain'd nodding wrong mit him."
"He's the best driver in the race, bar none," declared Trueman.
Plympton, who was watching events closely, overheard the remark and turned around.
"I agree with you, Trueman," said he heartily; "Motor Matt's a wonder. And to think, by gad, that this is his first race!"
Probably Colonel Plympton was sorry, then, that he had not secured Motor Matt's services for the Stark-Frisbie people while he had the chance.
"I t'ought dot Sercomb feller vas nod going to be in der race," went on Carl, taking particular pains to let Plympton hear the remark. "He iss a sgoundrel, und nodding vould haf habbened to Matt oof it hatn't peen for him."
"I told Matt I was going to have Sercomb arrested and taken out of the contest, Carl," explained Trueman, "but Matt insisted that he be allowed to stay in the race."
"By gad," said Plympton, turning again, "the boy was right! He wants to beat Sercomb, and he knows it's a whole lot better to give him every advantage. King is a game sportsman, and I take off my hat to him."
"Dot Sercomb feller vat runs der car for you, Gurnel Plympton," said Carl, "iss some pad eggs. Dere don'd vas nodding fair aboudt him. He has hat it in for Matt for a long dime, und iss der piggest fillian dot efer vas. He vill dry on somet'ing in der race yet, you vatch und see."
"You're mistaken, young man," said Plympton sharply.
"I think you are, too, Carl," spoke up Trueman. "Sercomb, no matter how much he may hate Matt, won't dare do anything crooked."
"Vy nod? Dot feller iss der vorst dot efer vas. Aroundt on der odder site oof der race course he mighdt run indo Matt, oder do somet'ing like dot."
"Beautiful, beautiful," murmured Plympton, watching Matt pass Mings a second time; "I never saw such driving as King is doing."
"He can do anyt'ing!" declared Carl, swelling up. "He iss my bard, und he iss der lucky poy. Oof Sercomb leds him alone, Matt vill vin der race. Aber I don'd t'ink Sercomb vill do dot."
For two hours longer the breathless crowd held to their places. Only Sercomb and Matt were left on the course, all the rest of the machines having given out, or their drivers having given up.
It looked like Matt's race, although it could be seen that his car was bothering him terribly. Chub was as busy as a monkey with its hand in a coconut, switching out and in with one hand, pumping oil with the other, and occasionally giving swift attention to something else. He was fairly plastered with oil and dust.
Matt had passed Sercomb, having gone completely around the circuit and caught up with him. But Sercomb's machine was again working smoothly and was going much faster than the No. 13. He passed Matt. But could he get around the track completely and then cross the finish-line with a margin to his credit?
If everything held up, it looked as though he would be able to win.
How the crowd in the grand stand watched that gap in the fence, beyond the paddock, for a glimpse of Sercomb rushing over the course to make up his opponent's lead!
Trueman and Plympton were consulting their watches nervously.
"Something's gone wrong with Sercomb," muttered Plympton. "At the rate he was going when he passed here, on the other round, he ought to have been back before this."
"The accidents can't all happen to one car," said Trueman.
"That's so; but Stark-Frisbie usually put out dependable cars. King has been having trouble with your racer almost from the start."
"It's the finish of the race that tells the story," returned Trueman.
"This will be the first race the Jarrot people ever won—providing you win it."
"It's the biggest race, at that. Even if we don't win, it's something to beat the Bly-Lambert people. We've thrown dust in the faces of the cup-holders, anyhow."
Tales of accident on the course had been drifting in, and some of the drivers of the wrecked and disabled cars had got back to the Park.
As by a miracle, no one had been killed, it seemed, or even dangerously hurt.
"Ah!" shouted Colonel Plympton, his eyes on the gap in the fence on the other side of the track, "here comes Sercomb now!"
A flurry of dust was shooting through the break in the fence and turning into the track for the home-stretch. For a space the thick blanket of dust shrouded the car and it was impossible to tell whose car it was.
"Don't be too sure that it's Sercomb," cautioned Trueman excitedly. "I've got money that says it's King."
"Done for a hundred!" returned Plympton promptly. "If it isn't Sercomb, I owe you the money."
Just then the wind whipped aside the dust and a most astonishing sight presented itself.
The dust was raised by both cars, for Matt and Sercomb were rounding the track almost side by side.
Strangely enough, the third cylinder of the No. 13 had stopped its rebellion. Dropping in line with the others, it had taken up its rhythmical action and was doing its full part.
Of course, the race was Matt's. He was the full course, nearly, ahead of Sercomb. Even if the No. 13stood still, the race would still be Matt's. Why, then, was Sercomb continuing the hopeless fight?
Around the course came the two cars, Matt keeping the lead by two or three feet. As the two machines, one white and the other red, raced toward the finish-line, the crowd grew nearly frantic.
Rising in their seats the people yelled until they were hoarse; men threw up their hats, and women fluttered their handkerchiefs.
Then suddenly the wild cheering died as if by magic. Sercomb, perhaps carried away by the heat of the contest, had given his steering-wheel into the charge of his mechanic, a red-haired Irishman, and was leaning far over toward the other car.
Sercomb had a wrench in his hand, and his purpose, as could clearly be seen, was to strike Matt with the heavy instrument.
The crowd caught its breath.
"I toldt you, I toldt you!" Carl was muttering to himself as his frenzied eyes watched the grim little affair as it went forward.
Matt, busy with his driving, could not see the danger that threatened him; but not so with the lad at his side. Chub, facing backward in his seat, made a quick move outward and sideways.
The wrench, at that moment, was on the point of falling.
Chub caught the murderous hand just in the nick of time to save Motor Matt.
For a moment Sercomb and Chub struggled as the cars raced. Then the wrench fell, Sercomb slipped back into his seat, and Matt cut off the power and slowed down to a halt.
A great gasp of relief went up from the crowd, followed by a perfect roar of cheers. While Sercomb and his Irish mechanic raced onward, the crowd poured out of the grand stand and over the fences to rush upon the victor and congratulate him.
CONCLUSION.
"Nobly done, King!" roared Trueman, grabbing Matt out of the car and giving him a rapturous hug. "Oh, it was a grand race, a splendid race, and you have done wonderful things for the Jarrot people! They'll not forget this in a hurry. Make no contract with any one," he whispered, "until you hear from me! I've got to wire St. Louis!"
"Matt!" whooped Carl, pawing through the excited crowd to reach his chum's side. "I knowed dot you vould do it, yah, py shinks! Und I knowed dot Sercomb vouldt dry to do you, too. Dot's der vay mit him."
Carl hugged Matt ecstatically, then turned to grab the oil-caked hands of Chub.
"You safed Matt, Chub," said he, "dot's vat you dit. Eferypody saw dot! Eferypody knows, now, schust vat kindt oof a feller dot Sercomb iss. Efen Plympton can'd ged aroundt vat he saw mit his own eyes, nix, py shiminy!"
Off to the left of the grandstand Colonel Plympton was having an interview with Sercomb.
"Why didn't you stop where King halted his car?" he demanded wrathfully.
"I wanted to get away from the crowd," was Sercomb's sullen response.
"Well, I don't blame you for that," said Plympton sarcastically. "The people probably would have done anything but congratulate you. Sercomb, what did you mean by making that attempt on King?"
"I meant to knock him out of the car, if I could!" was the savage response.
"Is that the kind of sportsman you are?" queried Plympton, a gleam rising in his eyes.
He was just beginning to understand what kind of a driver Sercomb was. He was getting an insight into his character which he had never had before. The revelation was disagreeable, to say the least. Plympton himself was a man of high principle, and had no patience with trickery or deceit.
"I've put up with all I'm going to from King," growled Sercomb. "He's dogged me about and is doing everything he can to ruin me."
"I've learned something about that, too," went on Plympton, his voice hard and keen. "Tomlinson told me of that affair down in New Mexico, but I took your side. I couldn't believe it possible that you would act in the way you were said to have done. Now, however, I have had proof that you are a contemptible cur, and that King is a gentleman."
"Oh, yes," sneered Sercomb, "King has a way of making everybody think he's all to the good. I don't wonder that he's pulled the wool over your eyes."
"Look here," went on the colonel impatiently, "if it hadn't been for King, you'd be in jail this minute. An officer was waiting at the track-side to arrest you and take you out of the race. When King got here, he told Trueman to have the officer keep his hands off. That's the kind of work that makes me take stock in a young man. For King's magnanimity in letting you into the race he came near to being seriously wounded, perhaps killed. What do you say to that?"
Sercomb had nothing to say. He heard everything but preserved a sullen silence.
"What's more," pursued the colonel, "I know that you tricked King, through Slocum, into signing a paper he never would have signed if he had known what he was doing; and through that same paper you tricked me."
"You've been listening to King's side of the story," growled Sercomb.
"More than that," went on the colonel relentlessly, "by your vile tactics, again using Slocum as your tool, you drugged King and sent him away——"
"That's false!" stormed Sercomb.
"Don't lie," answered Plympton sternly. "Have strength of character enough to face the music. You've brought this on yourself and you'll have to bear it. Slocum is in jail, and he has made a confession."
Sercomb gasped and his face turned gray.
"Then—then I suppose you're—you're done with me?" he faltered.
"Yes, you've guessed right, Sercomb. Stark-Frisbie are done with you, but the law is not."
As he finished, Plympton stepped back and motioned to a man who was standing near. The latter pushed forward and laid a hand on Sercomb's shoulder.
"You're my prisoner, Sercomb," said he.
At that moment a touring-car came slowly past theplace where the little group was standing. The car contained Trueman, Matt, Carl, and Chub, with one of the Jarrot mechanics at the steering-wheel.
They were all smiling and happy, but a puzzled look crossed Matt's face as his gaze rested on the officer and Sercomb.
"Stop a minute!" called Plympton, stepping toward the car. "King," he went on, reaching up to take Matt's hand, "I have done you an injustice, and I ask your pardon. You have acted like a gentleman and a true sportsman and you drove a race that will go down into automobile history as one of the pluckiest ever pulled off. Your car bothered you a good deal, but you hung on and won."
"We won on three speeds," replied Matt. "We had trouble and stripped one of the gears."
"Dree speeds aheadt," bubbled Carl. "Vell, dot vas enough."
"Certainly it has proved so," said the colonel. "The Jarrot people have first claim on your services, King, but if they don't offer you enough, I wish you'd give us a chance."
"Here, here," laughed Trueman. "I don't think the Jarrot people will let you steal from them the driver that won the cup."
"What are you doing with Sercomb, colonel?" queried Matt, still with his eyes on the beaten driver.
"He is under arrest," was the grim reply.
"For what he did last Saturday night?"
"Yes."
"As a favor to me," said Matt earnestly, "I want you to let him go."
"Oh, here," demurred Trueman, "that's carrying the thing too far, King. Don't waste any sentiment on that young scoundrel."
"He deserves all that will come to him," averred Plympton.
"He has been beaten," persisted Matt, "and that is punishment enough. I want him released. Can't you arrange it, colonel?"
"By gad," muttered Plympton, "I can't understand you, King. If that's really what you wish, though, I'll see what can be done."
"This is a day of victory to me," smiled Matt, "and I'd like to celebrate it in that way."
"Your desire does you credit," said the colonel bluffly, "but I think you display poor judgment."
"That's the way with Pard Matt," spoke up Chub. "But I don't think it's such a bad way, either. Anyhow, it don't keep him from making good in whatever he undertakes."
"Sure nod," put in Carl, "aber I don'd like dot. I vouldt radder punch Sercomb's headt as led him go. Dot's me—so savage all der time as some grizzly pears."
"Well, drive on, Patterson," said Trueman impatiently. "Settle the business as Matt wants it, Plympton, if you can."
Patterson drove the car to the hotel, Matt receiving congratulations all the way into town.
He and Chub were both extremely tired, but a bath and fresh clothes made them feel a hundred per cent. better.
While the two boys were looking after their own comfort, mutual explanations were indulged in.
Matt learned how Chub and his father had started for Chicago to make a sale of the mine, how Chub had learned Matt was to take part in the cup race, and had stopped off at Ottawa to be with his chum in his hour of victory—or defeat.
Matt then explained how he had come to himself, early Tuesday morning, camping down on a straw pile four miles from Lawrence.
"It's a queer thing," said he, "coming to your senses and finding yourself somewhere and never knowing the least thing about how you got there!"
"Well, I should smile!" grinned Chub. "You don't know a whole lot about it yet, do you? We haven't had much time for talk since you got back."
"I know I was drugged in some way," returned Matt, "and that I had just time to get from Lawrence to Ottawa in a gasoline speeder so as to enter the race. If Trueman had drawn first place, I guess I'd have been on the bleachers instead of in the car."
Chub told about the miserable hours he and Carl had passed while waiting for Matt to be found, or else to find himself.
"That Dutchman," said Chub, "was as near daffy as a fellow can be and yet have a few lucid intervals. He wanted to fight. He didn't seem at all particular who he licked, but he wanted to be using his fists."
"The little runt!" laughed Matt. "He's a fine fellow, that Carl. His head-work isn't very brilliant, at times, but he's true blue; and when it comes to fist-work, I don't know where you can find his equal for one of his size."
"I've cottoned to him in great shape. How much do you pull down for the winning, Matt?"
"Three thousand."
"That's making money hand over fist!" exclaimed Chub, "and there'll be more coming. A crack driver like you can command his own price."
"You're in for something, too, you know. I never could have won if you hadn't helped me like you did."
"Splash! What's that bell I hear?"
"Supper!"
"Let's run. I'll bet I can eat twice as much as Carl, to-night."
"You'll have to be going some, if you do."
"Well," laughed Chub, "we've been going some for five hours, steady, so we've got our hand in. Three speeds forward, old chap, and hit 'er up!"
THE END.
THE NEXT NUMBER (9) WILL CONTAIN
MOTOR MATT'S AIR-SHIP;
OR,
The Rival Inventors.
Capturing an Air-ship—A Queer "Find"—The Balloon House—The Kettle Continues to Boil—Carl Investigates—Jerrold, Brady's Rival—Jerrold's Gratitude—Aboard theHawk—Willoughby's Swamp—A Foe in the Air—Brady Changes His Plans—Into the Swamp—A Desperate Chance—A Daring Escape—The End of the Mid-air Trail.
Capturing an Air-ship—A Queer "Find"—The Balloon House—The Kettle Continues to Boil—Carl Investigates—Jerrold, Brady's Rival—Jerrold's Gratitude—Aboard theHawk—Willoughby's Swamp—A Foe in the Air—Brady Changes His Plans—Into the Swamp—A Desperate Chance—A Daring Escape—The End of the Mid-air Trail.
NEW YORK, April 17, 1909.
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Arnold Chesney came galloping with his neck for sale up to the shanty among the orange trees, and flung himself off his steaming pony.
"Terry," he roared, "the cold signal's flying. Heavy frost prophesied for to-night. Get out and build the fires."
A good-looking young Irishman in flannel shirt and blue jeans came running out of the rough log building that served both as dwelling place and as office at their orange grove in Florida.
"Faith, I thought as much, Arnold. The wind's going nor'west. There'll be the divvle's own frost by morning," he declared.
The two youngsters toiled like Trojans while the sun sank behind the pine forest and the temperature dropped minute by minute. Great piles of fat pine wood were stacked every few rows among the trees, covered with wet grass, and then as the thermometer in the tube sank close to thirty-two degrees the fires were lighted, and greasy, black smoke poured up in clouds.
But as the cold increased so did the wind, and the smoke, instead of lying in a protecting fog over the trees, streamed away to leeward.
By two in the morning it was blowing a full gale, and the cold was crusting the water buckets in the veranda.
"'Tis no good, Arnold," gasped poor Terry. "Feel this!" He handed him an orange.
It was hard as a baseball, frozen to the very core.
Arnold groaned. "You're right, Terry. We're done."
They were. When morning dawned crisp and clear, and the red sun rose in a cloudless sky, every orange in South Florida was a lump of ice. The green leaves, so stiff and firm overnight, hung limp and blackened. Not only was the crop gone, but the trees themselves were terribly injured.
Arnold and Terence surveyed the scene of ruin in despair.
"Our first decent crop!" growled Chesney. "We'll have to start all over again."
"'Tis not that I'm thinking of," said Terence Burke. "'Tis Cassidy."
"The brute! I'd forgotten him!" exclaimed Arnold in dismay.
"Small chance he's give ye of forgetting him. More be token, here comes the spalpeen."
A short, square man with a flat face, a turn-up nose, and eyes like a pig's, came through the slip bars by the road. In an ill moment the two youngsters had given this Irish-American a mortgage on their grove, a step they had never ceased regretting.
"Good-mornin' to ye, byes. Th' quarther's interest is due. Have ye it for me?"
"There it is. Look at it!" said Chesney, pointing to the ruined trees.
"Ah, don't be pokin' your fun at me. 'Tis cash I want, not froze-up oranges."
Terence turned on the man. "Ye know full well, Cassidy, 'twas the crop we were going to pay ye out of. The crop's gone, and ye'll not be brute enough to want us to pay ye on the nail."
Cassidy's ugly little eyes narrowed. "I can't help the frost," he said. "I'm a business man, and I'm wanting my money."
"Then you'll have to wait for it," said Arnold Chesney bluntly. "We haven't got it, so we can't pay. Is that clear?"
"Clear as soup, begob. An' as ye can't pay, thin I'll take th' grove. An' that's clear, too."
"Not so fast," retorted Chesney. "The law gives us a clear twenty-eight days. If we pay the interest within that time we're safe."
Cassidy scowled. He had not credited the boy with so much knowledge.
"'Twill take more than twinty-eight days to grow a new crop," he sneered. "I'll give ye what grace the law allows, an' not another hour. Ye'd best write north for th' money. Ye'll never make it in th' time. That I know."
"What do you bet?" cried Arnold sharply. "What do you bet we don't make a hundred dollars in the next four weeks?"
"I'll bet ye the hundred, an' small chance I'll have o' being paid."
"Thanks for your kind opinion, but we'll have it in black and white if you don't mind, Mr. Cassidy." And Arnold quietly led the way to the house.
"You're crazy, Arnold. What took ye to make a bet like that? A dollar a day's all either of us can earn. An' even if we get work, that's only forty-eight dollars between us."
Arnold looked mysterious. "Have you forgotten our friend, Enos B. Hinks?" he asked.
"The chap that owns the Palmetto Beach House?"
"That's the man. When I was down there last year, he told me I could have a job any time as guide. Taking his Northern tourists out to kill quail and snipe. Bet he'll take us both on, and it's two and a half a day and grub."
"Faith, I'm thinking 'twill pay better than growing frozen oranges," replied Terence dryly. "I'm your man, Arnold, dear."
"Good. Now to pack and scrape up our fares. We've no time to lose."
Palmetto Beach was eighty miles south, on the Gulf Coast. The tickets were nine dollars, which Arnold raised by selling his watch to a friendly tourist at the station.
When the two arrived at the door of the great building with its Moorish minarets and roofs of gleaming tin, they had exactly sixty cents between them.
"Hinks?" echoed the smart clerk in the office. "Mean Enos B. Hinks as used to own this hotel?"
"Used to own it!"
"Yes. You're strangers, I reckon. Enos B. sold out last summer. Hiram J. Crundall's now the proprietor of the Palmetto Beach."
The two boys stared with blank faces. Terry was the first to recover himself. "D'ye think Mr. Crundall would see us?" he asked sweetly.
Terry's soft Irish voice was irresistible. "I wouldn't wonder, gentlemen. I'll ask him. Step inside the office."
A great, burly man with scrubby black hair and a long, black cigar between his hard lips came into the office.
"Want rooms, gents?" he asked abruptly.
"Not rooms—work," replied Arnold.
The big man looked them over.
"I haven't any jobs, for you. I've got a yellow chap, Pete Lippitts, who takes the guests out shooting. You'll have to try farther."
"I'm much obliged to you," said Arnold very quietly. He took up his hat, and somehow he and Terry found themselves outside.
A merry party were playing tennis. Smartly dressed people lounged on the shady veranda. The sun shone brightly, and the two poor lads, with hearts heavy as lead, made their way through the beautiful gardens to the outer gate.
"How are we going to get back?" asked Terry. "Sixty cents won't take us far."
"Walk, I reckon," said Arnold grimly.
"Hi, mister. Say, come back. The boss wants you."
Both the youngsters wheeled round. A big mulatto was running after them.
"Look here," said Crundall. "Peter tells me the big 'gator I've got in the pond has bust the netting and crawled out and gone. If you chaps are game to catch him or another, I'll make it worth your while."
Arnold and Terry exchanged glances. "What's it worth?" demanded Arnold.
"Fifty dollars," said Crundall. "That is for one not less'n six foot long. I don't want any toys."
"And if he's bigger than six foot?"
"Don't you fret. You won't get one bigger."
"We might," said Arnold dryly.
Crundall actually smiled. "I like your sand," he said. "Tell you what. I'll make it ten dollars a foot extra for anything above six foot. Is that a go?"
"Agreed!"
"Mind you, he's got to be whole and sound. No shark hooks in him, nor bullet holes," warned Crundall.
"Right," said Arnold. "We'll start in the morning."
Crundall nodded. He was a rough chap, but the straight talk of the young fellow appealed to him. He turned to Pete. "Pete, see these fellers have a bed to-night and grub. So long. The dollars will be ready when you come back with the 'gator."
"A sweet fix you've got us in, Arnold, me boy," was Terry's first remark when, after an excellent supper, the two reached their room.
"What's the matter, Terry?"
"Begorra, what isn't? How are ye going to catch an alligator without hooks?"
"Don't you worry. I'll think it out."
"Faith, 'twill take a divvle of a lot of thinking."
"I'm going to sleep on it first," said Arnold quietly. "We've got to be up at an unholy hour to-morrow. I mean to give Crundall a run for his money. He's worth cultivating—that man."
Terry gave a sigh of resignation, and began pulling off his clothes.
When he awoke next morning Arnold was standing over him ready dressed.
"Have you thought of a plan?" was Terry's first question.
"Bet your life," grinned the other. "Hurry up. Breakfast's ready."
An hour later, guns on shoulder, food for two days, and a coil of stout rope in a game bag, the two were tramping across the wire grass through the dewy pine woods, with the rising sun striking long shafts of light through the red stems.
"Bitter Bayou's the place for my money," said Arnold. "There's stacks of 'em there. But keep an eye peeled for a deer or a pig. I'm not particular."
"Bait, is it?" asked Terry eagerly.
"Just so."
"But that ould Crundall said he wouldn't have a hooked 'gator at any price," replied Terry, puzzled. "An' sure we couldn't hook one anyhow widout a hook."
"True, Terence," laughed Arnold. "Sh—quietly!" As he spoke he dropped flat behind a log. As Terry did the same, there was a crisp rustling in a patch of saw palmetto about fifty yards away, and an old razorback sow, with six piglings behind her, came slowly out into the open.
"Take the first little 'un," muttered Arnold. "Keep your second barrel for the old beggar if she charges. Now!"
Two reports crashed out. Over rolled two of the small pigs. The old sow threw up her sharp head, then with a squeal of alarm bolted with the survivors of her family.
"Good business!" cried Arnold, jumping up and running forward. "Raw pork for Mr. 'Gator, and roast for ourselves. Eh, Terry?"
"Faith, 'tis a funny thing to catch a ten-foot alligator wid!" remarked Terry, ruefully surveying the plump little porker.
"Quite enough," replied Arnold with a grin, as he shouldered the other pig.
The ground began to slope away, pine gave place to live oaks, and live oaks to cabbage palms and cypress. The soil was black and oozy beneath their feet, and at last they found themselves on the edge of a deep river, whose brown stream wound sluggishly beneath the gloomy branches of giant cypress trees.
"Here's the bayou. Now for the 'gator," exclaimed Arnold as he flung down his pig and his gun.
"Faith, you're as pleased with yourself as if ye'd got the scaly beggar in your pocket this minute," complained the Irishman.
Arnold grinned. "How long a one do we want, Terry. Fifty dollars for six foot, and ten for each foot beyond. Fifty and five tens. Eleven foot's our minimum."
"Sure, there's one with a bit to spare," said Terence sharply, pointing.
Out of the dull waters something was heaving itself slowly up. Something long and rugged, like a rough barked, water-sodden log. So slowly did it rise that the oily water did not show a single ripple.
"Phew!" muttered Arnold. "That chap takes the cake! Never saw such a brute in my born days; thirteen foot if he's an inch. Terry, if we can collar him our fortune's made."
"More likely th' baste'll swallow us," retorted Terence.
"Not he. He's going to have something else to swallow. Keep an eye on the old scalawag, Terry, while I fix up a dose for him." And Arnold, plumping down on his knees, whipped out his knife and began operations. He slit open the pig, and then from the game bag pulled out a good-sized tin. In this were two packages, each carefully wrapped in oiled paper and sealed.
Arnold spread paper on the ground, and, turning out half the contents of each packet into two small white heaps, began to mix them together.
"Is it crazy ye are, Arnold?" demanded his Irish chum.
"No; why?"
"'Tis a live alligator Crundall asked for, not a poisoned one."
"I'm not going to poison him; you wait a jiffy!" And Arnold chuckled again, but gently, for fear of scaring the alligator.
The latter, however, was still taking life easy, basking in a patch of sunlight which leaked between the trees.
Carefully mixing his two powders, Arnold made them into one package, which he rolled up in several thicknesses of paper, and tied securely. He then dexterously inserted this package inside the carcass of the diminutive pigling, and sewed it into place.
"Next thing is to present the bait nicely and quietly to our fat friend there," remarked Arnold as he completed operations.
Terry shrugged his shoulders. For once his quick Irish wits were quite at fault.
Carrying the pig, Arnold crept cautiously out on a fallen log which extended over the water, and dropped his burden cautiously into the sluggish stream. It floated slowly down toward the spot where the great scaly brute lay basking.
"Only hope another chap don't get it first," muttered Arnold. "It's the big fellow we want."
Alligators have a quick sense of smell. All of a sudden two more scaly heads rose above the surface, and another couple of huge brutes appeared out of the thick saw grass on the opposite bank.
But number one had no idea of being balked of his prey. The oily water began to swirl in front of his great blunt head. He came plowing upstream like a torpedo boat, and almost instantly the huge jaws opened like a barn door, and the tasty morsel disappeared between two rows of gigantic yellow fangs. Then with amazing suddenness the monster vanished.
"Got him!" hissed Arnold in tense excitement.
"Is it a slaping powder ye've given him?" asked Terry eagerly.
"Sleeping powder! You'll soon see." Arnold shook with laughter.
Minutes passed. Nothing happened. Arnold began to look uneasy.
"Your medicine ain't acting, Arnold my bhoy," grinned Terry.