Motor Matt's Triumph; or, Three Speeds Forward

CHAPTER V. CHAPTER V. MATT GOES TROUBLE-HUNTING. No matter how firmly convinced Colonel Plympton had been regarding Matt's treacherous intentions, the tremendous shock the note gave him was too real to be feigned. "Isn't that your signature, King?" demanded Plympton. "Yes, sir, so far as I can see; but certainly I never signed any paper like that. I'm not that sort of a fellow, Colonel Plympton. Did Ralph Sercomb deliver that paper to you?" "I don't know why I should make a secret of it. Yes, he did; but it was because he had the interests of the Stark-Frisbie Company at heart." "You're wrong, sir," said Matt firmly. "This is a cut-and-dried plot, all the way through. Sercomb has got it in for me, and this rascal, Slocum, is helping him spoil my chances with the Stark-Frisbie Company." The colonel's face hardened. "Seeing how you took that note, I was ready to believe this the first time you ever laid eyes on it," said he, "but you are spoiling the good impression by blaming Sercomb." "In a case like this I have to put the blame where it belongs." A blow in the face could not have dazed Matt more than that note had done. Now, however, his anger and indignation were coming uppermost. In his case, that always meant that his brain was clearing, and every muscle steadying itself to the tensity of a fore-stay. "I can't go into your private quarrels, King," said Colonel Plympton, "and even if you are innocent of any dealings with a representative of the Bly-Lambert people, after what has happened I couldn't conscientiously hire you. Besides, you are virtually a stranger; you have never driven in a motor-race—which is vastly different from ordinary driving, and requires experience—and you are rather young to enter the racing field." "That isn't the point just now, colonel," said Matt. "I am bound to get into that race for the Borden cup, now, in order to show that my intentions are honest—and in order to prove that there is villainous work afoot and that some one is trying to make me the victim of it. I owe this to myself, and I also owe it to Mr. Tomlinson, who recommended me to you. That paper," and he pointed to the document which he had picked up and laid on the colonel's desk, "is not the one I thought I was signing. Slocum juggled it around in the place of the other. I can see that, now that the contemptible plot has come out. Do you know Sercomb's handwriting, colonel?" "As well as my own." Matt fished from his pocket the communication which Carl had brought to the hotel. "Please tell me if that is Sercomb's writing," said he. "No," answered the colonel decidedly. "Kindly read the note through, anyway. It will show a reason for this Slocum plot." Colonel Plympton read the note through carefully, and with a considerable show of surprise. "Where did you get that?" he asked. Matt thereupon told how Carl had been waylaid and taken to the meeting room of the Drivers' Club, of what had transpired there, and how Carl had been turned loose in an unknown quarter of the town and sent to the hotel with the letter. "This is too incredible, King!" exclaimed the colonel. "It's the wildest kind of a yarn. No, I'm not disputing your word at all, but simply suggesting that some of the drivers may be having a little fun at your expense. That the racing men should band together to keep you out of the game is too outrageous for belief." "I thought myself it was all a bluff until this Slocum business came out," said Matt. He got up. "I'm going to get to the bottom of this, colonel," said he with a glint in his gray eyes, "and I'm going to drive a car in that Kansas race. I should like to race for the Stark-Frisbie Company, but, if that's impossible, I'll go in for whoever will give me a show." "I'm afraid it's impossible, King, so far as our people are concerned. I'm glad you came in here and had this talk with me, though, for I think a hundred per cent. better of you than I did before. I was thinking Tomlinson had been deceived in you. I'll not tell him about this signed paper if you don't want me to." "I want you to, sir," returned Matt earnestly. "I believe Mr. Tomlinson has too much confidence in me to take any stock in that thing." "You're going to Kansas?" "Yes, sir." "On your own hook?" "It seems that I'm not able to go any other way." "Egad, I like your spirit, anyhow! When do you start?" "Just as soon as I transact a little business with Slocum, and a few others who need my attention." "Well, good luck to you!" The colonel got up and took Matt's hand. "You've got a way of inspiring confidence, and I wish I could do something for you, but I'm afraid it's out of the question. Win that Kansas race, though, and you'll have more offers to drive motor-cars than you can fill." Matt experienced a sense of great relief as he left Colonel Plympton's office. He felt that he had accomplished not a little in ranging the colonel on his side. Carl was waiting impatiently for Matt, walking up and down the hotel office and keeping his eyes constantly on the windows that faced the street. As Matt, in a quiet corner of the office, told about the treachery of Slocum, Carl's rage was so intense that it would have been ludicrous in any other circumstances. "Ach, dot sgoundrel! dot fillian!" he wheezed. "Oof I hat him here I vould make him t'ink a brick house hat fell on him! Der plackguard! Der tinhorn! Led me go oudt und look for him!" Carl jumped furiously from his chair, but Matt caught him and pulled him back. "There's somebody else we're to look for, Carl," said he. "Who's dot?" "Sercomb and his scheming friends." "Yah, you bed you! Ve vill findt dose fellers, und ven ve do findt dem ve vill ged some shtrangle-holts on dem und make dem say oudt vere iss Slocum." "It's not often that I go hunting trouble," said Matt grimly, "but that's what I'm going to do now." "How ve shtart it oudt, Matt?" queried Carl. "We'll look for that basement club-room." "Yah, so, aber how ve findt dot?" "Can't you take me to the alley where the gang set upon you?" "Easy! Afder dot, how ve going to findt dot cellar-blace? I had somet'ing ofer my headt ven I vas dook dere, und I don'd see nodding." "Well, they had an automobile in the cellar. That means that the basement door was wide enough to take the machine in, and that there is an incline for the car to climb and descend. That will give us our clue. I'll warrant that there are not many basement doors of that description opening upon that alley." "Pully!" murmured Carl, almost overcome with admiration. "Vat a headt it iss! Matt, oof I hat a headt like dot, I vouldt haf Rockybuilt backed off der poard." "Let's confine our attention to backing Sercomb off the board, and straightening out this tangle." Matt got up. "Come on, Carl." "Vill dere be anypody in der clup-room now? Meppy dey don'd come togedder undil nighdt, und meppy nod efery nighdt, eider." "We'll go and try to find the place, anyhow," replied Matt. "If there's no one there we'll go back again to-night." "Pully!" As they left the hotel and Carl led the way toward the street where he had been captured, the night before, he remarked with a chuckle: "Oof I don'd vas aple to use my eyes lashdt nighdt you bed you I used my ears! I hear how dose raps vas gifen on der toor, und I can gif dem meinseluf schust der same vay." A ten minutes' walk carried the two boys to the mouth of the alley where Carl had been set upon. "Dis vas der site oof der shdreet, und dis vas der blace," said he. "Dey must haf dook me oop dere," and he pointed. The alley was narrow and on both sides was lined with the rear walls of second-rate store-buildings. Every building, so far as Matt could see, had a door. The narrow passage was paved with brick, and this prevented Matt from seeing the tracks which an automobile might have left on the surface of bare ground. Slowly the boys walked along the alley, peering at the doors on left and right as they advanced. They were about half-way through the alley when they found what they were seeking, namely, a wide door at the foot of a steep incline. The descent was not more than two feet downward from the surface of the alley, and the wide door was set well back, so that the cut-out place would not interfere with teaming through the passage. "Py shinks," whispered Carl excitedly, "ve haf foundt der blace!" "No doubt of it," answered Matt with a grim feeling of satisfaction. There were no windows in the basement wall of the building, and those in the upper stories were dusty and cobwebbed. Softly Matt descended to the door at the foot of the incline and motioned for Carl to follow. The Dutch boy gained his side. "Now rap," said Matt, "and see how good an imitation you can give of what you heard last night." Carl drummed the peculiar tattoo. There was no response. After waiting a little he drummed it again, but louder. This, somewhat unexpectedly, brought an answer. "Who approaches?" demanded a muffled voice from within. "Tell him 'Two drivers oof racing-cars,' Matt," whispered Carl. "My voice vouldt gif me avay." "Two drivers of racing-cars," called Matt. "Give me the countersign." "Four speeds forvard und vone referse," whispered Carl. Matt repeated the words. Instantly the door was opened and a young man of twenty-two or three stood in front of the boys. With a bellow of rage Carl jumped forward. "Higgins! Oof it ain'd! Now vatch, Higgins, vile I show you der peautiful aurora porealis, und der leedle shooding shdars, und der comics. Dis meeding makes me so habby as I can't dell!" CHAPTER VI. HIGGINS TELLS WHAT HE KNOWS. Higgins seemed to be the only member of the club about the place. The inner doors were open, and the racket which Carl stirred up by his attack did not draw any one through them. Higgins was very much surprised. Carl's attack was so suddenly made that he was thrown from his feet. "Vas it you dot wrode dot ledder," fumed Carl, "und saidt in it dot I vas a 'Wienerwurst?' Ach, blitzen, I make you t'ink I peen a volgano mit an erubtion. I bed someding for nodding you don't fool some more Dutchmans!" Higgins, unable to protect himself from the frantic Dutchman, began begging for mercy. "That will do, Carl," said Matt. "Leave him alone. We seem to have him all to ourselves and it's a good chance for a little heart-to-heart talk." Matt sat down on a chair beside the open alley door and Carl appropriated an empty beer keg. It was evident that the members of the Drivers' Club were of a convivial nature. Higgins, nursing the back of his head and a bruise on the side of his face, leaned against the wall and peered sullenly at Matt and furiously at Carl. "Where's the rest of the gang, Higgins?" asked Matt. "What's it to you?" flared Higgins. "That's your mood, is it?" said Matt. "Carl, go and get a policeman. We can put this fellow in jail for what he did last night." Carl got up and started for the door. "On der chump!" said he, knowing well enough that Matt was bluffing in the hope of drawing Higgins out and making him more communicative. "Wait a minute!" called Higgins. "What do you want to mix the police in this thing for? You'll only be making trouble for yourselves, and you can't bother me very much." "I know what we can do," answered Matt sternly. "Go on, Carl." "Here, hold up!" begged Higgins, showing signs of alarm. "Can't we straighten this out somehow?" "We might, Higgins, if you want to talk." "What is it you want to know?" "When will the rest of your gang be here?" "Not before three weeks or a month." "Where are they?" "Gone to Kansas to get ready for the race." "Ach, vat a luck!" groaned Carl. "When did they leave?" went on Matt. "Nine o'clock this morning." "Who went?" "Patsy Grier, Tobe Martin, Balt Finn, Ralph Sercomb, Harry Packard and Joe Mings." "They all belong to the club, eh?" "Yes." "Who's the club's boss?" "Grier." "Are all those you named going to take part in the race for the Borden cup?" "Yes." "Do they all drive for Stark-Frisbie?" "I should say not! Sercomb, Mings, and Packard are the only Stark-Frisbie men." "Who do the others drive for?" "Bly-Lambert." "Where's Slocum?" "He went with the rest." "Is he working for Bly-Lambert, too?" "No, he's working for Slocum." "Who was it got Slocum to call on me last night?" "I don't know anything about that," answered Higgins shiftily. "I was the last member to join the Drivers and they don't put me wise to very much that's going on." "It's plain," said Matt, "that you don't intend to talk. You'd better go on, Carl," he added to his Dutch chum, "and get the officer." "Wait!" clamored Higgins. "I'll make a clean breast of everything. Sercomb put up the deal with Slocum. I don't know what the deal was, nor how it was worked, but Sercomb was the fellow behind it. I'm new in the club, as I said, and you wouldn't have caught me here this morning if Sercomb hadn't asked me to come and pack up some of his traps to go by express." "The outfit went to Ottawa, Kansas?" pursued Matt. "Yes. That's where Borden lives, and——" "I know about that." Matt got up. "We've found out enough, Carl," said he, "and let's go. As for you and your friends," and here Matt turned sternly on Higgins, "tell them to be a little careful. I know their game, and I'm going to fight it right from the drop of the hat." With that Matt turned on his heel and left the basement. When he and Carl had reached the street Carl expressed his doubts as to whether Higgins had told the truth. "I'm pretty sure he gave it to us straight, Carl," answered Matt. "The gang, almost to a man, will drive in that race, and it's high time they were on the ground. Sercomb probably went direct to the railroad station after he left Colonel Plympton's office this morning." "Vat you going to do, hey?" "I'm going to Kansas, too." Carl began to get excited. "Und me?" he asked; "vere do I come in?" "You're going along, of course. While I hunt up Mr. Tomlinson and have a talk with him, you go to the hotel, pay our bill and get our grips. Meet me at the station." "Hoop-a-la!" exulted Carl. "Ve vill carry der var righdt indo dem odder fellers' gamp, I bed you. Dot's der shduff!" Mr. Tomlinson's wholesale jewelry establishment was on Seventeenth Street. After leaving Carl, Matt made his way directly to the store. To his intense disappointment he found that Mr. Tomlinson had been called out of town by the sickness of a relative and would probably not be back for two or three days. Matt had planned on telling Mr. Tomlinson all about what had happened since he and Carl had reached Denver; but that was impossible now, and he would have to let Colonel Plympton do the telling. So far as the result was concerned, Matt was not doing any worrying about the way Mr. Tomlinson would receive the news of Slocum's trickery. What the young motorist had wanted, however, was to point out to Mr. Tomlinson a fact that he had not mentioned to Plympton. This was, that, unless there had been collusion between Slocum and Sercomb, the latter would not have been able to secure the alleged agreement which Matt had signed. If Slocum had been acting in good faith for the Bly-Lambert people, he would have hung onto the agreement; and if he had not been acting in good faith, the whole affair at once resolved itself into a plot of Sercomb's. Colonel Plympton, Matt had reasoned, was probably keen enough to see that for himself. Just what effect it would have on him Matt could not know, but even a shadow of suspicion, although unwarranted, would be enough to throw a driver out of the Borden cup race. Matt had made up his mind that he could not race for Stark-Frisbie. If he did, and lost, there might always be a feeling that there had been something in the Slocum business after all, and that he had thrown the race. The chances to drive a car for the Bly-Lambert people, on the other hand, did not seem at all flattering. They had taken three races from the Stark-Frisbie firm, and quite likely the drivers who had been successful in those contests would be the ones to drive in the present race. Mr. Tomlinson, Matt had been thinking, might know some one connected with the other manufacturers who had entered cars, and could perhaps have given him a letter of introduction that would have been of use. Now Matt found himself thrown upon his own resources, and, strange as it may seem, felt easier in his mind. Being forced to rely wholly upon himself, he marshaled all his grit and determination, and resolved to see the game through for its own sake. There is a pleasure in accomplishing things without the help of a "pull" or a "push," and Matt's blood was already tingling over the prospect of exciting events in Kansas. At noon he was at the station, and had bought tickets for Carl and himself. Carl was in the waiting-room with the grips. "Vat dit Misder Domlinson haf to say?" the Dutch boy inquired. "He's out of town, Carl," answered Matt. "Tough luck!" "I don't know about that. There's a pleasure as well as an advantage in going it alone, on your own hook. A fellow can't keep keyed up when he's leaning on somebody else; but when he's depending on himself, he knows he has to be fit and ready for whatever comes his way." "Meppy dot's righdt. Anyvays, Matt, you vill make goot. I know dot pedder as I know anyt'ing. Dot Sercomb und his crowd vill be surbrised, I bed you, ven dey see us come valking in on dem out in dot Gansas blace. Oof dey make some rough-houses, dey vill findt dot ve're fit und retty for dot, anyvays." Just at that moment a voice boomed through the waiting-room announcing that the east-bound train was ready. Matt and Carl, picking up their luggage, started at once for the train-shed. From the sidewalk Higgins had been watching them through a window. As the two chums left the waiting-room Higgins slid in, his eyes wide with astonishment. "They're going East," he muttered. "I wonder if they can be on their way to Kansas? What good will it do King to go there, after being turned down by Colonel Plympton?" This was too hard a nut for Higgins to crack. He tried to find out, at the ticket window, what place Matt and Carl had booked for, but a good many people had bought tickets and the agent had not noticed Matt and Carl particularly. Baffled in this move, Higgins stepped to a telegraph office and despatched the following message: " Ralph Sercomb , on Limited Train No. 10, Dodge City, Kansas: King and his Dutch pal left Denver on east-bound train at noon. Unable to ascertain their destination. Higgins. " "That puts it up to Sercomb," muttered Higgins as he paid for the message and turned away. "I'll bet there'll be warm doings in Kansas before long." CHAPTER VII. BRISK WORK AT DODGE CITY. Matt and Carl had to change cars at a place called La Junta, and there was a tedious wait. In due course, however, they resumed their journey, slept out the night in a sleeping-car and got out at Dodge City for breakfast. The train halted for twenty minutes to give the passengers a chance to eat. This stop was to prove an exciting twenty minutes for Matt and Carl. Just as they were moving with a crowd of other hungry passengers toward the door of the eating-house a shabby and seedy personage strolled out, chewing a toothpick. Carl let off a whoop. "Slocum, py shinks!" he called. Slocum gave a jump and started to run. Matt and Carl at once trailed after him. The passengers on the station platform got out of the way and stood and gaped at the flight and pursuit. They could not understand what it all meant, of course, and, while it was sufficiently exciting to claim their attention, there was only twenty minutes allowed them for breakfast, and they could not waste much time. When the shabby man, with the two boys hot after him, had vanished around the corner of the station-building, the passengers began filing into the eating-room. To say that Matt was startled to catch a glimpse of Slocum would describe his feelings too mildly. If Slocum had taken an early train with the rest of the drivers, what was he doing there in Dodge City? He should have been several hours further along the road. Matt was not looking for more trickery. The fact that Higgins had watched him and Carl in Denver, and had sent a message to Sercomb, was, of course, unknown to the young motorist. Had that point been brought to Matt's attention he might have suspected something underhand in this strange appearance of Slocum. Slocum's legs were long and he was making good use of them. After whirling around the corner of the station, he set off across the tracks toward some trees and bushes that lined the edge of the switch-yard. Matt and Carl were overhauling the rascal steadily, and were not more than a dozen feet behind him when he vanished into the bushes. Matt led Carl by a yard, and when Matt had crashed through the brush and into a little cleared space, Slocum was still out of sight. Directly in front of Matt was a small tool-house such as a section-gang uses for storing tools and hand-cars. The door of the tool-house was swinging wide, and an open padlock hung in a staple at the edge of the opening. As Matt stood for a second looking at the tool-house, he fancied he heard a stir inside the small building and a sound of whispering voices. He felt sure that Slocum had gone into the tool-house, and that there was some one else there. The secrecy with which the quick whispering had been carried on aroused Matt's suspicions. Had Slocum been informed in some manner that Matt and Carl were on their way East? And had he stopped off the other train to carry out some other treacherous scheme of Sercomb's? It looked very much to Matt that this was the case, and as though Slocum had secured some one to help him. Slocum had made a bee-line for the tool-house, and it might be that he had had a confederate waiting for him there, and was intending to run the boys into some sort of a trap. All this flashed through Motor Matt's brain in the space of a breath. By the time Carl came crashing to his side Matt had canvassed his suspicions and laid a counter-plan. "Vere iss dot feller, Matt?" panted Carl. "I think he's gone off through the brush," replied Matt. "Nix, bard; I bed you dot he has gone indo der leedle house." "We'll look in the brush first," returned Matt, giving Carl a significant glance and pushing him away toward the rear of the tool-shed. Matt's talk was all for the benefit of those who might be listening. Carl could not understand his chum's tactics, but he understood very well that he had something important at the back of his head. As Carl moved off around the rear of the tool-house, Matt proceeded quickly and softly toward the front. Close to the open door he paused. "They'll get away from us, Ralph!" came to him in an excited whisper. "No, they won't, Joe!" answered an equally guarded voice. "They'll look around toward the rear of the shed and then they'll come in here. Be ready to down 'em the minute they show up in the doorway. We'll fasten 'em in here and they won't be able to get out until night." "But if we lose that train——" put in another voice, only to be interrupted by Sercomb's. "Lose nothing, Balt! The train stops twenty minutes, and we'll get back to the station in good time." "Gad," muttered the voice of Slocum, "Higgins gave us a hot tip. You ought to've seen those chaps when they set eyes on me. That Dutchman would have eaten me up if I'd let him get close enough." "I knew they'd chase you," went on Sercomb. "I don't think we're gaining anything, even at that," struck in the voice of Packard. "We jump off the other train and delay ourselves just to set King back a train." "Trueman, of the Jarrot Automobile Company, has a car in the race and he's not satisfied with his driver. I don't want King to work in there, and I intend to see Trueman and put one of our boys in his car. If we'd stayed on that other train we'd have reached Ottawa in the night. On this train we'll reach our destination in the morning, and I'll have a chance at Trueman before King shows up. If——" Matt overheard that much, and his astonishment can perhaps be imagined better than described. Sercomb was plotting, as usual, and not only was he in the tool-shed with Slocum, but Joe Mings and Harry Packard and Balt Finn were there as well. The talk between the drivers came to a sudden close as Carl, impatient to find out what Matt was doing, ran around the other side of the shed. Matt started to close the door. It was held open by a stone and resisted his efforts. While he was kicking away the stone those inside the shed scented trouble and made a break for the doorway. "Don't let them get out, Carl!" shouted Matt. "Keep them in. They laid a trap for us, and we'll spring it on them!" "Hoop-a-la!" cried Carl, striking out with his fists. If there was one thing Carl Pretzel loved more than another it was a fight; and now there was not only a chance to have a brisk skirmish with the enemy, but also to turn the tables on them. The Dutch boy's heart was in his work, and he planted one effective blow after another, as fast as he could move his arms. Matt jumped to his aid. Fists shot out of the doorway only to be countered and beaten back. The opening was wide enough for the passage of a hand-car, but not wide enough for all those in the shed to break through side by side. Slocum, by the shift of circumstances, was juggled to the front of the struggling drivers. Matt grabbed him and hurled him against those behind. Sercomb and Packard tumbled to the floor with Slocum on top. This left Finn and Mings battling fiercely in the entrance. Matt launched a blow, straight from the shoulder, that drove Mings back against the inner wall; then, as Carl sparred with Finn, Matt pulled the door toward him. "Out of the way, Carl!" Matt shouted. The Dutch boy slipped aside and Matt slammed the door shut in Finn's face. Finn began to push, calling on the rest of his comrades to bear a hand. Carl, while Matt was tinkering with the heavy hasp and padlock, threw his weight against the door on the outside. Another moment and the padlock was snapped into place, leaving those inside practically helpless. "Cock-a-tootle-too!" crowed Carl. "How you like dot, you fellers? Dot's vonce, by chincher, you got more as you pargained for, hey? Meppy you vill findt oudt, vone oof tose tays, how Modor Matt does t'ings, yah, I bed you!" "Let us out of here!" bellowed Sercomb, as frantic fists pounded on the door. "We want to go East on that train." "So do we," answered Matt, "and you'd have kept us from it if you could. Turn about is fair play, Sercomb. I'll reach Ottawa in time to see this man Trueman, whom you were talking about. Much obliged for the tip. You fellows can follow on the train Carl and I would have had to take in case you had been successful and locked us in there." "Let us out, King," bawled Mings, "or you'll be sorry you didn't! Take that from me!" "I've taken a whole lot from you fellows already, Mings," answered Matt, "and I'm getting tired of it. If I can ever catch Slocum he'll tell all about that trickery of his in the Clifton Hotel, or he'll wish he had." "Dot's righdt!" put in Carl. "You vas a lot oof schmard Alecs, und pooty kevick you vas going to findt oudt dot it don'd pay to act like vot you dit. Dere iss so many oof you dot you von't be lonesome in dere, und ven you come py Oddawa, Modor Matt und I vill meed you mit der pand. Ach, you vas a fine punch oof grafders!" The door shook and shivered as those inside the shed hurled themselves against it; but it was strongly put together and the baffled drivers could not break it down or force it open. Carl, shaking with enjoyment, stood off and watched the door bulge outward and rattle back into place. Presently the attack ceased. "Look here, King," called the breathless voice of Sercomb, "if you'll let us out of here we'll agree to quit bothering you. Ain't that fair enough?" "I'm not making any terms with you, Sercomb," replied Matt. "You're too tricky to be trusted." Just then the engine bell set up its clangor and, from the distance, came the warning "All aboard!" of the conductor. "Dot means us, Matt!" cried Carl. Turning away from the shed the boys dashed through the fringe of bushes and off across the tracks. As they bounded to the station platform the last car of the train was flickering past. Carl gained the steps of the last car at a flying leap, and Matt was close behind him. The train rolled eastward, and the boys, leaning across the hand-rail and breathing themselves, watched the little patch of brush and timber encircling the tool-shed fade from sight. "Be jeerful, eferypody!" jubilated Carl. "Ve missed our preakfast, aber it vas vort' der brice. Hey, Matt?" CHAPTER VIII. MATT INTERVIEWS TRUEMAN. Ottawa is as pretty a little town as there is in all Kansas. The streets are wide, and level, and shaded, and through the town runs the historic Marais des Cygnes, the "river of swans"—so named by the ancient French explorers. At this time the eyes of the Western automobile world were turned upon that part of Kansas, and representatives of more than a dozen alert motor-car manufacturers were located in Ottawa, all busily preparing for the great race. Long, lean racing-cars darted through the streets, passing back and forth between the town and Forest Park. From in front of the grand stand in the park the race was to start, describe a fifty-two mile circuit out across the prairie country and return to the race track. The race was to be six times around the circuit, comprising a total distance of three hundred and twelve miles. Were the Bly-Lambert people to keep the Borden cup, or would Stark-Frisbie take it away from them? This was the all-important topic, and was under discussion everywhere. None of the other contestants seemed to be considered. Everybody, from past performances on the Western racing field, seemed to think that no one else had a chance. Matt and Carl reached Ottawa in the early morning. As soon as they had washed the stains of travel from their faces and eaten their breakfast they sallied forth to take in the situation at close quarters. Each contestant had a garage of his own. In these garages the racing machines were jealously guarded, and about the cars the mechanics were constantly tinkering, making changes here and there as the experience of the drivers continued to suggest. Only actual trials over the course could show what was needed and what was superfluous, and since the weight of each car must be limited, great care had to be exercised in making changes. By inquiring of people they met, the boys learned that the Stark-Frisbie people had their garage across the river, in North Ottawa, while the Bly-Lambert folks were as far away in the other part of town as they could get. The racing talk was in evidence everywhere, the merits and demerits of the various machines giving cause for many warm arguments. There was something about the talk, the sight of the darting cars, and the general air of suppressed excitement that got into the blood. Carl was bubbling over with enthusiasm, and Matt, stirred as he had never been before, was more than ever determined that he would be in the race. Twenty-one cars had been entered. Among them were several touring cars, their owners being willing to pay the entrance fee just to gratify their sporting instinct—for no touring car could ever win against those high-powered racers, stripped for action and ready to hurl themselves over the course with every ounce of power in their cylinders. "Py chimineddy!" expanded Carl, "I vish dot I knowed der carburettor from der shpark-plug. Oof I dit, I bed you I vould be in der racings meinseluf." Matt's particular desire was to locate Trueman, of the Jarrot Automobile Company. He found him at last in a little private garage belonging to one of the wealthy residents of the place. The door of the garage was wide open, and the nose of a red racer could be seen inside. Excited voices could be heard coming from within the garage. "Confound your superstitions!" cried an angry voice. "If you happen to walk under a ladder on the day of the race, Glick, I suppose you wouldn't drive for me, eh?" "I'll be careful about doing that when the race is pulled off, Trueman," returned another voice. "Luck plays the biggest kind of a part in a game like this, and I don't intend to hoodoo myself by taking the car out on Friday. We've already been over the course four times, and what's the use of going over it again to-day?" "Every time the course is gone over it helps you just that much. Taking the race from Stark-Frisbie and Bly-Lambert is no cinch. We have only one car in the race and they have three each. But this red racer of ours can win, providing you learn the course well enough. Will you go out?" "I'll go out of the garage and back to the hotel," and a slim, lightly built young fellow came through the doorway, paused to light a cigarette, and then moved off toward the main street. A stout man of about forty, in automobile cap and coat, stepped to the door and glared after the retreating driver. He was greatly wrought up, and started to say something but bit the words off short. When the driver reached the sidewalk and vanished nonchalantly around a building, the man in the garage door turned his eyes on Matt and Carl. "Of all the superstitious fools that ever lived," he cried wrathfully, "I think that man Glick takes the bun. He can handle a car better than any man I ever saw, but here he hangs up our day's work simply because this happens to be Friday!" "Are you Mr. Trueman, of the Jarrot Company?" asked Matt. "My name, yes, sir," and Trueman gave Matt a more careful sizing. "Well, I'm a driver. Why not let me take you over the course?" Trueman shook his head. "We were going over it for Glick's benefit," said he, "not mine. Who are you, young man, and where do you come from?" Matt introduced himself, and presented Carl. "Have you ever driven a racing-car?" asked Trueman, the boy's bearing and talk impressing him more and more. "No," replied Matt, "but I'm confident I could do it. I've had a lot to do with gasoline-motors, and I've driven a good many cars." "Come in here and look at this one," said Trueman. "Properly driven, I'll bet money we have a car that can walk away from anything Stark-Frisbie or Bly-Lambert have in the race." Matt walked into the garage and looked over the red racer. It was a chain-driven, ninety-horse-power machine, and had the savage "get-there" look of a car that, run to the limit, could be made to win. "Glick knows how I depend on him," remarked Trueman, "so he does about as he pleases. We're giving him a thousand dollars to make the race, and a bonus of two thousand if he wins. If he doesn't spill the salt, or meet a cross-eyed man, or run into a post, he'll stand up under the strain and acquit himself in good shape." "I don't want to take any man's job away from him, Mr. Trueman," said Matt, "but if anything happens that Glick doesn't make the race, I'd like a chance to show you what I can do." But still Trueman shook his head. "You've never been in a race, King," said he, "and while you may know a car from A to Izzard, yet driving fifteen hundred pounds of machinery to win is an altogether different proposition. However, you might take me out in the racer and let me see what you can do. We won't go over the course, but will ride out south of town. Just a half-hour's spin, that's all." Matt twisted the crank and was pleased with the quickness with which the cylinders caught the explosion. Trueman had already got into the mechanic's seat, and Matt lost no time in climbing in beside him. "Wait for me here, Carl," said he, as the racer glided out of the garage. Unless there is a certain sympathy between the driver and the machine he controls, it is impossible to get out of a car all that is in it. In most cases this bond between driver and car has to be acquired by long and patient practise with the same machine; but, in rare instances, a driver, the instant he places himself at the steering wheel, is able to get completely en rapport with the complicated engine under his control. Drivers of this sort are born, not made—and Matt King was one of them. During that half-hour's spin over the flat country south of Ottawa, Motor Matt aroused Trueman's outspoken admiration. There were stretches where Matt drove at the highest rate of speed, where he rounded dangerous corners with the skill of a master-hand, and the clutch went in and gears were changed so swiftly and smoothly that no jarring note broke the steady humming of the cylinders. "You're a crack-a-jack!" averred Trueman when they were once more headed through town for the garage; "but going out on a little junket like this is vastly different from racing." "I don't believe I'd get rattled if there were racing-cars all around me," returned Matt with a quiet laugh. While the car was being put back in the garage Trueman was silent and thoughtful. When the throb of the machinery was finally stilled, and the two got out of the car, Trueman turned to clap Matt on the shoulder. "I'm going to keep you in reserve," said he. "If Glick kicks over the traces, and throws up his hands, I may fall back on you as a last resort." "Meanwhile," returned Matt, "I'm going to be on the look-out for a car. I'm going to be in that race, and if I have a chance you can't blame me for taking it." "Not at all, not at all. I like your driving, though, and if I was sure you wouldn't lose your head with cars all around you and dust so thick you can't see the bonnet, I don't know but I——" He broke off reflectively. "Well," he finished, "we'll see what happens." Matt and Carl drifted back through the town. Several cars were just coming in from the circuit, their drivers and mechanics begrimed with dust and oil. "It vas a gredt game, I bed you!" breathed Carl. "I hope dot der suberstitious feller meeds oop mit a plack cat or somet'ing, so dot you ged his chob, Matt." "I'm going to race for somebody," answered Matt, "even if I have to go over the course in a touring car. I never had the fever like I've got it now." "Me, neider," grinned Carl. "Led's go pack to der hodel und hunt for some tinner." That afternoon the two chums passed quietly on the hotel porch, listening to the racing talk that was going on all around them. It was about five o'clock when a boy came hurriedly to the hotel and disappeared inside the office. A few moments later the clerk came out of the office and gave Matt a letter. "That's for you, Mr. King," said the clerk. "The boy says he's waiting for your answer." Matt tore open the letter and read as follows: " King : Places were drawn for the start this afternoon, and, as luck (or ill-luck) would have it, I got Number Thirteen. That's the number that goes on the car. Glick refuses to race. Can I depend on you, same terms Glick was to receive? Answer yes or no, quick. " Trueman. " Motor Matt's heart gave a bound, and a thrill ran through his nerves. Turning to the boy who was standing beside his chair, he cried, "Tell Mr. Trueman he can depend on me, and that my answer is yes!" At just that moment a party with their grips in their hands were ascending the steps to the porch. They were Sercomb, and the others, who had been left in the tool-house in Dodge City. Each of them gave Matt and Carl a sour look as he tramped on into the hotel. CHAPTER IX. NO. 13. Nothing will rack the nerves of a superstitious man like the number "13." Taking a car out on Friday was as nothing compared to driving a car with such a hoodoo number. Glick had balked, but he did not entertain any hard feelings toward Matt for engaging to drive the car in his stead. When Matt left the hotel next morning and started for the garage to meet Mr. Trueman, Glick met him and walked part of the distance at his side. "Maybe you'll think I'm a fool," said he, lighting a cigarette, "and I know Trueman does, but I've seen too much of this Number Thirteen business to have anything to do with a car that's marked up for a dozen and one. That car of Trueman's hasn't a ghost of a show to finish the course, say nothing of making a win. It'll go to smash, and if you're in it you'll go to smash, too. Take my advice and keep away from it." "The number doesn't bother me," laughed Matt, "and I'm only too glad to get the chance to drive in the race." "Well," sighed Glick, "I'm sorry for you, King. You won't have any hard feelings toward me if the car puts you in the hospital?" "Well, I should say not!" exclaimed Matt. "I was afraid you might have it in for me for taking the car." "Not at all," said Glick heartily. "I admire your nerve, but I think your judgment is mighty poor. I wouldn't get into that car in this race for five thousand dollars." When Glick left Matt the latter hurried on. Trueman was waiting at the garage, and he caught the lad's hand in a cordial grip. "Glick went back on me sooner than I had expected," said he. "When he quit, yesterday afternoon, he told me that if the drawing hadn't been on Friday I wouldn't have got Number Thirteen. What an idiot! There are twenty-one cars in the race and some one had to have that number. My hopes are all wrapped up in you, King. If you want a start in the racing business, win the cup for the Jarrot folks." "If the car has the speed, and no accident happens to the motor, we'll win," declared Matt. "I'll watch the other twenty cars and find out just which ones we have to fear. Now we'll go over the course and begin a practical study of it." "Where's your Dutch friend?" inquired Trueman as they left the garage. "He's keeping track of some other friends of mine," laughed Matt, "who would like to sidetrack me and put me out of the running." Then, as they rode through town, across the bridge and to the park, Matt told of his troubles with Sercomb and his friends, and how trickery had prevented him from getting in the race for the Stark-Frisbie people. Matt felt that Trueman should know all about that phase of the matter, and he went into it in detail. To his surprise Trueman reached over and grabbed his hand. "You're just the fellow to make a showing in this race, King," said he earnestly, "and, speaking from a selfish point of view, I wouldn't have your personal relations any different. Sercomb is the fellow you'll have to beat, for he's Stark-Frisbie's crack man, and Stark-Frisbie have a car in this race that's going to walk away from all three of Bly-Lambert's. The surest way for you to down Sercomb, and give him his due, is by beating him; it's the only way, too, for you to prove to Colonel Plympton that the deal Sercomb says you made with the Bly-Lambert people is all moonshine. Sercomb has run losing races for the last three years, but this year Plympton has given him a car that's the fastest thing on wheels—excepting our own Number Thirteen." "If it's in this car, Mr. Trueman," answered Matt with a flash of resolution, "I'll be the first man over the tape at the end of the last round." Reaching the park and the race track, Matt drove the car to the position from which the start was to be made. Halfway around the track they went to a place where a section of the high board fence had been removed. Here the course led out of the park grounds and struck into a level sweep of road that led toward the river. Where the road turned to follow the river bank a sharp curve had to be negotiated. After that, for some four or five miles, the road wound easily through the trees. "You may have trouble here, King," said Trueman. "When the dust is thick and racing-cars are ahead and behind you, it would be the easiest thing in the world to swerve a shade too far and butt into a tree." "We'll have to look out for that," replied Matt, his keen eyes watching every part of the way as they went along. There was another hard turn where the course left the river road, but from that on there were twenty miles of level prairie, with packed earth like asphalt under the wheels. The car reeled off sixty miles an hour on this stretch, and would hardly have overturned a glass of water placed on the flat top of the hood. The end of the twenty miles brought them to a village called Le Loup. Here the road bent to the north and east and climbed a long low hill, gradually changing its course to the south. Just over the hill was a collection of shanties near a coal mine, and known locally by the name of Coal Run. From Coal Run back to the break in the park fence, the course was south and west, splendid going all the way. When the track was reached Matt let the car out on the way to the starting point. At that place the first accident happened, and the left-hand chain flew off, hurtling through the air for fifty feet and landing in the paddock. Matt brought the car to a halt without accident, found the chain, brought it back and adjusted it with a fresh link. We'll have to get on a new set of chains," frowned Trueman. An accident like that during the race might put us out of it." "Accidents are always liable to happen," said Matt. "If they come we'll have to make the best of them." They went over the course a second time, Matt forcing the car and bringing it in in sixty-five minutes from the start. "You'll do!" declared Trueman. "I feel a whole lot easier with you in the car than I ever felt with Glick. Now let's go back to the garage. We've done enough for one morning." "How many men are there at the garage in charge of the car?" asked Matt. "Two—the best we have in the St. Louis works." "You can depend on them?" "Every time and all the time. Why?" "The car must be watched night and day, Mr. Trueman," said Matt earnestly, "for there's no telling what Sercomb and his gang might try to do." "They're not afraid of the Jarrot cars, King," returned Trueman. "We haven't cut much of a figure in these Western races so far." "Well, you're going to cut a big figure in this race, Mr. Trueman, for it's my opinion you have the car to do it." For a week after that Matt went over the circuit every morning, studying it thoroughly. Having a retentive memory, he came to know every part of it as he knew his two hands. Sometimes Mr. Trueman went with him, and once Carl went along. But one trip was enough for Carl. The way Matt hurled the car through the air gave the Dutch boy an experience that he never forgot. Carl made up his mind that he'd rather hear the racing talk than take part in the race itself. In one respect, the Number Thirteen bore out its unlucky significance, for Matt did not make a trial ride around the circuit that something did not go wrong, and several times he averted a bad accident only by his quickness and presence of mind. On one ride the feed-pipe between the gasoline-tank and the carburetor became clogged, and he had to disconnect it and clean it; another time a tire blew up; and again, it was the chain, once more flying off and missing his head by an uncomfortably narrow margin. The car certainly seemed to be working through a very severe case of "hoodoo." Mr. Trueman was vastly exercised over these mishaps. He was beginning to feel as though there was something radically wrong about the car's construction, and that its chance of running well in the race, say nothing of winning, was decreasing to the vanishing point. But Matt was not greatly disturbed. "We're having all our troubles during the trials, Mr. Trueman," he explained, "and when the race comes we'll go over the course the six times without a hitch. Stage people say that when the last dress rehearsal goes badly the first performance is always sure to go smoothly." Although Trueman admired Matt's spirit, for his own part he still continued dubious. During Matt's week of hard, gruelling work, fortune was kind to him in one respect, for Sercomb and his friends left him severely alone. For one thing, every driver in the race had his hands full and found no time to give attention to anything else. Sercomb, Mings, and Packard, driving Stark-Frisbie machines, had a friendly rivalry among themselves. Each wanted to drive his car to victory for the bonus which the victor was to receive, and they were attending strictly to business and learning all the ins and outs of the course. Their dislike of Matt and their desire to get the better of him seemed to be thrust aside by the weightier affairs connected with the race. Several times, while he was going around the course, Matt either passed or was passed by one or the other of his enemies, but each and all of them ignored him completely. Matt was well content to let the matter rest in that way. Nearly every time Sercomb, Mings or Packard passed him, Matt was tinkering with the Jarrot car. The Stark-Frisbie drivers wrapped him in their dust and must have chuckled over the difficulties in which he found himself. The day of the race was set for Tuesday. Saturday night Matt came in wearily from the garage, washed the grime of dust and oil from his face and hands, talked a few moments with Carl, and went up to bed. Half an hour later he rang for a pitcher of water. Carl was lounging around the office when the bellboy carried the pitcher upstairs. Had Carl dreamed what was to happen to Matt because of that innocent little supply of drinking-water, he would have taken the pitcher from the boy and carried it up himself. Motor Matt's enemies were not ignoring him entirely. They were staying at the same hotel, and, as Carl sized the situation up afterward, they were staying there for the purpose which they finally accomplished. That their evil designs did not keep Matt out of the race was because they overreached themselves by hastening the nefarious plot. Had they waited just a few hours longer, the great race for the Borden cup would have had an altogether different termination. Nevertheless, the blow, when it fell, came with amazing suddenness; and it seemed so completely successful, and the hand dealing it was so cunningly hidden, that Carl was as deeply bewildered as he was filled with despair.

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