Motor Matt; or, The King of the Wheel / Motor Stories Thrilling Adventure Motor Fiction No 1.

The athletic clubs of both Phœnix and Prescott were for the encouragement of amateurs. Professionals were barred. The clubs could pick up material for their rival contests wherever they chose so long as they did not enlist any one who had ever competed for a money prize.

There was an odd expression on Matt King's open, handsome face as he looked and listened—a touch of wistfulness, it might be, softening the almost steelly resolution of his gray eyes.

"What do you know about him, major?" asked the governor, staring across the track through the cigar-smoke and feeling an instinctive admiration for the trim, boyish figure in cap, sweater and knickerbockers.

"Our acquaintance lasted less than an hour, and was mighty informal," chuckled the major. "I was returning from the Indian School in my motor-car, about a week ago, when along comes that boy on his wheel. He tried to go by, and—well, when I'm out for a spin in that six-thousand-dollar car I'm not letting anything on hoofs or wheels throw sand in my face. I tells the driver to speed her up, and by and by we have the boy's legs working like piston-rods. He was still abreast of us when some confounded thing or other slips a cog under the bonnet; then we begin to sputter and buckjump, and finally stop dead. The boy gives us the laugh and goes on.

"Mike, my driver, gets out to locate the injury. But it's too many for Mike. He was just telling me he'd have to go to the nearest farmhouse and telephone the garage, when the boy on the wheel comes trundling back. He asks me as nice as you please if there's anything the matter, and if he can't help us out. I was just about to tell him that he had another guess coming if he thought he could make good where Mike had fallen down, when he slips out of his saddle, makes a couple of passes at the machinery, closes the bonnet and begins to crank up. Mike got back in his seat and laughed like he thought it was a good joke; then he pretty near threw a fit when the machine jogged off as well as ever. The boy gave us the laugh again, this time from the rear. And that's how he happened to make a hit with me. I've heard that he knows more about motors than——"

"All ready, boys!" came the voice of the starter.

Dace Perry and two other boys had their wheels at the tape, but Matt King continued to lean against the fence and made no move to come forward.

"Hurry up, King!" shouted the starter. "What's the matter with you?"

"I haven't a wheel any more, Mr. Carter," answered Matt, "and I'm not a candidate. That's what I came out here to tell you."

"Not a candidate?" boomed the major, from up in the stand. "Don't you know the prize that goes to the winner in this event when we meet Prescott is as good as two hundred and fifty dollars? It's not a money prize, for we don't intend to make professionals out of you boys, but——"

"He's lost his nerve, that's what's the matter with him."

The words were so uncalled for, and the taunt in the voice so vicious, that every eye turned at once on the speaker. The captain of the cross-country team, arms folded and hostile gaze leveled at Matt, stood leaning against his machine.

"Quitter!" scoffed a voice in the crowd.

"Dry up, Perry!" called the starter. "You too, Spangler. Neither of you has any call to butt in."

Matt left the fence and advanced slowly across the track toward Perry.

"I've lost my nerve, have I, Dace Perry?" Matt inquired, with a half-laugh.

"What else do you call it?" demanded Perry, keeping his black eyes warily on the other's face.

As Matt stood staring at Perry his expression changed to one of the utmost good humor. Finally, with a broad smile, he turned to the starter.

"It looks as though Perry was going to be lonesome, Mr. Carter," said he, "if I don't ride with him. Can you dig up a wheel for me?"

Half a dozen in the high-school crowd set up a yell. "Take mine, Matt; take mine!"

"I know something about yours, Splinters," went on Matt, facing one of the lads, "and if you'll oblige me I'll spin it around the track."

"You bet!" chirruped Splinters, bounding away.

"I didn't come here for a try-out, Mr. Carter," said Matt, "but I don't want Perry or any one else to think that I'm a quitter or that my nerve is giving out. Can I ride in this race even if I shouldn't be able to meet the fellow from Prescott when the big event is pulled off?"

"What's the use of jockeying around like that?" grumbled Dace Perry. "What's the use of a try-out if the fellow that makes good don't hold down his end at the big meet?"

Carter was in a quandary, and cast an upward look toward Major Woolford.

"What do you say to that, major?" he asked.

"If we select you to represent the Phœnix Athletic Club in the bicycle-race, Matt," inquired the major, "why can't we count on you to be on hand and see the thing through?"

A touch of red ran into Matt's face.

"I may not be in Phœnix when the Prescott fellows come down, major," he replied.

"I'll take chances on that," growled the major. "Try him out, Carter."

Splinters, at that moment, came up with his machine. "I was going into this myself, Matt," said he, with a significant look at Perry, "but changed my mind. My racing-clothes are over in the dressing-room. They wouldn't be overly wide for you, but they'd be plenty long."

"Much obliged, Splinters," returned Matt, rolling the bicycle to the tape, "but I'll race as I stand."

A moment more and the four boys were shoved away at the crack of the starter's pistol. The major, watch in hand, followed the flight around the track with eager eyes.

"See him go, Jack!" he cried. "Why, that boy is off like a scared coyote making for home and mother. Dace Perry hasn't a ghost of a show."

The track measured a mile, and was a perfect oval. There were no trees to intercept the vision, and every part of the course could be seen by the major and the governor.

At the quarter Matt was the length of his wheel ahead of Perry, and Perry was the same distance ahead of the foremost racer behind him. At the half the distance, so far as Matt and Perry were concerned, remained the same, but the other two racers were hopelessly in the rear.

"Look at Perry work!" rumbled the major. "He's got his back up like a Kilkenny cat on the fence, and I can almost hear him puff clear over here. But that King boy has him beaten to a frazzle. Look at the form of him, will you? Great! Man alive, it's just simply superb!"

"There doesn't seem to be any love lost between King and Perry," observed the governor, following the major as he pushed excitedly around the stand in order to keep the racers at all times under his eyes.

"The trouble with Perry," said the major, "is that he's got the disposition of an Apache Indian. He wants to be the whole thing in the high school, and Matt King, during the short time he's been in town, has been boxing the compass all around him. Just look at the difference between the two, Jack. They're at the three-quarters post and are still the same distance apart. King intends to beat Perry, but he's considerate enough to hang back and win out by no more than a nose. If positions were changed so that Perry was in the lead instead of King, I'll bet good money that——"

Just at that moment, when the two leading racers were making their final spurt along the home-stretch, and when every nerve was as tense as a back-stay and every spectator had dropped into silence preparatory to hailing the victor with all his lung power, a spiteful crack cut the air from some point below the grand stand.

Simultaneously with the incisive note, Matt's bicycle was seen to swerve suddenly across Perry's path. Perry's wheel rushed into Matt's with a rattling crash and both riders were flung to the ground with terrific force.

"Great guns!" gasped the major, aghast. "I wonder if they're killed?"

"We'd better go and find out," returned the governor grimly.

Hurrying down the stairs, the major and the governor joined the excited crowd that was flocking toward the scene of the mishap.

CHAPTER VII.

THE MAJOR'S SURPRISE.

Well in the lead of those who were hurrying to the scene of the disaster was Chub McReady, his feelings about evenly divided between fear for Matt and anger because of the foul play that had caused the accident. A little way behind Chub, in a rushing crowd of excited high-school boys, came Welcome Perkins, his wooden peg traveling over the ground as it had never done before. Susie was flying along not far from Welcome, a look of wild alarm in her face. The major and the governor were pretty well in the rear.

Matt had picked himself out of the wreck, before any of the crowd reached the scene, and, with the assistance of the two other racers, was lifting Dace Perry and carrying him to the grassy paddock beside the track. Matt's clothes were torn, and there was a rent in his right sleeve through which flowed a trickle of blood.

"Is he killed? How badly is he hurt? What caused the smash?"

These and a dozen other questions were flung at Matt by the breathless crowd as Perry was laid down. Matt's face was white, but he did not seem to be very seriously injured. Kneeling beside Perry he laid a hand on his breast.

"He's all right, I guess," said he, looking up as the major elbowed his way to Perry's side. "He's stunned, major," he added; "I don't think it's any worse than that."

"Is there a doctor here?" called the major; "telephone for a doctor, somebody! See if he has any broken bones, Carter. Egad, Matt, you two fellows came together like a couple of railroad-trains. It's a wonder you weren't both killed. What was that I heard just before your bicycle ducked across in front of Perry's?"

"The tire blew up," answered Matt coolly.

"Something funny about that," put in Splinters, who was close to the major. "Both tires are new. You didn't run over anything, did you, Matt?"

"Some one fired a pistol," cried Chub; "nobody ever heard a tire pop like that! It came from beyond the lower end of the grand stand. Somebody put a bullet through that tire!"

"Nonsense!" scoffed the major. "What are you talking about, McReady? Who'd do a dastardly thing like that? Besides, it would take a mighty good marksman to put a bullet into a tire moving as fast as that one was."

"Look a-here," fumed Welcome Perkins, "I don't reckon there's a man in the hull Territory that's heard as much shootin' as what I have. I'm tellin' ye a gun was fired, an' by the shade o' Gallopin' Dick, it was fired at Matt there!"

"Clear out!" growled the major, "you're locoed. Who'd want to take a shot at Matt King? What do you think about it, my lad?" and the major turned to Matt.

Matt had dropped down and Susie was pushing back his torn sleeve.

"The tire went up, major," said Matt quietly; "that's all I know about it."

"See here," cried Susie, holding Matt's bare forearm for the major to see, "Matt's hurt worse than Dace Perry."

"You're wrong, Susie," returned Matt hastily, "it's only a cut, and not much of a cut at that. Please tie my handkerchief around it, will you?"

Matt jerked a handkerchief out of his pocket with his left hand and Susie began tying it over the wound. While Perry was being pulled and prodded in a search for broken bones, he suddenly opened his eyes and sat up. There was a dazed look in his face, but he seemed to be all right.

"How d'ye feel, Dace?" inquired Tubbits Drake anxiously, bending down over Perry.

"I'm all right," replied Perry; "a little bit dizzy, that's all. King fouled me! Did you see him as we started down the stretch?"

"Listen to that!" snorted Chub fiercely. "Some of your gang played a low-down trick on Matt, Dace Perry, or he wouldn't have got in your way."

"Tut, tut!" growled the major; "that's enough of that sort of talk. It was an accident, and nothing more. King would have been an easy winner, and there wasn't any cause for him to foul Perry. You boys are lucky to get out of the scrape as well as you did. How are the wheels?"

"Perry's is pretty badly smashed," reported some one who had taken a little time to look at the two bicycles, "but Tuohy's will be all right with a little tinkering. There's a hole in the rear tire, and the track is perfectly clean where the bicycles came together."

The significance of these words was not lost upon the crowd. Major Woolford turned to Horton and Coggswell, two members of the club who were making the race with Matt and Perry.

"You fellows were coming toward the lower end of the grand stand when the accident happened," said he; "did you see any one there?"

"We were 'tending to our knitting strictly," answered Coggswell, "and had no time to look at the grand stand. But we both thought we heard the report of a revolver."

"You didn't, though," declared the major. "That report was the tire when it let go. You'd better try another brand of tires, Tuohy."

As neither of the lads had been seriously injured it became necessary that another trial be made in order to determine who was the better man; and this time Matt started with grim determination in his eye, never once being headed, so that he wheeled across the line ten yards ahead of Dace.

This time there was no suspicious bursting of a tire, and at the conclusion the major spoke up:

"King's our man for the fight with Prescott; and if anything happens that he doesn't show up, we'll use Perry. That will be all for to-day. Will you ride home with me, Jack?"

The major was trying bluffly to appear at his ease, but it was quite clear that his mind was far from serene.

"My man is here with the horse and buggy, major," replied the governor, "and I've got some important business awaiting me at the office. I think you've picked a winner for the race with Prescott," and he gave the major a significant look as he turned away.

Mike was coming up with the major's motor-car, and the proprietor reached out and took Matt by the arm.

"I want you to ride back with me, King," said he, and in another minute Matt was in the tonneau with the major beside him.

"Get the wheel fixed up, Splinters," called Matt; "I'll stand the damage."

"No, you won't, old chap," answered Splinters. "You've stood enough damage as it is."

"Home, Mike," said the major, and the car moved off across the track and toward the wagon-road.

Matt waved his hand to Chub, Susie and Perkins; and members of the club and some of the high-school boys stopped their heated discussion of the cause of the accident long enough to give a rousing cheer.

"What's your candid opinion, King?" asked the major when the car had left the park and was spinning along the highroad. "You're talking to a friend, understand, and I want to get to the bottom of this."

"I haven't any opinion, major," said Matt. "You know as much as I do."

"But did you hear the report of a revolver?"

"I thought I did."

The major muttered savagely. "Have you any enemy lawless enough to take that way of doing you up?"

"I don't think I have. We'd better let the thing stand just as it is, I guess. There was no great harm done, if you count out the damage to the wheels."

"By gad, I like your spirit! The thing has an ugly look, but for the good of the club the less said about it the better. Sure your arm's all right?"

"It will be as good as ever in a few days."

They met a doctor who had been telephoned for and was hurrying to the park. The major turned him back with the information that his services were not needed.

For the rest of the distance to his home the major leaned back in his seat and said nothing. When they reached a street which was close to the place where he boarded, Matt wanted to get out, but the major shook his head mysteriously, and they rode on. In due course the car halted in front of the small building which served for a garage, and the major told Mike to leave the car outside and to go in "and bring out the other machine."

"I've got something I want to show you, King," said Woolford, getting out of the car, "and that's the reason I brought you here. If you're the kind of a lad I believe you are, the surprise I'm going to spring on you will keep you in Phœnix for that race with Prescott."

The major's mysterious manner aroused Matt's curiosity; then, a few minutes later, his curiosity was eclipsed by astonishment and admiration. Through the open door of the garage Mike was rolling a span new motor-cycle!

Motors were Matt's hobby. Anything driven by a motor had always appealed to him, but motor-cycles and motor-cars captured his fancy beyond anything and everything else in the motor line.

"Great hanky-pank!" he exclaimed, as the machine, glossy and bright in every part, was brought to a stop between him and the major.

"Like the looks of her?" laughed the major.

"She's a fair daisy and no mistake!" cried Matt delightedly.

The mass of compact machinery would have been puzzling to a boy who knew nothing about gasoline motor-cycles, but Matt's sparkling eyes went over the beautiful model part by part.

"It's one of the latest make and not being generally sold, as yet," explained the major, still smiling at the unfeigned pleasure the sight of the mechanical marvel was giving Matt. "Notice the twin cylinders? Seven horse-power, my boy. Think of that! Why, you could scoot away from a streak of lightning on that bike. What do you think of her name, eh?"

On the gasoline-tank, back of the saddle, the word Comet was lettered in gold.

"A good name for a racer," cried Matt, "and I'm Dutch if I ever saw anything to equal her. She's a jim-dandy, major."

"I reckon you know how to ride one of the things, eh? Jump on and try her a whirl."

"May I?" returned Matt, as though he thought the major's invitation too good to be true.

"Sure!" laughed the major jovially. "She's full of gasoline and all you have to do is to turn it on and throw in the spark."

Matt mounted while Mike steadied the machine; for a few moments he worked the pedals and then, with a patter of sharp explosions, he turned on the power and was off up the road like a bird on the wing.

It was a short spin, but the joy of it was not to be described. Every part of the superb mechanism worked to perfection. Matt tried it on the turns, tried it on a straightaway course, tried it in every conceivable manner he could think of, and the machine answered promptly and smoothly to his every touch. When he returned to the major and Mike, Matt's face was glowing with happiness and excitement.

"How does she run?" asked the major.

"It's the slickest thing on wheels!" returned Matt enthusiastically. "I never saw anything finer."

"How would you like to own her?"

Matt had got down from the saddle and Mike was steadying the machine. The major's words staggered the lad.

"Own her?" cried Matt; "I?"

"Why not?" The major leaned toward him and dropped a hand on his shoulder. "The Comet goes to the winner of the bicycle-race. You can own her, King, if you want to!"

CHAPTER VIII.

THE RABBITT'S FOOT.

Major Woolford wanted Matt in that bicycle-race. He hadn't any idea why the boy hung back at the try-out, or why he was thinking of leaving town, but in showing him the prize that went to the victor he had played a trump card.

Matt's bosom swelled as he eyed the beautiful machine, and his mind circled about ways and means for staying in Phœnix until the Phœnix-Prescott athletic meet. What Matt had received for his bicycle, together with what little money he already possessed, was barely sufficient to land him in Denver. If he stayed on in Phœnix, and used up some of this money for living-expenses, he might have a motor-cycle when he was ready to leave the place, but how was he to get to Denver?

Even as he put the question to himself, quick as a flash the answer came: "Ride the Comet to Denver, to Chicago, to New York—wherever you want to go!" The idea electrified the boy.

"I'll be in that race, major," he cried, turning to the president of the athletic club, "and I'll win the prize!"

"Sure you will!" exclaimed the delighted major. "I reckoned you'd stay as soon as you saw what the prize was to be. A lad who likes motors as well as you do wouldn't let a machine like that get away from him."

"Who races for Prescott?" asked Matt.

"A local celebrity called Newton O'Day. Perry beat O'Day in the bicycle-race last year, and although I hear O'Day has developed a phenomenal burst of speed since then, I shouldn't wonder if Perry could repeat the trick."

"Then you don't really need me, major?" said Matt.

"You bet we do! Perry is so crooked he can't walk around the block without running into himself. I might trust him as a last resort, but it would certainly have to be that. The two clubs come together two weeks from to-day, and you're down for our side in the bicycle event, King, with Perry for second choice in case anything should happen to keep you away. But you don't want to let anything happen; see?" The major talked with great earnestness and laid a confiding hand on Matt's shoulder. "After what happened at the park this afternoon it might be just as well for you to step high, wide and handsome, and keep eyes in the back of your head. We're counting on you, don't forget that." The major turned to his driver. "Take King's machine back into the garage, Mike," he added. "We're going to turn it over to him in a couple of weeks."

"You bet you are, major," averred Matt, "if racing will win it."

He walked to his boarding-place with a bounding heart, and seemed to be stepping on air. Ever since motor-cycles had been on the market he had dreamed of owning one. Now there was a chance that his dream would come true, and that he was to own a seven-horse-power marvel, fleet as the wind. Small wonder the boy was elated.

The machinery of the Comet was controlled by the grip on the handle-bars, and by various flexible twists of the wrist. Matt's game arm had suffered somewhat through manipulating the grip control, but by the time the Comet was his he knew his arm would be as well as ever.

Matt lodged on First Avenue, in the home of a woman who had lost her husband in a mining explosion, and had been compelled to take boarders for a living. He had a pleasant front room on the second floor, and when he bounded up-stairs and burst into his private quarters he was a little bit surprised to find Chub there. There was an ominous look on Chub's freckled face.

"Somebody died and left you a million?" inquired Chub. "You look as chipper as an Injun squaw with a string of new beads."

"Well," laughed Matt, "I do feel just a little hilarious."

"It must have tickled you a whole lot to pull out of that smash by the skin of your teeth," muttered Chub. "Shucks, Matt, I never saw a fellow that takes things like you do."

"It's twice as easy to laugh at your troubles, Chub, as to throw a fit and pull a long face. All a fellow needs is to get the knack. But I've had something else to help me buck up," and Matt, as he flung himself into a chair, proceeded to tell his chum about the motor-cycle, and about his decision to stay in Phœnix for the athletic-club contests.

Chub's face brightened. Ever since he had learned that Matt was going to leave town he had been more or less gloomy, and the knowledge that he was to remain for the big meet was mighty cheering.

"Bully!" exclaimed Chub. "You'll win that motor-cycle hands down—provided you're not interfered with."

"I'll not be interfered with, Chub," returned Matt confidently. "For heaven's sake, don't go and make a wet blanket out of yourself. What's on your mind, anyhow? You're as blue as a whetstone."

Chub's face had gloomed up again. With hands jammed into his trousers pockets and with legs outstretched he slouched back in his chair and grunted savagely.

"They can't fool me, nit," he growled. "A pistol went off when you were passing the lower end of the grand stand, and that's what busted the tire. There's only one chap in school who could shoot like that, and he's the only one, aside from Dace Perry, who'd try to do you any dirt. You know who I mean—Tom Clipperton."

"That's mighty slim evidence for a charge against Clipperton, Chub," said Matt gravely. "Don't be rash."

"Rash!" muttered Chub. "You don't want to shut your eyes to what Clip can do, Matt. He's never been more than half-tamed, and has a standing grouch at everybody on account of his blood. I nagged him some this morning, and he was ripe for anything when I whaled away with that rock. And then to have him get the notion that you threw it. Oh, gee!" Chub's discontent was morbid. "Say," he went on, "when Susie and I and Perk were coming from the track we met Clip going home with Perry, Spangler, Tubbits Drake and that bunch. I waltzed over and told Clip that he was off his mark a little about that rock, and that I, little Reddy Mac, was the author of that slam."

"You didn't?" exclaimed Matt.

"Don't you never think I didn't. But what good did it do? They gave me the frozen laugh, the whole gang of 'em, and Perry said it was a raw blazer of a play, and that I couldn't succeed in putting myself between you and trouble. Now, Matt; Perry, Spangler, Drake and the others know I let fly with that stone, and they're letting Clip think the other way so as to make him take you off Perry's hands."

Matt was thoughtful for a minute. "Well, what of it?" he asked presently.

"What of it?" repeated Chub. "Oh, gee-whiskers! Can't you see what it means to have a real Injun in war-paint, like Clip, camped on your trail? Take it from me, Matt, it means trouble for you between now and the day of the race."

"All right," said Matt cheerfully, "I've had trouble before."

"Not the sort Clip, with Perry and that cross-country team back of him, will hand out to you. Seems like I'm always making a mess of things," Chub snorted. "That's the way Johnny Hardluck spars up to me. I get in a few whole-arm jabs and then, just as everything looks rosy, there's an error, and fate gets past my guard. This day's a sample. I begin with powder and sulfuric acid, hit Clip below the belt with a reference to his Injun blood, and then land on him with a corker of a rock intended for Perry. It wouldn't be so bad, Matt, if you didn't come in for the consequences."

"Never mind me," laughed Matt. "I'm big for my size and old for my age, and I've always been able to take precious good care of number one. I'm sorry for Clip. His mixed blood worries him, and Perry knows how to keep him all worked up. But nobody knows just what happened at the try-out, so don't do any wild guessing, Chub, and, above all, keep your guesses to yourself."

"I know what happened at the try-out," asserted Chub, "and there's no guess about it, either. Clip is superstitious. Remember that rabbit's foot, mounted on a silver band, he always carries as a luck-bringer?"

Everybody in the school knew about Clip's rabbit's foot. He had carried it the year before when he had beaten Vance Latham, the Prescott champion, in the mile race.

"What about that?" asked Matt, wondering what the luck-bringer had to do with the affair at the track.

"You know how the grand stand is built, out at the park," pursued Chub. "Any one can get under it and look out onto the track between the board seats. If any one wanted to, he could climb the timbers, rest the barrel of a revolver on a board and make a good shot at any one on the track. That notion struck me before I left the park this afternoon, and I stole away to do a little investigating. I'm beginning to think Sherlock Holmes is a back number compared to me. Look here what little Reddy Hawkshaw found under the stand and close to the lower end!"

Chub jerked his right hand out of his pocket and flung an object at Matt. The latter caught it deftly. It was a silver-mounted rabbit's foot, attached to a piece of fine steel chain.

Matt drew in a quick breath and turned his startled eyes on Chub.

"Now what have you got to say?" inquired Chub. "I'm the original, blown-in-the-bottle trouble-maker, but you can bet I haven't gone wrong on this!"

CHAPTER IX.

MATT SHOWS HIS COLORS.

Looking down on Matt and Chub from one of the walls were four lines carefully printed on a big white card. It was Matt's work, the printing; and the four lines had been in his room at Uncle Jonas King's in the old house in the Berkshires.

From Chub's triumphant face, Matt's eyes wandered to the lines on the card and dwelt there for a time.

"I guess you can't get around that rabbit's foot, Matt," said Chub, "and I guess Major Woolford can't, either. Clip has been settled on for the mile race with Prescott this year same as he was last, but you take it from me the major won't have anything to do with him when I show him that rabbit's foot and tell him where I found it. And maybe," finished Chub, "he'll scratch Dace Perry's entry, too, for it's a dead open-and-shut they were both in this. Perry, though, didn't figure on having your wheel jump across in front of his and cause a smash-up."

Matt, with that rabbit's-foot charm as an eye-opener, saw through the whole dastardly proceeding. Crafty Dace Perry was egging Clipperton on, thus "playing even" with Matt at little cost to himself.

"What did Perry hope to gain by having Clip shoot a bullet into my tire?" queried Matt musingly.

"If you'd taken a header from the bicycle, and broken a leg or an arm, that would have put you out of the running. Perry would have been cock of the walk in the bike event, and Clip could have soothed himself with the reflection that he'd squared up for that rocky deal he thought you gave him this morning. But we can fix 'em! Let's go and have a talk with the major, Matt."

In his eagerness Chub reached for his hat.

"I guess we won't," said Matt.

"Shucks!" gasped Chub; "you're not going to show up that pair and make 'em take their medicine?"

"I'm not going to give Tom Clipperton a black eye when Perry is the one most to blame, and when the whole thing is the result of a misunderstanding. We can't say anything about Perry without bringing Clip into it. And I'm not sure," Matt added, "that it's advisable to air the thing, anyway. All Prescott would be tickled to hear of the bickering, and every person in Phœnix who loves clean sport would be disgusted. I'll take care of the rabbit's foot, and we'll let the whole matter rest and not tell any one anything about it. You've kept quiet so far, haven't you, Chub?"

"Yes, mum as a church mouse; why, I didn't even tell Susie or Perk. I had a mind to bat it up to Clip, Perry and the rest when I tackled 'em on the way from the track, but thought I hadn't better. The whole gang might have jumped me and taken the rabbit's foot away. But, look here. You don't mean this, do you?"

"You bet I do mean it, Chub. If you're a chum of mine you'll do as I tell you."

Chub heaved a sigh like a boiler-explosion. "Another spoke in little Chub's wheel," he muttered. "There's never any telling which way you're going to jump, Matt, or how. You know what Perry is. Professor Todd don't know he's mixing with Dirk Hawley, the gambler, and fellows of that sort; but he is, and he's going wrong."

Matt recalled what the major had said concerning Perry, and about the little confidence he had in him. Was this because Perry associated with blacklegs, and particularly with Dirk Hawley?

"What Perry is doing doesn't make any difference with what we're to do, Chub," said Matt. "Clip is only a tool of Perry's, and some day he's going to find out how he's being made a catspaw. When that time comes, Perry will have a little trouble on his own hands."

"All right, Matt," said Chub, getting up, "have it your own way. It's pretty near supper-time, and I've got to hike. Will you be over this evening? Maybe I'll get into communication with Delray, up at the Bluebell."

"If I get time I may run over," answered Matt, "but don't look for me."

Just as Chub was about to lay his hand on the door-knob a knock fell on the panel. He opened the door and found Mrs. Spooner, the landlady, outside. There was an odd look on Mrs. Spooner's face.

"There's a man down-stairs as wants to see Matt," said she. "He come in one of them gasoline wagons, an' Matt may be as surprised to hear as I am to tell him that it's—Hawley, the gambler!"

Mrs. Spooner's voice sank to a frightened whisper.

"Dirk Hawley!" muttered Chub, staring at Matt. "Sugar, what in tunket can the blackleg want with you?"

Matt was as much surprised as were Mrs. Spooner and Chub. He did not even know the man, although he had seen him many times, and had heard a good deal about him that was not to his credit.

"I'm puzzled to know why he's coming to see me," muttered Matt, taking a look at the motor-car through the window. "Have him walk up, Mrs. Spooner, and I'll find out what he wants."

Chub hesitated a moment as though he would like to stay for the interview, but finally he left, passing Hawley on the stairs.

Dirk Hawley owned one of the largest gambling-dens in Phœnix, and was reputed to be worth a mint of money. He wore fierce diamonds, had a racing-stable and cut a wide swath among the gambling fraternity. He stepped blandly into Matt's room, and took his sizing for a moment with keen, shifty eyes.

"You don't know me, I reckon," said he loudly, "but it's dollars to doughnuts I ain't a stranger to you for all that. Ask anybody and they'll tell you Dirk Hawley's a good sport to tie to. Rise to that? Dirk Hawley never goes back on his friends. I've come here to get acquainted with you, King, and to make a friend of you." He put out his hand. "Shake," he added.

"I don't care to shake," answered Matt. "We're not traveling the same way, Mr. Hawley, and I don't know what good it would do for us to get acquainted."

Hawley drew down the lid of his right eye and chuckled.

"No? Well, there's nothing flatterin' about that, but I like your frankness, hang me if I don't. Now, I'm going to drop down in one of these nice easy chairs and tell you just how much more I can do for you in a day than Woolford could in a month."

Picking out the biggest chair, he sank into it; then, extracting a gold-mounted cigar-case from his pocket, he extended it toward Matt. Matt shook his head. Hawley chuckled again, extracted a fat cigar and slowly lighted it.

"I'm no hand for beating about the bush, King," he proceeded, studying the lad as he talked; "when I know what I want, I go right ahead and make my play, straight from the shoulder. Ain't that right? Sure. Now, I reckon you know I ain't one of these goody-goody sports. Woolford plays the racing-game for the game itself, but I play it for that—and for somethin' else. If it was only the game that made a hit with me, I wouldn't be ridin' around in a ten-thousand-dollar motor-car, or makin' a pleasure out o' business, same as I do. Understand? Who was it started Paddy Lee, the fastest hundred-an'-twenty-yard man that ever come down the cinder-path? Why, me. I discovered Paddy, and he's over in England now, taking money away from the Britishers hand over fist. Candy, just candy. Now, say, mebby you ain't next, but I've been watchin' you ever since you hit Phœnix. That's right. I've got an eye for a likely youngster, and if you want a friend to push you, for a part of the stakes you can pull down, why not try me out? This is the first time I ever went at a man like this—mostly, they come to me, an' are tickled to death if I take any notice of 'em. But here I am, flat-footed, askin' you to let me take your athletic future in my hands and make you a world-beater. What do you say?"

Matt was not expecting anything like this. For a moment it took his breath. Misinterpreting the boy's silence, Hawley fairly radiated genial confidence.

"Catchin' on, first clatter out of the box!" he murmured admiringly. "Always knew you had a head on you. And what good's a runner or a bicycle-racer without a head? Tush! From the minute a chap is on his mark till he comes in a winner, he has to use his brains as well as his heels. Now, King, if you and I hook up, it's a professional I'm going to make you; see? You'll go in for big things and shake the biggest plum-tree. My idees o' what's right and proper, though, have got to govern. You're a young hand, while I cut my teeth on a hand-book at the Sheepshead races. I become your manager, right from the snap of the pistol, and I begin by keepin' you out of small-fry contests. You can't race in the Phœnix-Prescott meet. I'll just send you to a friend o' mine up in Denver to put you in trainin' for a big bicycle-race at the Coliseum in Chicago; an' jest to ease up your feelin's for scratchin' your entry in the Phœnix-Prescott side-show, I tucks five hundred of the long green in your little hand and sends you north to-morrow. What say?"

Matt was "stumped." The longer Hawley talked the more astounded Matt became. Just what Hawley wanted to do with him the boy did not know, but he gleaned enough to understand that he'd have to turn his back on a whole bunch of cherished "principles" if he fell in with the gambler's desires.

"I guess you've got into the wrong pew, Mr. Hawley," remarked Matt. "I haven't any desire to help you shake plum-trees, and if I ever went into racing for a business you're the last man I'd pick out to see me through."

"Ain't my money as good as anybody else's?" flared Hawley, losing some of his amiability.

"I'm not talking about money. What I want to say is that you and I can't hitch up worth a cent."

"That's how you stack up, is it?" returned Hawley. "Well, look here"—he drew a roll of bills out of his pocket—"there's five hundred in that roll and it's all yours if you go to Denver to-morrow and stay there for a month."

Matt had a thought just then that touched him like a live wire.

"You're trying to keep me out of that Phœnix-Prescott contest, Mr. Hawley," said he, with a square look into the gambler's eyes. "What sort of an ax have you got to grind, anyhow?"

Dirk Hawley got up, shoved the roll of bills into his pocket, and moved to the door.

"You're too wise for your own good, my bantam," he sneered. "Perry pretty near hits it off in what he tells me about you. If you think you're going to ride in that bicycle-race you've got another guess coming. Just paste that in your little hat and keep your eye on it."

Then, with an angry splutter, Dirk Hawley let himself out of the room and slammed the door. A few moments later Matt heard his big motor-car puffing away from the curb.

CHAPTER X.

A CHALLENGE.

For several days Matt pondered over that queer talk he had had with Dirk Hawley. All he could make out of it only left him more mystified than ever. It seemed certain that Hawley had mentioned putting Matt into training for big racing-events merely as a ruse to get him to Denver. The gambler wanted to keep him out of the Phœnix-Prescott race, and was willing to spend $500 in order to do so. But what was his reason?

Even though Dirk Hawley had plenty of money he would not let go of $500 unless he expected to get value-received for it. There was a possibility that, as a friend of Dace Perry's, Hawley wanted to get Matt out of the race in order to give Perry a show. However, Perry would hardly spend $500 in order to win a $250 motor-cycle; and certainly the gambler would not put up the money for him. It all looked very dark and very mysterious to Matt.

The gambler's threat did not bother him in the least; and he was so self-reliant that he did not take the matter of Hawley's visit to the major. Had he, at that time, the remotest inkling of what Hawley's real purpose was, he would have acted differently and told the major everything. But when this knowledge came to Matt, events happened which made it impossible for him to go to Major Woolford and lay bare the gambler's scheme.

Although Perry had beaten O'Day, the Prescott rider, in the bicycle-race the year before, and Matt knew very well he could beat Perry, yet Matt was taking no chances. O'Day was working hard and, it was said, had developed phenomenal speed. In order to make assurance doubly sure, Matt went into active training at once. The major furnished him a good racing-wheel, and morning and evening he was out with it.

A youngster named Penny, who was in his first year at the high school, had a one-cylinder motor-cycle, and Matt got him to act as pace-maker. Every afternoon Penny and Matt were at the track. For his morning spin, Matt went out alone.

Perry, also, was taking hold of the practise-work in vigorous style. He was out as much as Matt was, and often Matt saw Hawley's motor-car setting the pace for him.

Perry did some remarkable stunts in the wake of that six-cylinder machine. Results were more spectacular than valuable, however. With the body of a big touring-car to split the air and act as a wind-break, it would have been strange if Perry had not made a good showing.

For his training Matt dug out of his trunk the leather cap, coat and leggings for which he had had no use since leaving the motor-factory in Albany. This cumbersome clothing hampered him somewhat, but he knew that if he could do well in that he would be able to work much better when stripped for the contest with O'Day.

"Perry has taken to practise just as though he was to be the big high boy in that bicycle-race," remarked Chub. "He was only second choice, and what's he working so hard for when he knows you're going to hold down the Phœnix end against O'Day?"

"Probably he wants to be fit for the race of his life in case anything happens to me," said Matt.

"Well, you take care that nothing happens to you, Matt," cautioned Chub.

During all this time Matt saw very little of Clipperton. Whenever they met, which they were bound to do occasionally, Clipperton threw back his shoulders and scowled blackly. Ratty Spangler, Tubbits Drake and a few more of Perry's friends not only kept their hostile attitude toward Matt, but influenced some of the other students to come over to their side. But Matt was not lacking for friends. Splinters formed himself into a committee of one and passed around a true version of the affair by the canal. Splinters, of course, knew nothing about the matter of the rock, but he knew enough to turn the best boys in the school against Perry.

The Prescott Athletic Club, with several hundred Prescott rooters, was to come to Phœnix by special train on Saturday forenoon. On the afternoon of Friday, the day preceding the "big meet"—as all loyal Phœnix and Prescott people called the athletic event—Matt got back from the track to find a letter waiting for him on the table in his room.

Mrs. Spooner explained that she had found the missive pushed under the front door, and hadn't the least idea who had left it. Matt stared when he opened the letter and began to read. It was from Tom Clipperton, and was very much to the point.

"Matt King: You think you're a better man than I am. I'll give you another guess. We can settle our differences in one way. Man to man. Come alone to the place where you threw me into the canal. Make it 9 o'clock to-night. Either I'll give you the worst thrashing you ever had, or you'll give one to

"Tom Clipperton.

"P.S.—There's a moon."

"It's a challenge," muttered Matt grimly. "I don't want to fight the fellow—it will only make a bad matter worse. I'll have to, though, unless I can talk with him and tell him a few things he'll believe. Clip is not half bad at heart, and if he'd only get rid of some of his foolish notions, and stay away from Perry, he'd make a mighty good chum."

Crumpling up the note, Matt threw it into a waste-basket.

"I'll have to give him a licking, though, if he won't have it any other way," he added under his breath.

The McReady home was only a little way from the place of meeting selected by Clipperton. It was about half-past seven when Matt left Mrs. Spooner's, intending to call on Chub, and leaving in time to meet Clipperton on the bank of the canal at nine.

Chub and Susie were at home, but Welcome Perkins was in town, taking his part in the general excitement preceding what was to be a red-letter day in the annals of Phœnix. Chub was in front of his wireless apparatus, for the accommodation of which a corner of the kitchen had been set apart. Flashes were coming brightly in the spark-gap between the two brass balls of the home-made apparatus.

Chub had begun his experiments in message-sending with an ordinary telegraph-instrument, which he had manufactured himself. One end of the wire had been in the laboratory and the other in the kitchen. After Susie had learned the code, and was able to operate the key, Chub used to take fifteen minutes wiring his sister for something which he could have gone after in almost as many seconds.

Following the telegraph-instrument came experiments in wireless work, in conjunction with an old telegraph-operator who was watchman at the Bluebell Mine, twenty miles away. Many weeks passed before Chub finally got his materials together, and assembled the instruments and erected the necessary wires at home and at the Bluebell. Delray, the operator-watchman at the Bluebell, helped Chub as much as he could at that end of the line, and Matt was constantly called upon for advice as failure succeeded failure. Now, for the first time since he had begun operations, Chub was in extended communication with Delray, and his delight as he worked the key and the sparks flew between the terminals, was scarcely to be measured.

"Bully!" cried Chub, as he sat back in his chair, "this is the first time the Arizona ether has ever been stirred up like Del and I are doing it now. I asked him if he wasn't coming to the fun to-morrow afternoon. Let's see if he got it."

Chub had hardly finished speaking before the sounder began to click. Chub bent forward with an eager, satisfied look on his face, and Susie stood with bowed head reading the message as it came through.

"He can't come," said Chub; "says he'd give a good deal to see Matt beat O'Day, but that there's no one to relieve him, and he'll have to stay at the Bluebell. He's the only man up there now, you know, Matt. To-morrow night, about this time, I guess you'll be shooting along on the Comet, eh?"

"I'm going to win that race, Chub," answered Matt, with quiet confidence.

"Wish I was as sure of inventing a flying-machine as I am that you're going to beat out O'Day."

"Is that what you're going to do next—invent a flying-machine?" laughed Matt.

"Either that or build an automobile."

"Build an automobile," suggested Susie; "you won't have so far to fall if anything gives out."

Just then Chub thought of something he wanted to say to the Bluebell and jumped for the key. Matt talked with Susie for a little while, but kept quiet about his expected meeting with Clipperton. When he left, he proceeded the length of the front walk and passed through the gate, in order to give Susie, who was watching him, the impression that he was going back to town. He could turn back along the canal just below the bridge, and so come to the place where Clipperton would be waiting for him. On his way to the canal he most unexpectedly ran into Welcome Perkins, who was burning the air in the direction of home.

"Whoop!" cried Welcome fiercely, "it's a wonder ye wouldn't look where ye're goin'—runnin' inter a one-legged ole pirate like a cyclone. Where's yer eyes, anyway? Think I ain't got nothin' else to do but—— Shade o' Gallopin' Dick! Why, if it ain't Matt King—jest the very feller I wanted to see. There's the horriblest thing a-goin' on, pard, ye most ever heard of! I got so heathen mad I come purty nigh fallin' from grace, drorin' ole Lucretia Borgia an' damagin' every one in sight. Nobody knows what a rip-roarin' ole fury I am when I cut loose, or——"

"What's on your mind, Welcome?" said Matt, trying to pin the old man down to more facts and less language.

"That's what I'm a-tellin' ye," fluttered Welcome. "Rushed around to Mrs. Spooner's—fine ole lady, Mrs. Spooner, but she's scart of me. Soon's she saw who it was a-rappin' on the door she screams frightful, an' wouldn't talk with me till I'd got off the porch." Welcome sniffed plaintively. "That's what a blood-curdlin' past'll do fer a man. Don't you never turn into a hootin', tootin' road-agent, Matt, or——"

"I'll turn into something worse than that," broke in Matt, "if you don't tell me what you're trying to. Now, then, make another start."

"Mrs. Spooner she says you ain't there, an' I reckons ye've gone to see Chub," went on Welcome, "so off I comes this way. Whisper," he sputtered in Matt's ear, excitedly, and drew him close to the fence at the roadside. "This is so tur'ble it won't bear tellin' above yer breath."

CHAPTER XI.

FOUL PLAY.

"I don't b'leeve in gamblin'," whispered Welcome, "an' bettin' is next door to knockin' a human down an' goin' through his pockets; but that's what Dirk Hawley is doin'—bettin' right an' left two to one, three to one, any odds he can git, that"—and here Welcome grabbed Matt's arm in a convulsive grip and brought his face close to Matt's—"O'Day'll win that race to-morrer! Ain't that scandalous? An' him a Phœnix man!"

"Of course Hawley will bet," said Matt, "that's his business. I don't believe in it, and I know Major Woolworth don't, but you can't keep it from figuring in athletic contests like those to-morrow. The major plays the game for the game itself, while Hawley plays it for what he can get out of it."

"That ain't all," breathed Welcome. "If Hawley was bound to bet I thought he ort to be bettin' on the best man—which is you. My, my, but I got in a twitter over the way Hawley was actin', an' I a'most hate to tell ye how I cut loose, Matt."

"Tell it, Welcome," urged Matt; "I'll try not to be shocked."

"Well," and the old man gulped on the words as though they came hard, "I met that Spangler boy on the dark street alongside Hawley's place an'—an'—well, I was so chuck full o' that ole pirate feelin' I jest pulled Lucretia Borgia, pushed 'er in his face, an' axed him real cross what Hawley was doin', an' why. The Spangler boy gits the shakes right off, an' his teeth chatters as he unloads the news. Perry is bettin' on O'Day himself, an' Hawley has fixed it so's you won't race, Matt, an' Perry's agreed to throw the race. That's what the Spangler boy told me, an' he got down on his knees an' begged me not to let Hawley or Perry know where I got the infermation. What d'ye think o' that?"

Matt was startled. He might easily have inferred that Welcome was making a mountain out of a mole-hill, as he was too apt to do, but for the fact that there was evidence to support Welcome's story.

Hawley had tried to get Matt out of town so he would not take part in the race. This, of course, was to throw the Phœnix chances of winning into Perry's hands, and thus make sure that O'Day would win. Perry's training had been only a "bluff" in order to make Phœnix people believe that he was preparing to do his best in case he had the opportunity to race with O'Day.

The whole contemptible plot drifted through Matt's brain. The one thing that puzzled him was how Hawley had planned to keep him out of the race. Here it was almost the eleventh hour and Hawley had not yet made any move to keep Matt off the track—excepting, of course, that offer of a $500 bribe.

"Somethin' has got to be did!" declared Welcome in an explosive whisper. "It's up to you, pard."

"Look here, Welcome," said Matt earnestly, "you leave this whole thing to me, and don't breathe a whisper of what you have found out to any one, not even to Chub. I'll do everything that's necessary."

"But, say——"

"Not a word. Go on into the house, calm your turbulent spirit and let me handle the difficulty. I'm going to some place now, and can't stop here any longer. Mum it is, mind!" and Matt hurried on to the canal.

Just below the bridge he waited until he heard the pat, pat of Welcome's wooden pin on the McReady front walk, then he turned to the left, vaulted over a fence and started along the canal through the cottonwood-trees.

Suddenly he paused, an idea plunging lightninglike through his brain. Was that letter of Tom Clipperton's merely a lure? Had Clipperton written it for the purpose of getting him into the hands of a gang of roughs who would so handle him that he would be a candidate for the hospital rather than the track on the following day?

Standing there on the canal-bank, with the moonlight sifting through the cottonwood branches in silver patches, Matt King did some hard thinking.

He had always entertained a certain amount of respect for Tom Clipperton. He believed that Clipperton was square, and that there were some things he would not do even while under the influence of Dace Perry—and this in spite of what had happened at the try-out.

Matt would have welcomed the chance to make Clipperton his friend, for he believed there was more real manhood in the quarter-blood than in Perry and all the rest of his followers put together. The question with Matt now was, should he carry his trust in Clipperton to the limit, and go on to the appointed place where he expected to find him alone?

Matt King was absolutely fearless. Whenever he believed in a thing he always had the courage of his convictions. It was so now. Having reached a decision, he continued on through the moonlight. As he stepped into the small open space where the clash had occurred two weeks before, a form untangled itself from the shadow of the trees and came toward him. It was Clipperton.

"You've come," said Clipperton, in a voice of satisfaction. "I didn't know whether you would or not. Thought you mightn't have the nerve. Throw off your coat."

"Don't be in a rush, Clipperton," answered Matt. "I'm going to give you all the satisfaction you want before we leave here, but I'd like to talk a little before we get busy."

"What's the good of talk? Either you're going to get a good licking or I am. Let's see which."

"We'll see which in about two minutes. When we faced each other in this place nearly two weeks ago, you came here with Perry. I told all of you why Perry came——"

"Perry told us, too. I'm taking Perry's word, not yours."

"Of course," said Matt dryly. "Perry stands pretty high with you now, but there's going to be a change. You must know, Clipperton, that I have faith in you or I wouldn't be here to-night. It would be easy for you to have a gang in ambush and beat me up so I wouldn't be able to leave my bed for a week——"

A snarl rushed from Clipperton's lips. "If you think I'm enough of an Indian to do that——"

"I don't."

"Didn't I trust you, too? You could have brought McReady along. Are you going to strip?" There was angry impatience in Clipperton's voice.

"There was a mistake about that rock," Matt went on coolly. "It wasn't thrown at you, but at Perry."

"Perry says different. That you threw it at me."

"Perry is careless with the truth. Before we begin, let me give you your rabbit's foot. If you ever needed it, you're going to need it now."

Matt held out his hand. Clipperton said something and recoiled a step; then, slowly, he advanced and took the luck-bringer from Matt's fingers.

"Where'd you get this?" asked Clipperton.

"It was found under the grand stand where you dropped it when you fired at my wheel."

Clipperton was silent, standing rigid and erect in the moonlight. There was a queer gleam in his eyes as he fixed them on Matt.

"How many have you told that to?" he demanded.

"Not one. If I had, you wouldn't be in that mile run to-morrow."

As Matt finished speaking Clipperton leaped forward abruptly. "Look out!" he called.

Thinking Clipperton was going to attack him, Matt squared away and put up his hands. At that moment he was seized from behind and hurled to the ground.

"Stand off!" he heard Clipperton yell furiously. "He's here to fight me! What does this——"

"Shut up, you fool!" threatened a voice, and was followed by a rush of feet in Clipperton's direction.

Matt was struggling with all his might, but there were four boys crushing him down and strangling him to prevent outcry. Who the boys were he could not see, as there were handkerchief masks over their faces.

"Quick!" muttered a voice. "Where's that rope?"

Matt was turned roughly on his face, several hands fumbling at his wrists and ankles and at least one pressing a cloth, soaked with some drug, to his nostrils.

Presently, as in a dream, he felt himself lifted and borne hurriedly away. His senses were rapidly leaving him, and he had no idea as to what direction he was being taken. There was a mumble of voices in his ears and sounds of stumbling feet. Presently he was lifted and crumpled into a cushioned seat. A chug chug of a starting engine came faintly to his ears, and he felt a swift forward movement of the seat on which he was lying. The cloth was still covering his face and stifling him. Then, a moment more, everything became a blank.