MOTOR STORIES

Issued Weekly. By subscription $2.50 per year. Copyright, 1909, by Street & Smith, 79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York, N. Y.

Motor Matt's Double Trouble

OR,

THE LAST OF THE HOODOO.

By the author of "MOTOR MATT."

CHARACTERS THAT APPEAR IN THIS STORY.

Matt King, otherwise Motor Matt. Joe McGlory, a young cowboy who proves himself a lad of worth and character, and whose eccentricities are all on the humorous side. A good chum to tie to—a point Motor Matt is quick to perceive. Tsan Ti, Mandarin of the Red Button, who continues to fall into tragic difficulties, and to send in "four-eleven" alarms for the assistance of Motor Matt. Sam Wing, San Francisco bazaar-man, originally from Canton, and temporarily in the employ of Tsan Ti. By following his evil thoughts he causes much trouble for the mandarin, and, incidentally, for the motor boys. Philo Grattan, a rogue of splendid abilities, who aims to steal a fortune and ends in being brought to book for the theft of a motor car. Pardo, a pal of Grattan. Neb Hogan, a colored brother whose mule, stolen by Sam Wing, plays a part of considerable importance. Neb himself engineers a surprise at the end of the story, and goes his way so overwhelmed with good luck that he is unable to credit the evidence of his senses. Banks and Gridley, officers of the law who are searching for the

stolen blue motor. Boggs, a farmer who comes to the aid of Motor Matt with energy and courage. Bunce, a sailor with two good eyes who, for some object of his own, wears a green patch and prefers to have the public believe he is one-eyed. A pal of Grattan, who is caught in the same net that entangles the rest of the ruby thieves.

CHAPTER I.

THE RED JEWEL.

Craft and greed showed in the eyes of the hatchet-faced Chinaman. He seemed to have been in deep slumber in the car seat, but the drowsiness was feigned. The train was not five minutes out of the town of Catskill before he had roused himself, wary and wide-awake, and looked across the aisle. His look and manner gave evidence that he was meditating some crime.

It was in the small hours of the morning, and the passenger train was rattling and bumping through the heavy gloom. The lights in the coach had been turned low, and all the passengers, with the exception of the thin-visaged Celestial, were sprawling in their uncomfortable seats, snoring or breathing heavily.

Across the aisle from this criminally inclined native of the Flowery Kingdom was another who likewise hailed from the land of pagodas and mystery; and this other, it could be seen at a glance, was a person of some consequence.

He was fat, and under the average height. Drawn down over his shaven head was a black silk cap, with a gleaming red button sewn in the centre of the flat crown. From under the edge of the cap dropped a queue of silken texture, thick, and so long that it crossed the Chinaman's shoulder and lay in one or two coils across his fat knees.

Yellow is the royal color in China, and it is to be noted that this Celestial's blouse was of yellow, and his wide trousers, and his stockings—all yellow and of the finest Canton silk. His sandals were black and richly embroidered.

From the button and the costume, one at all informed of fashions as followed in the country of Confucius might have guessed that this stout person was a mandarin. And that guess would have been entirely correct.

To go further and reveal facts which will presently become the reader's in the logical unfolding of this chronicle, the mandarin was none other than Tsan Ti, discredited guardian of the Honam joss house, situated on an island suburb of the city of Canton. He of the slant,[Pg 2] lawless gleaming eyes was Sam Wing, the mandarin's trusted and treacherous servant.

A Chinaman, like his Caucasian brother, is not always proof against temptation when the ugly opportunity presents itself at the right time and in the right way. Sam Wing believed he had come face to face with such an opportunity, and he was determined to make the most of it.

Sam Wing was a resident of San Francisco. He owned a fairly prosperous bazaar, and, once every year, turned his profits into Mexican dollars and forwarded the silver to an uncle in Canton for investment in the land of his birth. Some day Sam Wing cherished the dream of returning to Canton and living like a grandee. But wealth came slowly. Now, there in that foreign devil's choo-choo car such a chance offered to secure unheard-of riches that Sam Wing's loyalty to the mandarin, no less than his heathen ideas of integrity, were brushed away with astounding suddenness.

Tsan Ti slept. His round head was wabbling on his short neck—rolling and swaying grotesquely with every lurch of the train. The red button of the mandarin's cap caught the dim rays of the overhead lamps and threw crimson gleams into the eyes of Sam Wing. This flashing button reminded Sam Wing of the red jewel, worth a king's ransom, which the mandarin was personally conveying to San Francisco, en route to China and the city of Canton.

Already Sam Wing was intrusted with the mandarin's money bag—an alligator-skin pouch containing many oblong pieces of green paper marked with figures of large denomination. The money was good, what there was of it, but that was not enough to pay for theft and flight. Sam Wing's long, talon-like fingers itched to lay hold of the red jewel.

With a swift, reassuring look at the passengers in the car, Sam Wing caught at the back of the seat in front and lifted himself erect. He was not a handsome Chinaman, by any means, and he appeared particularly repulsive just at that moment.

Hanging to the seat, he steadied himself as he stepped lightly across the aisle. Another moment and he was at the mandarin's side, looking down on him.

Tsan Ti, in his dreams, was again in Canton. Striding through the great chamber of the Honam joss house, he was superintending the return of the red jewel to the forehead of the twenty-foot idol, whence it had been stolen.

While the mandarin dreamed, Sam Wing bent down over him and, with cautious fingers, unfastened the loop of silk cord that held together the front of the yellow blouse. The rich garment fell open, revealing a small bag hanging from the mandarin's throat by a chain.

Swiftly, silently, and with hardly a twitch of the little bag, two of Sam Wing's slim, long-nailed fingers were inserted, and presently drew forth a resplendent gem, large as a small hen's egg.

A gasping breath escaped Sam Wing's lips. For a fraction of an instant he hesitated. What if his ancestors were regarding him, looking out of the vastness of the life to come with stern disapproval? A Chinaman worships his ancestors, and the shades of the ancient ones of his blood have a great deal to do with the regulating of his life. What were Sam Wing's forefathers thinking of this act of vile treachery?

The thief ground his teeth and, with trembling hands, stowed the red jewel in the breast of his blouse. He started toward the rear door of the car—and hesitated again.

Sam Wing was a Buddhist, as the Chinese understand Buddhism, wrapping it up in their own mystic traditions. This red jewel had originally been stolen from a great idol of Buddha. In short, the jewel had been the idol's eye, and the idol, sightless in the Honam joss house, was believed to be in vengeful mood because of the missing optic. The idol had marshalled all the ten thousand demons of misfortune and had let them loose upon all who had anything to do with the pilfering of the sacred jewel.

Who was Sam Wing that he should defy these ten thousand demons of misfortune? How could he, a miserable bazaar man, fight the demons?

But his skin tingled from the touch of the red jewel against his breast. He would dare all for the vast wealth which might be his in case he could "get away with the goods."

Closing his eyes to honor, to the ten thousand demons, to every article of his heathen faith, he bolted for the rear of the car. Opening the door, he let himself out on the rear platform. A lurch of the car caused the door to slam behind him.

Meanwhile Tsan Ti had continued his delightful dreaming. His subconscious mind was watching the priests as they worked with the red jewel, replacing it in the idol's forehead. The hideous face of the graven image seemed to glow with satisfaction because of the recovery of the eye.

The priest, at the top of the ladder, fumbled suddenly with his hands. The red jewel dropped downward, with a crimson flash, struck the tiles of the floor, and rolled away, and away, until it vanished.

A yell of consternation burst from the mandarin's lips. He leaped forward to secure the red jewel—and came to himself with his head aching from a sharp blow against the seat back in front.

He straightened up, and the alarm died out of his face. After all, it was only a dream!

"Say!" cried a man in the seat ahead, turning an angry look at Tsan Ti. "What you yellin' for? Can't a heathen like you let a Christian sleep? Huh?"

"A million pardons, most estimable sir," answered Tsan Ti humbly. "I had a dream, a bad dream."

"Too much bird's-nest soup an' too many sharks' fins for supper, I guess," scowled the man, rearranging himself for slumber. "Pah!"

Tsan Ti peered across the aisle. The seat occupied by his servant, Sam Wing, was vacant. Sam Wing, the mandarin thought, must have become thirsty and gone for a drink.

The mandarin heaved a choppy sigh of relief. How real a dream sometimes is! Now, if he——

His hand wandered instinctively to the breast of his blouse, and he felt for the little lump contained in the bag suspended from his throat.

He could not feel it. Pulling himself together sharply Tsan Ti used both hands in his groping examination.

Then he caught his breath and sat as though dazed. A slow horror ran through his body. His blood seemed congealing about his heart, and his yellow face grew hueless.

[Pg 3]

The red jewel was gone! The front of his blouse was open!

Then, after his blunted wits had recovered their wonted sharpness, Tsan Ti leaped for the aisle with another yell.

"Say," cried the man in the forward seat, lifting himself wrathfully, "I'll have the brakeman kick you off the train if you don't hush! By jing!"

The mandarin began running up and down the aisle of the car, wringing his fat hands and yelling for Sam Wing. He said other things, too, but it was all in his heathen gibberish and could not be comprehended.

By then every person in the car was awake.

"Crazy chink!" shouted the man who had spoken before. "He's gone dotty! Look out for him!"

At that moment the train lumbered to a halt and the lights of a station shone through the car windows. The brakeman jammed open the door and shouted a name.

"Motor Matt!" wailed Tsan Ti. "Estimable friend, come to my wretched assistance!"

"Here, brakeman!" cried the wrathful passenger who had already aired his views, "take this slant-eyed lunatic by the collar of his kimono and give him a hi'st into the right of way. Chinks ought to be carried in cattle cars, anyhow."

Tsan Ti, however, did not wait to be "hoisted into the right of way."

With a final yell, he flung himself along the aisle and out the rear door, nearly overturning the astounded brakeman. Once on the station platform, he made a bee line for the waiting room and the telegraph office.

There was but one person in all America in whom the mandarin had any confidence, but one person to whom he would appeal. This was the king of the motor boys, who, at that moment, was in the town of Catskill.

CHAPTER II.

ANOTHER END OF THE YARN.

On the same night this Oriental treachery manifested itself aboard the train bound north through the Catskills, a power yacht dropped anchor below the town of Catskill.

There was something suspicious about this motor yacht. She carried no running lights, and her cabin ports were dark as Erebus. She came to a halt silently—almost sullenly—and her anchor dropped with hardly a splash. A tender was heaved over the side, and four men got into it and were rowed ashore by one of their number. When the tender grounded, three of the passengers got out. One of them turned to speak to the man who remained in the boat.

"Leave the tender in the water, when you get back to the Iris, Pierson. If the tender is wanted here, a light will be shown."

"All right, Grattan," answered the man in the boat, shoving off and rowing noiselessly back to the yacht.

"Hide the lantern in that clump of bushes, Bunce," went on Grattan.

"Ay, ay, messmate," answered the person addressed as Bunce.

"Look here, Grattan," grumbled the third member of the party, "Motor Matt has cooked our goose for us, and I'll be hanged if I can see the use of knocking around the town of Catskill."

"There are a lot of things in this world, Pardo," returned Grattan dryly, "that are advisable and that you haven't sense enough to see."

Pardo muttered wrathfully but indistinctly.

"Now," proceeded Grattan, "this is the way of it: We got Motor Matt and his chum, McGlory, aboard the Iris—lured them there on the supposition that Tsan Ti had sent Motor Matt the red jewel to keep safely for him for a time. Motor Matt and McGlory walked into our trap. We got the red jewel and put the two boys ashore some fifteen or twenty miles below here. Half an hour later I put the supposed ruby to some tests and found it was counterfeit——"

"Are you sure the ruby you stole from the Honam joss house was a true gem?"

"Yes. Tsan Ti sent Motor Matt a counterfeit replica for the purpose of getting us off the track. Motor Matt and McGlory will take the first train for Catskill from the place where we put them ashore. We'll lie in wait for them on the path they must take between the railroad station and their hotel. It's a dark night, few passengers will arrive at this hour, and we can recapture the two motor boys and take them back to the Iris."

"What good will that do?" demurred Pardo. "Motor Matt hasn't the real stone—Tsan Ti must have that."

"I'll find out from Motor Matt where Tsan Ti is," said Grattan, between his teeth, "and then I'll flash a message to the mandarin that he must give up the real gem, or Motor Matt will suffer the consequences!"

"You can't mean," gasped Pardo, in a panic, "that you will——"

"It's a bluff, that's all," snapped Grattan. "It will scare the mandarin out of his wits. Have you hid the lantern, Bunce?" he demanded, as the other member of the party came close.

"Ay, Grattan," was the reply. "First bunch of bushes close to where we came ashore."

"All right; come on, then. I've figured out what train Motor Matt and Joe McGlory will catch, and it should soon be at the depot."

With Grattan in the lead, the party scrambled up the slope through the darkness, passed some ice houses, crossed a railroad track, and finally came to a halt in a lonely part of the town, near the walk leading from the railroad station to the business street and the hotels. A billboard afforded them a secure hiding place.

Grattan had figured the time of the train pretty accurately. He and his companions waited no longer than five minutes before the "local" drew to a halt at the station.

"If those boys are not on the train," muttered Pardo, "then we're fooled again. Confound that Motor Matt, anyhow!"

"He has my heartiest admiration," returned Grattan, "but I'm not going to match wits with him and call myself beaten. Hist!" he added abruptly, "here come two people—and maybe they're the ones we're looking for. Mind, both of you, and don't make a move till I give the word."

Breathlessly the three men waited. Footsteps came slowly up the walk and voices could be heard—voices which were recognized as belonging to the motor boys.

"Well, pard," came the voice of McGlory, "New York[Pg 4] for ours in the morning. Tsan Ti, with the big ruby, is on the train, bound for China and heathen happiness, Grattan has the bogus stone and is making himself absent in the Iris, and you and I are rid of the hoodoo at last, and have fifteen hundred to the good. That's what I call——"

By then the two lads had passed the billboard and were so far away that spoken words could not be distinguished. And Grattan had given no word for an attack!

"What's the matter with you, Grattan?" whispered Pardo. "They're too far off for us to bag them now."

"We're not going to bag them." Grattan was a man of quick decisions. "We've changed our plans."

While the other two mumbled their surprise and asked questions, Grattan had taken pencil, notebook, and an electric torch from his pocket. Snapping on the torch, he handed it to Bunce.

"Put a stopper on your jaw tackle and hold that," said he crisply.

Then he wrote the following:

"Conductor, Local Passenger, North Bound: Fat Chinaman, answering to name of Tsan Ti and claiming to be mandarin, on your train. He's a thief and has stolen big ruby called Eye of Buddha. Put him off train in charge of legal officer, first station after you receive this. Answer. James Philo, Detective."

"This is a telegram," said Grattan, and read it aloud for the benefit of his two companions. "You'll take it down to the railroad station, Pardo," he went on, "and have it sent at once to the nearest point that will overtake the train Matt and McGlory just got off of. Bunce and I will wait here, and you stay in the station till you receive an answer."

"But how do you know Tsan Ti is on that train?" asked Pardo.

"Didn't you hear what was said when the motor boys passed us?"

"But nothing was said about the mandarin being on that particular train."

"I'm making a guess. If the conductor replies that no such chink is on the train, then my guess is wrong. If he answers that the chink was there, and that he has put him off, red jewel and all, into the hands of the legal authorities, then James Philo Grattan will play the part of James Philo, detective, and fool these country authorities out of their eye teeth—and, incidentally, out of the Eye of Buddha."

The daring nature of Grattan's hastily formed plan caused Pardo and Bunce to catch their breath. Grattan was a fugitive from the law, and yet here he was making the law assist him in stealing the red jewel for the second time!

"You're a wonder," murmured Pardo, "if you can make that game work."

"Trust me for that, Pardo. Now you hustle for the railroad station and get that message on the wires. Hurry back here as soon as you receive an answer."

Pardo took the paper and made off down the slope. He was gone three-quarters of an hour—a weary, impatient wait for Bunce, but passed calmly by Grattan.

When Pardo returned he came at a run.

"Your scheme's no good, Grattan!" were his first breathless words.

"Why not?" demanded Grattan. "Wasn't Tsan Ti on the train?"

"Yes—and another chink, as well. Fat Chinaman, though, jumped off at Gardenville, first station north of Catskill. Here, read the conductor's message for yourself."

Grattan, still cool and self-possessed, switched the light into his torch and read the following:

"Two Chinamen, one answering description, came through on train from Jersey City. Fat Chinaman jumped off at Gardenville, although had ticket reading Buffalo. Don't know what became of other Chinaman. Two young men boarded train River View, talked with fat Chinaman, got off Catskill. Conductor."

Grattan must have been intensely disappointed, but he did not give rein to his temper. While Bunce spluttered and Pardo swore under his breath, Grattan was wrapped in profound thought.

"We'll have to change our plans again," he observed finally. "We gave over the idea of capturing Motor Matt and McGlory for the purpose of getting Tsan Ti held by the authorities as a thief; now we've got to give that up. Why did Tsan Ti get off the train at Gardenville when he was going to Buffalo? It was an Oriental trick to pull the wool over my eyes. The mandarin is afraid of me. We must proceed at once to Gardenville before Tsan Ti has a chance to get out of the town."

"How are we going to get to Gardenville?" demanded Pardo. "If we take the Iris——?"

"We won't."

"If we walk——"