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 Engagement;

OR,

ON THE ROAD WITH A SHOW.

By the author of "MOTOR MATT."

CHARACTERS THAT APPEAR IN THIS STORY.

Motor Matt King. 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. Ping, a Chinese boy who insists on working for Motor Matt, and who contrives to make himself valuable, perhaps invaluable. Carl Pretzel, an old chum who flags Motor Matt and more trouble than he can manage, at about the same time. In the rôle of detective, he makes many blunders, wise and otherwise, finding success only to wonder how he did it. Ben Ali, an elephant driver; a Hindoo gifted in the arts for which his country is famous and infamous. The uncle of Margaret Manners, he revenges himself upon his brother, the rajah, in a way that proves his own undoing. Aurung Zeeb, another elephant driver, and a friend of Ben Ali, assisting in his scoundrelly work. Haidee, whose real name is Margaret Manners, a girl from India, who becomes the hypnotic subject of Ben Ali, and is saved from him by Motor Matt and Carl. Boss Burton, manager and proprietor of the Big Consolidated

Shows. A man who tries to be "square," in his own remarkable way.

CHAPTER I.

"ON THE BANKS OF THE WABASH."

Strange, how a few harmless ingredients, thrown together and mixed, will set the trouble pot a-boiling.

Saltpeter is an innocent and useful product, and so is charcoal and sulphur; but seventy-five per cent. of the first, fifteen per cent. of the second, and ten per cent. of the third, when properly mixed, will make gunpowder—an explosive that has slain millions, made kingdoms over into republics, and changed the map of the world again and again.

So, on this beautiful morning, with the banks of the Wabash River for a setting, fate was juggling with a few trifling elements for the purpose of combining them and manufacturing trouble.

The Big Consolidated Shows were pitching their tents near that part of the river, and two of the ingredients that helped form the dangerous mixture were connected with the "tented aggregation."

One was the big elephant, Rajah, who had a tremendous thirst and was wabbling along toward the river for a drink; the other was a Chinese boy, dipping a couple of pails of water from the stream for the steam calliope. The third element—the one having no connection with the show—was a German youth with a weakness for bursting into song.

The elephant, dryer than the desert of Sahara, was making big and rapid tracks for the brightly gleaming water, the Chinaman was leisurely filling his pails, and the German was strolling along the bank, dusty from a long tramp and with a stick over his shoulder from which swung a bundle bound up in a knotted handkerchief.

If the German had known how to sing he would not have attracted the attention of the Chinaman; and if the Chinaman had not looked and grunted his disgust, the German would not have become hostile; and if Rajah, the elephant, had not possessed such a playful disposition, the German and the Chinaman would probably have separated with no more than a few mongrel words of[Pg 2] personal opinion. But fate was working overtime that day, and had an eye for weird combinations.

This was the German's song, and it sounded as though it had been played on a fish horn. The Chinaman could be seen to shiver as he deposited a pailful of water on the bank, straightened erect, and looked at the singer. There was that in his slant eyes which brought the German to a halt.

"Don'd you like der song, shink?" demanded the Dutchman, pushing out his chin in an irritating way.

"Woosh!" snorted the Chinaman, "you makee sing all same like poodle dog makee howl."

"Py shiminy," cried the Dutchman, "I fight pedder as I sing. I don'd let no monkey mit a pigdail make some foolishness mit me."

"Dutchy boy clazy," declared the Celestial.

"I nefer liked der shinks anyways," went on the other, dropping his stick and his bundle. "Dey vas sheap skates, you bet you, und vas alvays taking avay goot shobs from American fellers. I vill tie you oop in some bowknots mit your pigdail und trop you py der rifer. Yah, so."

"Dutchy boy makee spell 'able,'" and the Chinaman, with supreme contempt, picked up his empty pail.

"You peen afraidt mit yourseluf!" shouted the Dutchman.

"My plenty busy; makee cally water fo' calliope. No gottee time to fight. Come 'lound after palade, China boy makee Dutchy boy suppa' fo' lion."

"Dot's me," breathed the Dutchman, picking up his stick and bundle. "I'll be aroundt after dot barade, you bed my life, und I don'd make some subber for der lion, neider."

He started on slowly.

Unnoticed by either of the boys, the mahout on Rajah's neck had kept the elephant close to the river bank. The mahout was dozing, and Rajah was filling the piece of hose, more generally known as his trunk, with Wabash water and squirting it into his open mouth.

Now, Rajah was an eccentric elephant. There were times when he was full of mischief and playful, and other times when the wild jungle blood got the upper hand of him and he became dangerous.

On two or three occasions, when Old Ben, the African lion, had tried to mix things with the royal Bengal tiger, Rajah had been called in to separate the fighters with a well-directed stream, hurled with catapult force from his trunk.

Rajah's cunning little eyes had been taking in the quarrel between the Dutchman and the Chinaman. Something prompted him to elevate his trunk and throw a stream after the retreating Dutch boy.

The lad was knocked off his feet, his stick going one way and his bundle the other. He jumped to his feet, spluttering, and whirled around.

Rajah was innocently squirting a dozen or more gallons of the river into his capacious throat, but the Chinaman, the empty pail still in his hand, was laughing so that he almost fell off the bank.

It was the most natural thing in the world for the Dutch boy, in the excitement of the moment, to lay the whole blame on the Chinese boy's shoulders.

The Dutchman had not seen Rajah use his trunk, and the Chinaman had. It was very laughable, and the Chinaman's cackling mirth was unrestrained.

The Dutchman saw only the empty bucket in the Chinaman's hand, and it seemed certain the deluge of water had come from the bucket.

"I gif you fits for dot, py shiminy!" whooped the Teuton.

"No can do!" declared the Celestial.

The Dutchman came on with a bound, his dripping clothes sprinkling everything in his vicinity.

The Chinaman threw the bucket. The other dodged. The bucket sailed on through the air and struck Delhi, Rajah's mate, a sharp rap on her big, fanning ear. Delhi trumpeted loudly and started furiously after the boys.

Both the Chinaman and the Dutchman, their faculties completely wrapped up in their quarrel, gave no attention to the elephants. Coming together like a thousand of brick, they clinched and wrestled back and forth on the bank.

Delhi, wild with anger, gave no heed to the fierce prodding of her mahout, but rushed onward, her trunk stretched eagerly ahead of her and twitching and curving in its desire to lay hold of the struggling youngsters.

For a second the prospect was very dark for the Teuton and the Celestial. What would have happened to them is problematical if Delhi had had her way. But the big brute was not allowed to work her will. Rajah interfered; not out of any desire to be of help to the boys, but rather to assist his mate in securing vengeance.

Quickly Rajah aimed his trunk and hurled a stream of water. The jet struck the two boys, lifted them from their feet, and hurled them into the river. The lads were tossed from the bank in just the nick of time. Hardly were they clear of the spot where they had been wrestling when Delhi's disappointed trunk swept over it.

Rajah's mahout, of course, had aroused himself, and he and the other man got busy bringing the elephants into subjection.

The Dutchman and the Chinaman had fallen into deep water. It was necessary to disentangle themselves from each other in order to swim and keep from being drowned.

As Delhi backed away from the water's edge, under the blows of her mahout's sharp, steel prod, she flung the Dutchman's bundle and stick at the thrashing forms in the water, and followed these with the buckets.

"I can do oop a shink mit vone hand," gurgled the Dutchman, as his dripping head appeared above the surface of the river; "aber ven a goople oof elephants iss rung indo der game, den I don'd—— Wow!"

The handkerchief bundle, hurled with terrific force, struck him on the head and sent him under.

"Dutchy boy no good!" spluttered the Chinaman. "Him velly fine false alarm—— Woosh!"

One of the buckets hit the Celestial in the small of the back and he vanished in a flurry of bubbles. When he and the Dutchman again reappeared, Delhi and Rajah were under control and no further danger threatened.

"What's the matter with you two kids?" cried Delhi's mahout, excited and angry.

"Der shink drew some vater on me," answered the[Pg 3] Dutchman, "und made more monkey-doodle pitzness dan I vould shtand for."

"Him no savvy," declared the Chinese. "El'fant makee thlow water."

Rajah's mahout was a Hindoo. In a queer jargon of broken English, he described the way Rajah had hosed down the Dutchman as the latter was walking off.

The other mahout lost his wrath in a flood of merriment.

"It's all a mistake!" he called. "Come out o' the wet and stop your foolishness. If ye try to do any more fightin', I'll set Delhi onto you ag'in."

The Dutchman labored ashore with his stick and his bundle, and the Chinaman followed with his buckets.

"What do you s'pose Motor Matt would think of this, Ping?" went on the mahout. "If he——"

But what the mahout was intending to say was lost in a roar of amazement and delight from the Dutchman.

"Vat's dot? Modor Matt? Vere he iss, anyvay? Say, I vas his bard, und I peen looking for him efery blace, longer as I can dell. Shpeak, vonce! Vere iss Modor Matt?"

"China boy Motol Matt's pard," spoke up the dripping Ping. "My workee fo' Motol Matt; Dutchy boy no workee."

"Py shiminy, I dell you some more dot I peen Carl Pretzel," shouted the Dutchman, "und dot I vas looking for der show, und ditn't know I vould findt Modor Matt at der same dime. Vere iss he, misder?" and Carl appealed anxiously to the mahout.

"He's travelin' with the show, youngster," answered the mahout, "an' doin' a flyin'-machine stunt twice a day. If ye want to find him, hike for the show grounds."

Without paying any further attention to Ping or the elephants, Carl gathered in his cap—which lay at the water's edge, and was the only thing belonging to him that was not dripping wet—and laid a rapid course for the top of the bank.

Ping, filling the pails, started after Carl, worrying not a little over this new pard of Motor Matt's who had appeared so unexpectedly on the scene.

CHAPTER II.

IN THE CALLIOPE TENT.

"I don't like it, pard, and you can bet your moccasins on that," said Joe McGlory.

"There are a whole lot of things about this business I don't fancy," returned Motor Matt; "but we're under contract, Joe, and Boss Burton says he'll give us an extra fifty a week if we do the trick."

"But the girl! What's her notion about it? Hanging to a trapeze under the aëroplane isn't a stunt to be sneezed at."

"She's anxious to do the trick. She'll get fifty dollars a week for it, and the money looks good to her."

"There's the danger, pard. Her neck's worth more than fifty plunks a week."

"She's a little brick, that Haidee—pure grit. I'll see that she's not placed in much danger."

"You'll have your hands full looking after yourself and the aëroplane. Sufferin' whirligigs! You know how hard it is to manage the Comet when there's a weight suspended beneath."

"I can do it," declared Matt.

"Of course you can do, old socks—you can do anything when you set your mind to it. But, tell me this, what has that old elephant driver, Ben Ali, got to do with Haidee? Ben Ali's a Hindoo, and Haidee is almost as white as an American girl."

"Ben Ali's her uncle, Joe. Haidee's mother was Ben Ali's sister, and Haidee's father was an English officer living in Bombay. The girl told me all this yesterday at the time she begged me to do what Boss Burton wanted and let her trail the Comet aloft on the trapeze."

"Funny combination," muttered Joe.

McGlory was in his overclothes, and had just finished getting the aëroplane ready for the parade. The "animal top"—that is, the menagerie tent—had been hoisted, and the small canvas lean-to that housed the steam calliope had been put in place alongside. The calliope was not in the lean-to, but was out on the grounds, being put in shape for the parade.

Matt and Joe usually came to the calliope tent to make themselves ready for the street procession. They, together with Ping, had been three weeks with the Big Consolidated, Matt making ascensions in the aëroplane twice daily, following the parade and just before the evening performance—wind and weather permitting. So proficient had Matt become in handling the flying machine that nothing short of a stiff gale or a hard rain kept him from carrying out his engagements for a double exhibition each day.

The aëroplane had caught the popular fancy, and had proved the biggest kind of a card for Boss Burton, proprietor of the show. Under its own motive power, the machine formed a star feature of the parade, traveling slowly on the bicycle wheels which were necessary in giving it a start when flights were made.

From tip to tip, the wings of the aëroplane measured more than thirty feet. Of course it could not travel in the parade with such a stretch of surface across the streets, so Matt had arranged the bicycle wheels in such a manner that the Comet moved sideways in the procession, the king of the motor boys, his cowboy pard, and his Chinese comrade occupying positions in the seats on the lower wing.

When Matt and his friends first joined the outfit, Boss Burton had supplied them with bespangled apparel, which, if they had worn it, would, according to McGlory, have made them "a holy show."

Matt and McGlory balked at the glittering costumes, but Ping had hung to his beadwork and gilt trimmings with a fierce determination there was no shaking.

McGlory compromised with Burton by getting into a swell cowboy rig, but for Matt there was no such thing as compromise. This engagement with the show was purely a business proposition, and he refused to make a spectacle out of himself. He looked well, too, in his unostentatious blue cap and clothes, and was given many a cheer as the aëroplane pitched and shivered along in the procession.

Boss Burton was a shrewd manager, and it was said that he lay awake nights while section two of the show train was making its jumps between stands, thinking up new acts that would thrill the patrons of the Big Consolidated. His last idea was to hitch a trapeze to the bottom of the aëroplane, and have Haidee, Ben Ali's[Pg 4] pretty niece, perform on the flying bar while Matt was manœuvring the Comet over the show grounds.

It was this new wrinkle that had drawn objections from McGlory when he and Matt had retired to the calliope tent to make ready for the parade.

About all Matt had to do to get ready was to wash and brush himself. McGlory, on the other hand, had to get into a blue shirt, corduroy trousers, "chaps," tight, high-heeled boots, and a broad-brimmed sombrero.

"What's become of Ping?" asked Matt, stepping to the tent flap and looking off over the busy grounds.

It would be an hour before the parade could start, and the bright sun glowed over a scene of feverish activity. The side-show tents, the stable tents, and cook tent were already up. A small army of men was working on the circus "top," and the rhythmical thump of mauls on tent stakes could be heard on every hand. Horses in two, four, six, and eight-horse teams were moving about; band wagons, cages, and chariots were being dusted and cleaned; the painted banners in front of the side-show were being laced to their guys; the candy "butchers" were getting their places in readiness, and throughout the various occupations of the men ran an orderly disorder, everywhere noticeable.

But Matt could see nothing of Ping, and he turned away to where McGlory, his foot on an overturned bucket, was buckling a big-roweled Mexican spur to his heel.

"Ping is always promptness itself in getting into his tinsel frills and furbelows," remarked Matt, "and I can't understand what's keeping the boy so late this morning."

"He's been put on the steam calliope, pard," laughed McGlory, dropping his foot from the bucket and stamping until the rowel jingled. "Little Squinch-eye seems to have fallen in love with that bunch of steam whistles. He tried to play 'Yankee Doodle' on the pipes, in Indianapolis, and had almost stampeded the elephants before the calliope man could choke him off. Sufferin' jangles, pard, you never heard such a sound."

Before Matt could make any response, a soft voice called from outside:

"Motor Matt! Can I come in a minute?"

"Sure," replied Matt heartily.

A lithe, graceful form, in velvet and spangles, leaped lightly through the opening.

"Haidee!" exclaimed Matt, staring.

The girl bowed laughingly and threw a kiss, just as she was in the habit of doing after her trapeze work in the "big top."

"Yes, friends," she answered; "Haidee, the Flying Marvel, who is to do a turn on Motor Matt's flying machine just before the doors open. I am also to ride on the top wing of the Comet during the parade. Will I do?"

Lifting her arms, she pirouetted around for the observation of the boys, then paused and smiled bewitchingly.

"Do?" cried McGlory. "Why, sis, you'll be the hit of the piece. All I hope"—and McGlory's face went rather long—"is that you and Matt come through your trip in the air without any trouble."

"I'm not afraid!" declared Haidee.

"No more you're not, sis. If you were riding on the lower wing with Matt the whole game would be different; but you're to hang under the machine, and there'll be more pitching and plunging than if you were aboard a bucking bronk. Hang on, that's all, and don't try to hang by your heels."

"I'll get an extra fifty dollars a week!" cried the girl.

It was plain to be seen that she placed great store on that "fifty dollars a week."

"What does your uncle, Ben Ali, think of it, Haidee?" asked Matt.

A barely perceptible frown crossed the girl's face. What was passing in her mind? Whatever her thoughts were, they found no echo in her answer.

"Uncle Ben is glad to have me do it," and Haidee retreated toward the door.

"Have you seen Ping, Haidee?" inquired Matt.

"When I saw him last," was the response, "he was walking toward the river with a couple of buckets. I'll be going, now. I'll see you again when the parade starts. That trapeze act on the aëroplane will make a great hit, don't you think?"

"It ought to," said Matt.

The girl vanished.

"I'll walk over to the steam music box," remarked McGlory, "and see if I can spot our pigtail friend."

"All right," returned Matt, dropping down on an overturned bucket and pulling a pencil and memorandum book from his pocket.

Before he could begin to figure, he heard a voice addressing McGlory at the tent door—and it was a voice that brought him up rigidly erect and staring.

"Say, misder, iss dis der shteam cantalope tent?"

McGlory laughed.

"Well, yes, Dutchy, you've made a bull's-eye first clatter. Here's where they keep the 'cantalope.' What's the matter with you? Look like you'd gone in swimming and forgotten to take off your clothes."

"I tropped in der rifer mit meinseluf, und id vas vetter as I t'ought. Say, vonce, iss Modor Matt aroundt der blace?"

"He's inside, and—— Sufferin' whirlwinds, but you're in a hurry!"