MOTOR STORIES

Issued Weekly. By subscription $2.50 per year. Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1909, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C., by Street & Smith, 79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York, N. Y.

Motor Matt's Launch

OR,

A FRIEND IN NEED.

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. George Lorry, a lad who has begun steering a wrong course, and in whom Matt recognizes a victim of circumstances rather than a youth who is innately conceited, domineering and unscrupulous. Ping Pong, a young Chinese who wins a motor launch in a raffle and insists on working for Motor Matt. Full of heathen vagaries, he drops mysteriously out of the story—but is destined to be heard from again. "Red-whiskers," otherwise "Big John," an unscrupulous person who takes his dishonest toll wherever he can find it; but, in crossing Motor Matt's course, he meets with rather more than he has bargained for. Kinky and Ross, two pals of Big John. Landers, another pal who proves treacherous.

CHAPTER I.

NEW FRIENDS AND NEW FORTUNES.

"What next?"

Not often does a boy put that question to himself and receive an answer as quickly as Motor Matt received his.

The king of the motor boys was out among the sand dunes on the Presidio Military Reservation. He had started to walk to the old fort at the Golden Gate, but had dropped down on one of the sand heaps, thinking—a little moodily, it must be admitted—over his present situation, and what lay ahead.

It was a fine morning. The sky was pale blue and without a cloud, and the bay was as blue as indigo. The trade wind blew over him, and tempered the heat, and the salt tang in the air reminded him of the long voyage around the Horn which he and his chums had completed no more than a week before.

Alcatraz was so close that it almost seemed to Matt as though he could take a running jump from the shore and clear the intervening stretch of water, and beyond Alcatraz, like a purple pyramid, arose Tamalpais, looking westward across the Pacific.

Matt was gloomy because, early that morning, he had separated from his two chums, Dick Ferral and Carl Pretzel. Dick had received a telegram from his uncle, in Denver, asking him to come east at once. At his invitation, Carl had gone with him. Both lads urged Matt to accompany them, but he had declined, thinking more seriously than he had ever done of some "prep" school and a course at Leland Stanford. If he was to take that step, seeking new friends and new fortunes, why not take it now?

There was something more in life, Matt told himself, than just knocking around the world, meeting all kinds of trouble and getting the upper hand of it.

But there were the motors, the explosive engines Matt loved so well, and had worked among so long. If he entered some academy, he would have to turn his back on the humming cylinders, the rushing wheels, and the racing propellers.

That thought gave him a pang. The gasoline motor was just coming into its own, and the field that lay before it was so wide as to stagger the imagination. Could Matt tear himself away from the fascination of terminals, commutators and spark plugs, from differential and transmission[Pg 2] gear, from spray nozzles and float feeds, from the steady explosion, the perfect mixture of air and gasoline, the humming of the coils, and the beautifully balanced reciprocity of a running motor?

Well, after a while, perhaps, but not—not right away.

"What next?" he asked himself.

"Huh!" came a sound, half-grunt and half-greeting, from directly in front of him.

During his reflections, Matt's head had bowed forward and his eyes had fixed themselves vacantly on the gray sand. He raised his glance abruptly, and saw within a yard of him a young fellow in dingy sombrero, faded blue flannel shirt, and corduroy trousers.

The lad could not have been more than seventeen. His face was tanned a deep bronze, and his eyes were as black as midnight. His nose was what is termed a "snub," and gave his face a droll, humorous look. As he slouched in front of Matt he had his hands in his pockets.

For a full minute Matt and the stranger surveyed each other.

"Huh!" said the stranger again, pulling a hand out of his pocket to jerk the brim of his hat down over one eye. "Got any sand?" he inquired.

"Sand?" echoed Matt.

"Sure—s-a-n-d, sand. I'm game as a hornet myself, and I reckon I can lay holt of you and wind you up like an eight-day clock. Say, try me a whirl, catch-as-catch-can. If I can't put you on your back in a brace of shakes, I'll eat my spurs. Dare you!"

The stranger backed off, and pushed up his sleeves. A wide grin crossed his face and his black eyes twinkled.

"What have you got against me?" asked Matt. "Why do you want to fight?"

"Shucks! You got to have a reason for every blamed thing? Come at me. Dare you—dare you! I'm hungry to caper—and you ain't going to hold back on a feller when he's hungry, are you?"

Matt laughed.

"Well, no," he answered, getting up.

Then, without any ifs, ands, or whyfors, the king of the motor boys and the stranger rushed together.

It was the "double grapevine" that did the business for the stranger. In ten seconds, by the watch, he went into the air and dropped down on the soft sand with a chug that left him dazed and bewildered. Then he sat up and stared.

"Well, well, well!" he sputtered. He was still grinning, and his black eyes traveled over Matt with wonder and admiration. "You the Tur'ble Turk in disguise?" he inquired.

"Hardly," laughed Matt. "You must have learned wrestling in an Agricultural School."

"Mebby," answered the other, picking himself up, "but I ain't diving into my wannegan any, at that. You can't give me another jolt like that, pard. Two out of three, you know. First fall for the gent in the leather cap—but the next one's mine. Whoop-ee!"

The stranger, bareheaded and sleeves rolled to his elbows, rushed at Matt like a hurricane. Matt side-stepped, whirled, caught his antagonist from behind and shouldered him like a bag of meal. The next instant he had dropped him, and squirmed out from under his gripping fingers.

"Gee, man!" gasped the stranger, rubbing his hand over his eyes. "Speak to me about that, oh, do! He lifts me up and sets me down, and all my caperin' don't amount to shucks. Ain't it scandalous to be hip-locked with like that?"

"Got enough?" asked Matt.

"Plenty, amigo." The stranger climbed to his feet, picked up his hat and reflectively slapped the sand out of it. "Down where I come from, a feller can 'most always tell when he's got enough. When did you break out on this part of the map?"

"A week ago."

"What label do you tote?"

"King, Matt King."

The strange youth came within one of dropping his hat.

"Speak to me about that!" he gasped, his eyes widening. "Why, I might as well have wrestled with a locomotive and tried to stand it on its headlight in the right of way! Say, I've read about you! You're the king of the motor boys—the big high boy who brought that submarine around South Americy, and turned her over to Uncle Sam here in 'Frisco. Gracias!"

"What are you thanking me for?"

"Because you could have tied me into a bowknot and tossed me into the bay—and you didn't. Next time I hip-lock with a cyclone I hope somebody will put a tag on me and ship me to an asylum for the feeble-minded. My name's McGlory, Joe McGlory, and when I'm to home I hang up my lid in Tucson. Shake, Motor Matt. You sure stack up pretty high with me."

"Glad to know you, McGlory," said Matt, highly edified, giving the youth's hand a cordial pressure. "Is it your custom to take a fall out of every acquaintance you make?"

"Well, it's sort of satisfyin', when you make friends with a galoot, to know which is the best man. It shows you what he's got in him that you can depend on in a pinch, see? I reckon you think I've got everything but the long ears, eh? Don't make a mistake about that, pard. I'm not so foolish as you might think. Tell me something!"

"What?"

"While you've been in 'Frisco have you seen anything of a feller about my heft and height, scar an inch long over his right eyebrow, answerin' to the name of George Lorry?"

Matt shook his head.

"Haven't seen him," he answered. "Are you looking for a fellow answering that description?"

"I am, a heap."

The grin, which seemed almost perpetual on McGlory's face, faded into an earnest expression as he mentioned the lad he was looking for.

"Did you come to this reservation looking for him?" went on Matt.

"Nary, pard." McGlory faced the boy, and waved his hand toward the life-saving station ahead, and to the left of them, on the shore. "I'm mortal fond of boats," he went on. "Kind of queer, that, don't you think, for a galoot that's passed pretty near his whole life in the mines and in the cattle ranges? Anyway, that's me. I can't cross the ferry without gettin' seasick, but, all the same, everything that floats tickles me more than I can tell. I've been down to the life-saving station looking at the surf boat."

"I'm fond of boats myself," said Matt, "especially motor boats. There's something on the ground that must[Pg 3] belong to you, McGlory," he added, pointing to the sand near where McGlory had fallen, the first time.

The young cowboy looked at the object, and then recovered it with a whoop. The object was a small, oblong square of pasteboard.

"It's a ticket for the raffle," McGlory explained. "There's two hundred of 'em out, and I've got sixty."

"Raffle?" queried Matt.

"Sure. A little old motor launch is goin' to be raffled off, over at Tiburon, this afternoon. Say, that boat's a streak! She can show her heels to anythin' in San Francisco Bay. Speak to me about that, will you! I've got sixty chances out of two hundred for baggin' her. Come over with me to the raffle, pard. I've cottoned to you, and you're my style from the ground up. What say?"

"Can you run a motor launch?" asked Matt.

"Don't know the first thing about it."

"What do you want with such a boat, then, if it makes you seasick to ride on the water, and if you don't know how to run a motor?"

"Shucks! Whenever I get a notion I play it up strong, no matter whether there's any reason in it or not. That's Joe McGlory from spurs to headpiece, and everybody in Tucson will tell you the same. Are you with me, Matt? If you are, we'll slide back through the reservation, and jump the cars."

Matt had already conceived a liking for young McGlory. There was something mysterious about him, and a mystery is always attractive.

A few moments later the king of the motor boys was strolling along the old board walk between the big Presidio barracks and the row of officers' houses, side by side with his new friend.

New friends and new fortunes, ran his thoughts. How were they to turn out, and what were they to be?

CHAPTER II.

THE RAFFLE.

"There she is, Matt; and it's apples to ashes she's the fastest thing that floats. Why, she can run like a scared coyote makin' for home and mother. I've seen her perform, pard, and when she goes any place she arrives just before she starts. Speak to me about that, please. Squint at her good and hard, and tell me what you think."

Motor Matt and Joe McGlory had eaten their dinner at a restaurant in Market Street, and had caught the one-o'clock boat across the bay to Tiburon. It was now a quarter to two, and they were standing on a small wharf, not far from the ferry landing, looking down on a trim little boat. There were about a dozen others, men and boys, lounging on the wharf. The raffle was to come off at two, and most of the idlers, presumably, had bought tickets, and were waiting to "put their fortune to the touch."

The boat was an eighteen-footer, some three feet beam, and looked as though she could "git up and git" if enough ginger were thrown into her propeller. She was in charge of a boy who had let her drift out to the end of a ten-foot painter.

"Pull her in," called Matt to the boy. "I'd like to look at her engine."

The boy laid hold of the painter, and drew the boat up alongside the wharf. Matt dropped into her, and lifted one side of the hinged hood that protected the motor.

He found that the engine consisted of two horizontal opposed cylinders, and was as neat, simple, and compact a marine motor as any he had ever seen. The gasoline tank was in the nose of the boat.

"Ten horse power," mused Matt.

"You've struck it," said the boy.

After a five-minute examination the only fault Matt had to find with the machinery lay in the reversing gear. The brake band was not properly adjusted, but was set so that it dragged on the drum, which could hardly fail to result in a reduction of speed.

When Matt climbed up on the wharf again McGlory met him with an eager question as to what he thought of the Sprite, which was the name of the little craft.

"She's all right," answered Matt, "and ought to run like a singed cat."

"Worth a couple of hundred plunks?"

"The motor alone is worth a hundred and fifty, and seems to be as good as new."

"Whoop!" exulted McGlory. "Somebody's going to get her for a cartwheel—one single, solitary piece of the denomination of eight bits. Mebby it's me? Quien sabe?"

"There were two hundred tickets, you say, and they were sold at a dollar each?"

"Keno, correct, and then some."

"And you have sixty tickets, Joe?"

"Again your bean is on the right number, pard."

"Well, if you get the boat she will have cost you sixty dollars."

"But it's only one ticket out of the sixty that wins her, Matt. Fifty-nine plunks are squandered, and it's one big dollar that pulls her down to me. I'd have bought more, if I'd had the dinero."

"I might take a chance myself," observed Matt, "although I haven' any more use for a motor launch here in 'Frisco than has a stray cowboy by the name of McGlory."

"Nary, you won't, Matt," said McGlory. "Tickets are all gone."

"What in the world are you going to do with the craft if you win her?"

"I can't tell how nervous you make me, wanting a reason for every blooming thing. The notion hit me plumb between the eyes, Matt, and that's all there is to it. But if I can't use the Sprite I can sell her, can't I? And if I did want to go cruising, I've got you to run her for me! Oh, speak to me about that. But," and here McGlory's face fell, "I'm not going to get her. Johnny Hardluck has been running neck and neck with me ever since I was knee-high to a clump of cactus. If I'd have bought a hundred and ninety-nine tickets, the pasteboard I failed to corral would be the one that bobbed up when the wheel stopped runnin'. That's me, but I'm so plumb locoed that I keep trying to bust this hard-luck blockade. What's that—a twenty-dollar gold piece?"

Matt had stooped down while McGlory was talking, and picked up a flat object from the ground in front of him.

"A baggage check," answered Matt. "Some of the crowd here must have dropped it. If we could find——"

[Pg 4]

Just then, a man appeared carrying his derby hat in his hand. The hat was filled with numbered slips.

"Gents," called the man, "this here drawin' for the Sprite is now a-goin' to take place. Somebody's a-goin' to get that little streak o' greased lightnin' for a dollar. She's a good boat, an' wouldn't be sold for twice two hundred if her owner hadn't tumbled into a stretch of hard luck. She's done her mile in four minutes, the Sprite has, right here in the bay. This here hat is filled with slips o' paper numbered from one to two hundred, like the tickets. One of 'em's goin' to be drawed by the kid, who'll be blindfolded for the occasion. The lucky number the kid first pulls from the hat takes the boat."

Cheers from the assembled crowd greeted the "kid" as he climbed out of the boat and allowed a handkerchief to be tied over his eyes. Then, with much formality, and while the breathless crowd watched, the youngster's grimy hand went into the hat and pushed around wrist-deep among the slips.

"If the feller that gets the boat lives over in 'Frisco," pursued the man, while the boy dallied provokingly with the slips, "he won't have to wait for the next boat back. All he's got to do is to jump into the Sprite, head her where he wants to go, and cut loose. She's full o' oil and gasoline, an' could go from here to Vallejo without takin' on any more."

The boy's hand lifted from the hat and held up a slip.

"Number seventy-three," read the man; "number seventy-three is the lucky ticket, an' gets the Sprite. Who's got number seventy-three?"

"Stung again!" said McGlory gloomily, taking a handful of tickets from his pocket and tossing them into the air. "I might just as well say moo and chase myself. Sixty pesos gone where the woodbine twineth, and McGlory's got another lesson in the way luck's cut him out of her herd. Mebby it's just as well. I've got about as much use for a motor launch as a yaller dog for the tin can tied to the end of his tail, but the notion that I wanted the thing sure hit me hard."

"You ought to put a curb on those notions of yours, Joe," said Matt. "They seem to be pretty expensive."

"Shucks! Well, I get a couple o' square miles of fun nursing the notions along, anyways. It's hoping for things that makes a feller feel good; he never steps so high, wide, and handsome after he gets 'em. Now——"

Just here there came an excited chirp, followed by a shrill cackle of joy. A Chinese boy, not more than fifteen or sixteen, broke through the disappointed throng of whites, his queue flying, and his blue silk blouse fluttering.

"My gottee! Hoop-a-la! My ticket him seventy-tlee! My gottee chug-chug boatee."

"Happy days!" scowled McGlory, his eyes on the young Chinaman. "If that washee-washee yaller mug hasn't pulled down the prize I'm a sick Injun. And here's me with sixty tickets, and him with only one! Speak to me about that! What sort of a low-down thing is luck, anyway, to pass up a respectable white, with sixty chances, and dump that boat onto a Chink with only one! Sufferin' sister! Let's go some place, Matt, where we can be away from the crowd and by ourselves. I'm in a mood for reflection—like old Jack Bisbee was when the government mule kicked at him and set off a box of dynamite. I've got it in the neck, as per usual, and I want to say things to myself."

"Wait a minute, Joe," returned Matt. "Let's watch the Chinaman."

The man who had "bossed" the drawing examined the Chinaman's ticket.

"It's seventy-three, all right," he remarked. "Where you gettee, Charley?"

"'Melican man no gottee dol pay fo' laundry," the Celestial answered; "him givee China boy ticket."

"It was sure a good play for you. There's your boat. Take her."

The yellow boy ran down to the edge of the wharf, dancing around in his wooden shoes, and crooning ecstatically to himself.

"My gottee boat, my gottee boat! Hoop-a-la! Where row sticks?" he demanded, turning to the man who had been in charge of the raffle.

"That's a motor boat, Charley," grinned the man. "You don't need any row sticks."

The yellow boy, still chattering to himself, slipped from the wharf into the boat. One of the men, alive to the humor of the situation, pulled the painter off the post and threw it into the craft after him.

"How you makee lun?" inquired the new owner of the Sprite, taking his seat at the steering wheel.

The bystanders began nudging each other in the ribs. There was a delightful prospect ahead of them, in watching this guileless Celestial, who knew nothing about motors, trying to run a motor boat.

Half a dozen voices called down directions for switching on the spark, starting the flow of gasoline, and getting the engine to going.

"He'll get into trouble," cried Matt, pushing his way through the crowd.

"What's the diff?" guffawed a blear-eyed individual, with a husky laugh. "It's only a chink, anyhow."

Matt paid no attention to this remark.

"You'd better look out, Charley," he called to the Chinaman.