MOTOR STORIES

Issued Weekly. By subscription $2.50 per year. Copyright, 1909, by Street & Smith, 79-80 Seventh Avenue, New York, N. Y.

Motor Matt's "Make and Break"

OR,

ADVANCING THE SPARK OF FRIENDSHIP.

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. Ping Pong, a Chinese boy who insists on working for Motor Matt, and who contrives to make himself valuable, perhaps invaluable. Amos Murgatroyd, the unscrupulous broker whose fight against the Traquairs and Motor Matt finally results in complete disaster to himself. Prebbles, Murgatroyd's old clerk, who resurrects the skeleton from the family closet, fights a good fight, and, with the help of the king of the motor boys, finally banishes the skeleton altogether. Newt Prebbles, for whom Motor Matt undertakes to advance the spark of friendship; a youth who has erred, but who comes to a turning point and takes the right path. Lieutenant Cameron, an officer in the Signal Corps, U. S. A., who proves to be the cousin of an old friend of Matt, and who nearly loses his life when the aëroplane is tested.

Jed Spearman, "Slim," "Hen," and three others, cowboys belonging with the Tin Cup outfit, who make some mistakes and are finally set right by the sheriff. Roscoe, sheriff of Burleigh County, who plays a small but very important part.

CHAPTER I.

THE SKELETON IN THE CLOSET.

"Where's the old man, Prebbles?"

"Don't ask me, Jim. I haven't a notion."

"Well, there's a letter for him."

The postman dropped a letter on the desk in front of the little old man on the high stool, and the door slammed. Prebbles picked up the letter and blinked at it. For a while he sat staring like a person in a dream, then a gasp escaped his lips, and he slipped from the stool and carried the letter closer to the window.

It was almost sunset, and a neighboring building shut off the light, but there, close to the dusty window pane, the light was good enough. The letter dropped from Prebbles' shaking hand, and he fell back against the wall.

"It's from him," the old man mumbled; "it's—it's——"

The words died on his lips, and a choking gurgle arose in his throat. Trembling like a man with the palsy, Prebbles pulled himself together and staggered to the water cooler. He drew himself a glass, and the tumbler rattled against his teeth as he drank.

"This won't do," he said to himself, drawing a hand across his forehead in a dazed and bewildered way. "I've got to brace up, that's what I have. But what's Newt writing to him for? I—I can't understand that."

Prebbles went back and picked up the letter. He was still greatly shaken, although he was getting firmer hold of himself by swift degrees.

It was a very ordinary appearing letter to have aroused such an extraordinary state of mind in the old man. The address, in a peculiar backhand, was to "Mr. Amos Murgatroyd, Loan Broker, Jamestown, North Dakota."

Prebbles was Murgatroyd's clerk, and the only clerk in the loan office. For several weeks Murgatroyd had not been in Jamestown, and the work of the office—what little there was—fell to Prebbles.

During those weeks of absence, the broker had been doing unlawful things. Prebbles, knowing his employer well, expected nothing better of him; but just what Murgatroyd had been doing, the old clerk did not know.

Strange men, who might be detectives in disguise, were watching the office night and day. Prebbles had been keen enough to discover that.

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It was the peculiar handwriting of the letter that had had such a powerful effect upon the old clerk. Not one man in a thousand, perhaps in ten thousand, used a pen as the writer of that letter to the broker had used it. Prebbles felt sure that he could not be mistaken—that there was not the least possibility of a mistake. He knew who the writer of the letter was, and for weeks the old man's dream by day and night was that he could discover the whereabouts of the man.

The envelope was postmarked at Steele, N. D. The writer might be there, or he might not be there. After setting hand to the letter, it was more than possible he had mailed the letter at Steele and then gone to some other place.

There was one way to make sure—and only one: In order to find out positively where the writer of the letter was, Prebbles would have to open it and read it. Although a clerk in the office, his position did not give him the right to open his employer's personal mail; in fact, Murgatroyd had expressly forbidden this.

The letters received during Murgatroyd's absence—and they were but few—had been placed in the office safe. A week before, the collected letters had mysteriously vanished during the night, and in their place was left this scribbled line:

"Dropped in and got my mail. Say nothing to any one about my having been here. A. M."

That was all, absolutely all, Prebbles had learned of his employer since he had left Jamestown several weeks before. Only two or three letters had collected in the safe since the others had been taken, and now this one from Steele must be added to them, unless——

Prebbles caught up a pair of scissors. Before he could snip off the end of the envelope, he paused. To deliberately open a letter addressed to some one else is a crime which, if brought to the attention of the postal authorities, is heavily punished. Prebbles was not afraid of the punishment, for he believed that Murgatroyd himself was a fugitive; still, it was well to be wary.

Laying down the scissors, he ran the end of a pen-holder under the flap. But again he paused, realizing, with a tremor, that he belonged to the army, the Salvation Army. As a soldier in the ranks, had he the right to take this advantage of his employer? On the streets, Prebbles, because of his earnestness in the army work, he was known as "Old Hallelujah." Poor business, this, for Old Hallelujah to rifle his employer's mail!

With a groan, Prebbles pushed the letter aside and dropped his face in his hands. While he was thus humped over his desk, a picture of distress and misery, the door opened and a boy came in with a telegram. The message was for Prebbles, and he signed the receipt. As soon as the boy had left, he tore the message open.

"Forward mail at once to George Hobbes, Bismarck. "Hobbes."

This was from Murgatroyd, and it was not the first time he had used the name of "George Hobbes."

Was Prebbles to send that letter on without first seeing what was inside it? Duty to his employer and duty to himself warred in his soul.

That last letter received for Murgatroyd might have been taken to the police. They could secure authority from Washington to open it. But, if the letter came from the person Prebbles suspected, he did not want the police to see it.

The six o'clock whistle blew, but Prebbles paid no attention. He was fighting with his Salvation Army principles, and the stake was the contents of that letter to Murgatroyd.

At seven o'clock, the haggard old man, the battle still going on in his breast, pushed the letter into his pocket and left the office, locking the door behind him. He did not go to the cheap eating house where he usually took his meals—there was no supper for him that night—but he proceeded directly to the "barracks," got into his dingy blue cap and coat, and took his cymbals. By eight, a dozen of the "faithful" were in the street, their torches flaring smokily, and the bass drum, the snare drum, the cymbals, and the tambourine whanging and clashing and rattling a quickstep.

Back and forth they marched, then rounded up on a corner and sang one of their army songs.

Old Hallelujah was particularly earnest, that night. His voice was loudest in the singing, and his exhorting was done with a fine fervor. His thin, crooked body straightened, and his eyes gleamed, and he struck the cymbals with unusual vigor.

"Ole Halleluyer is gittin' young ag'in," ran the comment of more than one bystander.

"If he's so pious," observed some one, "it's a wonder he don't break away from that ole thief, Murgatroyd."

It was a wonder, and no mistake. But the wonder was soon to cease.

At ten o'clock Prebbles and the rest were back in the barracks; and at ten-thirty Prebbles was in his five-by-ten little hall bedroom, calmly steaming open the letter to Murgatroyd. He had finished the fight, and had nerved himself for his first false step. But was it a false step? He had come to the conclusion that the end justified the means.

The letter, carefully written, jumped immediately into the business the writer of it had in mind.

"I must have more money or I shall tell all I know about you and the accident to Traquair and his aëroplane. I can't live on promises, and I'm not going to make a fugitive out of myself any longer just to shield you. You're a fugitive yourself, now, but I reckon you can dig up enough money for both of us. I have dropped down the line of the Northern Pacific to mail this letter; as soon as it is in the office, I'm going back to my headquarters at the mouth of Burnt Creek, on the Missouri, ten miles above Bismarck. You'd better meet me there at once, as it's the safest place you can find. I suppose you've made arrangements to have your mail forwarded, so I'm sending this to your office. Bring plenty of money. Newt Prebbles."

For many a weary hour the old man paced the narrow confines of his room, reading the letter again and again and turning the contents over and over in his mind.

"The boy don't care for me, he's mad at me," muttered Prebbles wearily, "but if I can make up with him, maybe he can be saved. What's this about the accident to Traquair? What does Newt know about Murgatroyd? No matter what happens, I've got to get the boy out of Murgatroyd's clutches. If Newt stays with him, he'll be as bad as he is."

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It was after midnight when Prebbles dropped weakly into a chair.

"Motor Matt will help me," he muttered.

The thought had come to him like a flash of inspiration. And another inspiration had come to him, as well. He made a copy of the letter, then placed the original in its envelope, carefully resealed it, and went to the broker's office. To take the collected letters from the safe, place them and the one from Steele in a large envelope and address the envelope to "Mr. George Hobbes, General Delivery, Bismarck, N. D.," consumed only a few minutes.

"Motor Matt will know how to do the rest of it," thought the old clerk. "He's a clever lad, and he helps people. He helped Mrs. Traquair and he'll help Prebbles. I'm done with this office for good, and I'm glad of it."

He looked around the room with a grim laugh.

"I never thought I'd be pulling the pin on myself," he said aloud. "Maybe it's the poorhouse for mine, but I'll be glad to starve if I can make up with Newt and save him from that robber, Murgatroyd."

He turned off the light and closed and locked the office door. An hour later he had dropped the long envelope into a letter box and was back in his room. At seven in the morning he had boarded the northbound train for Minnewaukon and Devil's Lake. Motor Matt was at Fort Totten, on the south shore of the lake, and Prebbles would be at the fort in the afternoon.

The king of the motor boys was the old man's hope. Prebbles knew Matt, and had abundant faith in his ability to accomplish seemingly impossible things.

"He'll help me," murmured Prebbles, leaning back in one corner of the seat; "he helped Mrs. Traquair, and he'll help me."

CHAPTER II.

WHAT NEXT?

"An elegant day—for ducks," said Joe McGlory, turning from the window against which a torrent of rain was splashing. "I'd about got my nerve screwed up to the place where I was going to take a fly with you in the Comet, pard."

"Well," laughed Matt, "perhaps it will be a clear, still day to-morrow, Joe."

"The day may be all right, but whether I have the necessary amount of nerve is a question. It takes sand to sit on a couple of wings and let a gasoline engine push you through the clouds. Sufferin' jack rabbits! Why, Ping, that little, slant-eyed chink, has got more sand than me when it comes to slidin' around through the firmament on a couple o' squares of canvas. I'm disgusted with myself, and that's honest."

"It's as easy as falling off a log," remarked Lieutenant Cameron, of the Signal Corps. "I've been up with Matt, and I know. He does all the work, McGlory. You won't have to do anything but sit tight and hang on."

"'Sit tight and hang on!'" echoed the cowboy. "Sounds easy, don't it? At the same time, Cameron, you know that if your hair ain't parted in the middle, the overweight on one side is liable to make the Comet turn turtle."

"Hardly as bad as that," grinned Matt.

The three—Lieutenant Cameron, Motor Matt, and Joe McGlory—were in Cameron's quarters in officers' row at the post.

One window of the room overlooked the parade ground and, if the weather had not been so thick, would have given a view of the old barracks, beyond. Another window commanded a prospect of the lake, just now surging high and lashing its waters against the foot of the bluff on which the fort stood.

The post was practically abandoned, and no more than a handful of soldiers were in possession. Most of these comprised a detail of the Signal Corps sent there for the try-out of the Traquair aëroplane with which Matt had acquitted himself so creditably.

It was about three o'clock in the afternoon, and all day long Matt and McGlory had been housed up at the post on account of the storm.

Ping Pong, the Chinese boy, was watching the aëroplane, which was in a big shelter tent not far from the post trader's store.

The cowboy, grumbling over the cheerless prospect from each window of the room, finally returned to his rocking-chair and sat down.

"What next, Matt?" inquired Cameron. "You don't remain long in any one place, and I've been wondering when you'd leave here and where you'd go."

"We're liable to break out in any old place on the map," said McGlory. "That's what I like about trailing around with Pard Matt. You never know, from one week to the next, whether you're going to hang up your hat in Alaska or Panama. It's the uncertainty and the vast possibilities that hooked me."

"I haven't laid any plans," remarked the king of the motor boys. "The failure of the government to buy that aëroplane, after Joe and I had put up a lot of money and time building it, leaves me with the machine on my hands. It's something of a white elephant."

"It needn't be a white elephant," returned Cameron. "You can crate the Comet and leave it here at the post until you find a use for it. The other aëroplane which you and Mrs. Traquair sold the war department is going to prove such a success that I am sure the government will be after this one. It will take a little time. There's a certain amount of red tape connected with the matter, you know."

"I'm hoping the government will buy the machine, but I don't feel like leaving it in storage while we're waiting for the war department to make up its mind."

"Why don't you go hunting for Murgatroyd?" inquired Cameron. "The government has offered a reward of one thousand dollars for his capture."

Murgatroyd had not only tried to wreck the first Traquair aëroplane at the time of the government trials at Fort Totten, but he had also resorted to crime in an attempt to secure, from Mrs. Traquair, a quarter section of land in Wells County, which, for some mysterious reason of his own, he was eager to get hold of. A deserter from the army, Cant Phillips by name, had assisted Murgatroyd in his nefarious work; and, for that, Phillips was now on his way to Fort Leavenworth to serve out a long sentence in a government prison, and Amos Murgatroyd was a fugitive.

Matt and his friends had been drawn into these lawless plots of the broker's, and Cameron supposed that, apart from the reward offered for the broker's capture, the young motorist would be eager to see him brought to book.

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"I've lost interest in Murgatroyd," said Matt. "He's a scoundrel, and the government is dealing with him. What I want to do is to put the aëroplane to some profitable use. It was damaged considerably, when Murgatroyd brought it down with that rifle shot, and Joe and I have had to put up about three hundred more good dollars for repairs. Now that it's all shipshape and ready to fly once more, I feel as though we ought to make it earn something for us, instead of leaving it here at Fort Totten in storage."

"Aëroplanes are built to sell, aren't they?" asked the lieutenant quizzically. "How can you make any profit off them if you don't sell them?"

"Well, for one thing," replied Matt, "aëro clubs, in different parts of the world, are offering prizes for flights in flying machines. This machine of Traquair's, as you know, Cameron, is the best one yet invented. It can go farther and do more than any other aëroplane on the market."

"I guess that's right," agreed Cameron.

"However, I'm not thinking of flying for a prize. We'd have to go to Europe in order to get busy with a project of that sort, and I don't want to leave the United States—at least, not for a while yet."

"I wouldn't go out of the country, Matt," said Cameron earnestly. "You're under contract, you know, not to dispose of any of the Traquair patents to foreign governments."

"I wasn't thinking of such a thing as that, Cameron. What I was thinking of is this: Yesterday I received a letter from a show—— one of these 'tented aggregations,' as they're called in the bills—offering five hundred dollars a week if we would travel with the outfit and give two short flights each day from the show grounds——"

McGlory was on his feet in an instant, waving his hand above his head and hurrahing.

"That hits me plump!" he cried. "I've always wanted to do something in a show. Whoop-ya! Matt, you old sphinx, why didn't you say something about this before?"

"I've been turning the proposition over in my mind," answered Matt. "Frankly, I don't like the idea of traveling with a show so much as I do the prospect of earning five hundred a week. I'll have to find out, too, whether the manager of the show is good for the money before I'll talk with him."

"Are we going to St. Paul for an interview?"

"No, to Fargo. The show will make that town in about a week, and I wired the manager that we would meet him there. The Comet will carry two light-weight passengers in addition to the operator, so you and Ping, Joe, will have to fly with me to Fargo. We can save railroad fare by going in the aëroplane, and that's why I want to get you accustomed to being in the air with the machine."

Cameron listened to Matt with an air that showed plainly his disapproval.

"You won't like the show business, Matt," he declared.

"I understand that," was the response, "but it's the salary that appeals to me."

"Furthermore," continued Cameron, "the manager of the show will probably dock your salary every time you fail to pull off a flight. You know how hard it is to bank on the weather. At least half of each week, I should say at a guess, you will find it too windy to go up."

"We'll have to have an understanding with the manager about that. It will have to be a pretty stiff wind, though, to keep me from flying. I've got the knack of handling the aëroplane, now, and a moderate breeze won't bother me at all."

"The show's the thing!" jubilated McGlory. "Speak to me about that, will you? The king of the motor boys and the Comet will be top-liners. And draw? Well, I should say! Why, they'll draw the people like a house afire."

The first Traquair aëroplane—the one sold to the government after the Fort Totten trials had been christened the June Bug by McGlory; but this one, built by Matt after the Traquair model, he had himself named the Comet. This name was to perpetuate the memory of a motorcycle which Matt had owned and had used with telling effect in far-away Arizona.