MOTOR STORIES

By Stanley R. Matthews

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 PERIL

OR,

Cast Away in the Bahamas.

By the author of "MOTOR MATT."

CHAPTER I. CARL AS BUTTINSKY. CHAPTER II. THE MOVING-PICTURE MAN MAKES A QUEER MOVE. CHAPTER III. WARM WORK AT THE "INLET." CHAPTER IV. PRISONERS ON A SUBMARINE. CHAPTER V. THROUGH THE TORPEDO TUBE. CHAPTER VI. THE CAPE TOWN MYSTERY. CHAPTER VII. OFF FOR THE BAHAMAS. CHAPTER VIII. AN ACCIDENT. CHAPTER IX. MATT AND HIS CHUMS GO IT ALONE. CHAPTER X. THE AIR SHIP SPRINGS A LEAK. CHAPTER XI. WRECKED! CHAPTER XII. LUCK—OR ILL-LUCK? CHAPTER XIII. A MOVE AND A COUNTERMOVE. CHAPTER XIV. MOTOR MATT'S SUCCESS. CHAPTER XV. A FEW SURPRISES. CHAPTER XVI. MATT TAKES TOWNSEND'S ADVICE. NIGHT WATCHES FOR BIG GAME. SPECIALISTS IN THE WOODS. MISSOURI WILLOW FARM. ANIMALS THAT DREAD RAIN.

CHARACTERS THAT APPEAR IN THIS STORY.

Matt King, concerning whom there has always been a mystery—a lad of splendid athletic abilities, and never-failing nerve, who has won for himself, among the boys of the Western town, the popular name of "Mile-a-minute Matt." Carl Pretzel, a cheerful and rollicking German lad, who is led by a fortunate accident to hook up with Motor Matt in double harness. Dick Ferral, a Canadian boy who has served his time in the King's navy, and bobs up in the States where he falls into plots and counterplots, and comes near losing his life. Archibald Townsend, otherwise "Captain Nemo, Jr.," of the submarine boat Grampus, who proves himself a firm friend of Motor Matt. Lattimer Jurgens, an unscrupulous person who, for some time, has been at daggers drawn with Archibald Townsend. Whistler, an able lieutenant of Lat Jurgens. Cassidy, Burke and Harris, comprising the crew of the Grampus. "The Man from Cape Town," who does not appear in the story but whose influence is nevertheless made manifest. McMillan and Holcomb, police officers.

CHAPTER I.

CARL AS BUTTINSKY.

"Py shinks, aber dot's funny! Dose fellers look like dey vas birates, or some odder scalawags. Vat vas dey doing, anyvays, in a blace like dis?"

It was on the beach at Atlantic City, New Jersey. Carl Pretzel was there, in a bathing suit.

Those who know the Dutch boy will remember that he was fat, and there is always something humorous about a fat person in a bathing suit.

Carl had been in the water. After swimming out as far as the end of the steel pier, he had returned and climbed up on the beach. An Italian happened to be passing with a pushcart loaded with "red-hots" and buns. Carl had a dime pinned in the breast of his abbreviated costume. He unpinned the dime, bought two "red-hots" and a bun, and fell down in the sand to rest and enjoy himself. The Italian lingered near him, staring with bulging eyes to a place on the beach a little way beyond Carl. The Dutch boy, observing the trend of the Italian's curiosity, looked in the same direction.

A girl was kneeling on the beach, tossing her arms despairingly. She was a pretty girl, her clothes were torn and wet, and her long, dark hair was streaming about her shoulders.

Certainly it was a curious sight, there in that densely populated summer resort, to see a young woman acting in that manner. Up on the board walk above the beach a gaping throng had gathered. A little way from the board walk a man seemed to be doing something with a photograph instrument.

Carl, intensely wrought up, floundered to his bare feet, a "red-hot" in one hand and half a bun in the other. Any one in distress always appealed to Carl—particularly a woman.

From the woman, Carl's eyes drifted toward the water. A boat was pulling in, and was close to the shore. There were three men in the boat, two at the oars and one standing in the bow. They were a fierce-looking lot, those men. All were of swarthy hue, had fierce black mustaches, gold rings in their ears, heads covered with knotted handkerchiefs over which were drawn stocking caps,[Pg 2] and all wore sashes through which were thrust long, ancient-looking knives and pistols.

The man in the bow, whom Carl could see almost entirely, had on a pair of "galligaskins," or short, wide trousers, and immense jack boots.

The ruffians in the boat, no less than the girl on the beach, seemed to be deaf and dumb. Not a word was said by any of them, but their faces twitched in response to their varying emotions, and they used their hands in ceaseless gestures.

Carl was right in thinking that the men in the boat had the appearance of pirates; and the scene was "funny," inasmuch as it showed the sea rovers of a past age against a twentieth century background.

"Py shinks," muttered Carl, his temper slowly rising, "I don'd like dot! Der poor girl iss at der mercy oof dem birate fellers, und der bolice, und nopody else, seems villing to lendt her a handt. Vell, I dell you somet'ing, oof dose birate fellers in der poat douch a hair oof dot girl's headt, den dey vill hear from me! I vish Modor Matt und Tick vas here. Mit dem to helup, ve could clean out der whole gang. Anyhow, I do vat I can py meinseluf."

When the boat was in the surf, the two who were rowing dropped their oars and sprang overboard. Laying hold of the boat, they dragged it up on the strand. The man in the bow jumped out, and all three made a rush for the girl.

"Leaf dot laty alone!" bellowed Carl, starting for the girl about the same time the three men did. "You t'ink dis vas some tesert islants dot you can act like dot! Bolice! bolice!"

The sight of Carl, in his little red bathing suit, streaking along the sand, brought roars of laughter from those on the board walk. The merriment puzzled Carl; and angered him still further, too, to think that such a raft of people would give way to mirth when a young woman was in such terrible danger.

"Get away from there!" shouted a man near the photographic instrument.

"Meppy you see me gedding avay," roared Carl as he ran, "aber I don'd t'ink. You vas a goward, und eferypody else vas a goward! I safe der girl meinseluf!"

"You'll spoil the picture!" howled one of the pirates; "get out of the picture!"

"I vill shpoil your face!" retorted Carl, failing to comprehend. "Ged oudt oof der picture yourseluf! Der laty iss nod to be hurted."

Carl reached the lady first. She seemed astounded and angry.

"Nefer fear, leedle vone," carolled the Dutch boy, planting himself between the girl and her supposed enemies, "dose vicked mens vill haf to valk ofer me pefore dey ged ad you! Yah, so helup me! Run for der poard valk vile I mix it mit dem und gif you der shance."

"Go 'way!" screamed the girl; "mind your own business, if you've got any!"

"Oh, you Dutch idiot!" raved one of the buccaneers, striking at Carl with a cutlass. "You've spoiled our work!"

The other two pirates were jumping up and down and saying things about Carl that were far from complimentary.

The Dutch boy tried to dodge the cutlass, but failed. It struck him squarely across the throat, and, had it been a thing of steel, would have separated his head from the rest of his body. But the cutlass was made of lath, covered with tinfoil, and broke as it fell.

"He's ruined the films!" howled the man at the photograph instrument.

"Sic him, Tige!" cried another, who was standing beside him.

A brindle bulldog, which Carl had not seen until that moment, gave a yip and started for the scene of the trouble.

"Vat's der madder, anyvays?" demanded Carl, convinced by the young lady's manner that she did not want to be rescued.

"Moving pictures, you Dutch idiot!" yelped the leader of the pirates. "If you'd had any sense you'd have known that without being told. Now we've got to do it all over again! Take him, Tige!"

The bulldog was hurling himself across the sand like a thunderbolt, and he was making straight for Carl. Neither the girl nor the pirates showed any inclination to stop the dog; on the contrary, they appeared to derive considerable satisfaction from the prospect of his getting close enough to use his teeth on the Dutch boy.

Carl was perfectly willing to face any number of pirates in order to rescue a beautiful maiden in distress, but he drew the line at coming company front with a vicious bulldog. When a person wears nothing but a bathing suit his means of offense and defense are naturally limited.

Since Carl could not help the girl, he made up his mind to do what he could to help himself. Whirling about, he laid himself out in the direction of the steel pier, the bulldog in hot pursuit and gaining on him at every jump.

Everybody, except the moving-picture people, was laughing. And excepting Carl. There was nothing especially amusing in the situation for him.

The Italian with the pushcart was haw-hawing and holding his sides. A boy, using his legs to get away from a dog, was something he could understand, and it pleased him.

Carl did not have time to go around the cart, so he ducked under it. The dog ducked after him. Carl had seen how the Italian was enjoying himself, and he resented it. By rising up under the cart Carl could overturn it, thus dropping a lot of buns and "red-hots" on the dog and possibly stopping the pursuit. Carl did not stop to debate the matter—he hadn't time—but rose up, thus sending the cart over upon the dog.

The Italian had been cooking the "red-hots" on a steel plate. The plate, of course, was hot, and it struck the dog. There came a yelp of pain, and the dog tore out from under the cart and hustled back toward the photograph instrument.

The Italian had changed his tune. He was not laughing, now, but was prancing around and howling frantically for the police.

"Sacre diabolo estrito crystal!" he shrieked. "You wreck-a da wag'—you spoil-a da bun, da red-a-hot! Polees! Me, I like-a keel-a you! Polees! polees!"

While he yelled, he started angrily toward Carl. The Dutch boy, whirling the overturned cart around, caused the Italian to stumble over it. Leaving him to writhe and sputter among the scattered buns and "wienes," Carl raced on toward the steel pier.

He was flattering himself that he would be able to regain the bathhouse without further molestation, but in this he was mistaken. An officer jumped down from[Pg 3] the side of the pier, as he came close to it, and grabbed him by the arm.

"Not so fast, there!" cried the policeman.

"Vat's der madder mit you?" wheezed Carl. "I don'd vas doing anyt'ing."

"Oh, no," was the sarcastic response, "you wasn't doing a thing! What did you kick over that dago's cart for?"

"Dose fellers hat set a dog on me!" cried Carl. "Ditn't you see der dog?"

Just then the Italian, two of the pirates and one of the men with the photographic apparatus, hurried up, all in a crowd.

"Pinch-a heem!" fumed the Italian; "he make-a plenty da troub'!"

"He's the original Buttinsky," scowled the picture man. "He pushed into that moving picture, spoiled a lot of film and made it necessary for us to do our work all over."

"He's the prize idiot, all right!" clamored one of the pirates.

"What's the matter, here?" demanded a voice, as a youth pushed into the crowd and ranged himself at the Dutch boy's side. "What's the matter, Carl?"

"Modor Matt!" exclaimed Carl, gripping the newcomer's arm. "You haf arrifed py der nick oof time, like alvays! Now, den," and here Carl faced the others belligerently, "my bard has come, und you vill haf to make some oxblanadions. Vat haf you got to say for yourselufs?"

CHAPTER II.

THE MOVING-PICTURE MAN MAKES A QUEER MOVE.

A little farther along the beach, and well out of the way of high tide, four heavy posts had been planted in the sand. This was the mooring-place for the "Hawk," the famous air ship belonging to Matt and Dick Ferral, and which the three chums had brought from South Chicago.

The boys had had the Hawk in Atlantic City for two weeks, making four flights every day except on Sunday, or on days when high winds or stormy weather prevailed. There had been only one stormy day when it had been found necessary to house the Hawk under the roof of one of the piers, and only one other day when the wind had been so strong as to make an ascent too risky.

Four passengers were carried aloft in each flight. Six persons were all Matt thought advisable to take up in the air ship, and of course he had to go along to take charge of the motor, and with him went either Dick or Carl to act as lookout and "crew." A charge of $25 was made for each passenger, and the flights had so captured the fancy of wealthy resorters that the boys had advance "bookings" that promised to keep them in Atlantic City all the summer. With $400 a day coming in, and a very small outgo for expenses, the chums were making money hand over fist.

On the afternoon when Carl was taking his dip in the ocean, and incidentally spoiling films for the moving-picture people, Matt and Dick, with their usual four passengers, had been making their last flight of the day over Absecon Island and the eastern coast of New Jersey.

One of the passengers on that trip was a Mr. Archibald Townsend, of Philadelphia. Passengers always showed a great interest in the air ship, but Mr. Townsend had shown more curiosity and had asked more questions than any of the others.

As Matt and Dick were bringing the Hawk down to the beach, they had witnessed the overturning of the Italian's "red-hot" outfit, and had seen Carl get clear of the wreck and race on toward the steel pier. Leaving Dick to make the air ship secure in her berth, Matt had tumbled out of the car and hurried after Carl. As we have already seen, the young motorist reached his Dutch chum just as the officer had laid hold of him.

The officer's name was McMillan, and he was arrogant and officious to a degree. He had been on duty along that part of the board walk ever since the chums had reached Atlantic City, and he had interfered with their operations to such an extent that Matt had found it necessary, on one occasion, to report him. On this account, McMillan was not very amiably disposed toward the young motorist and his friends.

"I don't care who this fellow is," growled the officer, nodding his head toward Carl, "no one can come here an' raise hob on the beach without bein' jugged for it. I saw what happened. The Dutchman knocked over the dago's cart."

"Dot feller," and here Carl pointed to the moving-picture man, "set der dog on me. Oof I hatn't knocked ofer der cart, der dog vould haf got me sure. Vat pitzness he got setting der dog on me, hey? He iss to plame, yah, dot's righdt."

"What did you want to butt into our picture for?" demanded the photographer.

"How I know you vas daking some mooting bictures?" demanded Carl. "I see dot young laty on der peach, und she vas in some greadt drouples; den I see dem birate fellers in der poat, going afder her, und nopody vould run mit demselufs to der resgue. Den I go. You bed my life, no laty vat iss in tisdress can be dot vay ven I vas aroundt."

"We'll have to do our work all over again to-morrow afternoon," went on the moving-picture man, "and I have to pay these actors more money for another afternoon's work."

"How much will that be?" asked Matt, who saw very clearly that Carl had made a mistake and was in the wrong.

"There are six of 'em," replied the photographer, "and I pay them ten dollars apiece."

"That makes sixty dollars," said Matt, "and I'll——"

"Just a minute, King." It was Mr. Townsend who spoke. He had hurried toward the scene of the dispute and had arrived in time to hear the moving-picture man's explanation and Matt's offer to foot the bill. "This fellow's name is Jurgens," continued Mr. Townsend. "He comes from Philadelphia, and I happen to know that he gives these actors five dollars apiece for their work. If you give him just half of what he asks, King, you will be treating him fairly."

Jurgens glared at Townsend.

"What business have you got interfering here?" he asked, angrily.

"I am merely interfering in the interests of justice, that's all," replied Townsend, coolly, "and because I think you an all-around scoundrel, Jurgens. You and I have had some dealings already, you remember."

[Pg 4]

A black scowl crossed Jurgens' face.

"And our dealings are not finished yet, by a long shot," returned Jurgens.

Townsend tossed his hands contemptuously and turned his back on the photographer.

"I'll have my sixty dollars," cried Jurgens, to Matt, "or there'll be trouble."

"You'll take thirty," said Matt, taking some money from his pocket and offering it, "and not a cent more."

Jurgens struck aside the hand fiercely.

"This dago is the boy that interests me," said the officer. "He's a poor man an' can't afford to have his stock in trade ruined by that Dutch lobster."

At this, Carl fired up.

"Who you vas galling a Dutch lopsder?" he demanded, moving truculently in the direction of McMillan.

"You!" snorted the officer, dropping a hand on his club.

Carl let fly with his fist. Matt grabbed the arm just in time to counter the blow.

"That's your game is it?" growled McMillan, jerking the club from his belt. "I'll take care of you, my buck! Come along to the station with me!"

"Wait a minute, officer," said Matt. "Stop making a fool of yourself, Carl," he added to his Dutch chum. "You made a mistake at the start-off, but that was no reason Jurgens should have set the dog on you. As for the Italian," and here Matt faced the officer again, "I'll pay him for the damage he has suffered."

"Fifty cents will probably settle that," laughed Townsend, "so if you throw him a five, King, he will be glad the accident happened."

One of the bank notes Jurgens had refused Matt now gave the Italian. His grieved look at once faded into an expansive grin, and he grabbed the money, thanked Matt in explosive Italian and ran back toward his overturned cart.

"That lets the dago out," said the officer, grimly, "but it don't let the Dutchman out, not by a jugful. He'll get a fine, and if Jurgens here wants to prefer charges——"

"I do," snapped Jurgens. "If I don't get that sixty dollars I'll make it hot for all these balloonists. That's the kind of a duck I am."

"I know what kind of a duck you are, Jurgens," said Townsend, sternly, "and if you know when you're well off, you'll leave Motor Matt and his friends alone."

"Sixty dollars," cried Jurgens, hotly, "and this gang can take it or leave it."

"You go with me," declared McMillan, twisting his left hand in the collar of Carl's bathing suit.

"Nonsense, officer!" said Townsend. "You're making a mountain out of a molehill. Let the boy alone."

"I know my business," snarled the officer, "an' I don't have to have strangers blow in here an' tell me what to do."

He took a step toward the board walk, jerking Carl along after him.

"I'm not a stranger in Atlantic City, officer," went on Townsend. "In fact, I'm very well acquainted with the chief of police here. Just a second until I show you my card."

The potent name of the chief brought McMillan to a halt. He had been reported once, and if a man who had influence reported him again, there might be a vacancy in the force.

"All I want is to do what's right," he mumbled.

Townsend had reached into his pocket and drawn out a handful of papers. While he was going over them, looking for his professional card, Jurgens made a lightning-like move. It was a most peculiar move and, for a moment, took everybody by surprise.

Throwing himself forward, Jurgens snatched a long, folded paper from among those Townsend held in his hands. Quick as a wink Jurgens whirled, dashed for the steps leading up to the board walk and was away like a deer.

"Stop him, officer!" shouted Townsend. "That's the kind of a man he is! Stop him!"

McMillan now saw that a real emergency confronted him. Releasing Carl, he rushed away on the trail of the thieving Jurgens.

Motor Matt, however, had kept his wits, and he was halfway to the steps before the officer had started.

When the young motorist bounded to the board walk, Jurgens was tearing through the crowd.

"Stop, thief! Stop, thief!" yelled Matt.