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, 79-80 Seventh Avenue, New York, N. Y.

MOTOR MATT'S PRIZE

OR,

The Pluck that Wins.

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. George Lorry, who, befriended by Motor Matt at a critical time in his career, proves a credit to himself and to his friends. Mr. Lorry, George's father; a man who knows how to be generous. Ethel Lorry, George Lorry's sister; an admirer of Motor Matt. Pickerel Pete, whose elemental mind evolves a grievance against Motor Matt and is further worked upon by an unscrupulous enemy of Lorry and Matt. The result is almost a tragedy. Ollie Merton, a rich man's son with many failings, but rather deeper than he appears.

CHAPTER I.

A CLASH IN BLACK AND YELLOW.

"Woosh!"

"Fo' de lan' sakes!"

Then followed a bump, a clatter of displaced stones, and sounds of a fall. When quiet once more ensued, two surprised youngsters were on hands and knees, peering at each other like a couple of hostile bantams. Between them lay a string of perch, and off to one side a hickory fishpole, and an old tomato can with a choice assortment of angleworms squirming out of it.

One of the lads was a fifteen-year-old Chinese, in fluttering blouse, wide trousers, wooden sandals and straw hat; the other was a diminutive moke, black as the ace of spades, barefooted, and wearing a "hickory" shirt and ragged trousers.

The bank of Fourth Lake, where they had come together so unexpectedly, was an admirable place for such collisions. In this place the bank was some thirty feet high, steep and rocky. A narrow path, thickly bordered with bushes, angled from top to bottom. At the foot of the path was a boathouse.

Now, if a Chinese boy, in a good deal of a hurry, went slipping and sliding downward from the top of the path, it will be readily understood that he could not put on the brakes in time to avoid an obstruction appearing suddenly in front of him as he scrambled around a bushy angle.

And if that obstruction happened to be a diminutive darky, sitting squarely in the path, sunning himself and half asleep, too drowsy to take notice of sounds above and behind him, it will also be understood that a collision was certain.

It happened. The Chinese took a header over the darky, and when each flopped to his hands and knees, they were looking into each other's eyes with growing animosity.

"By golly!" flared the negro, "is dem glass eyes en yo' haid? Ef dey ain't, why doan' yu use dem?"

"Why blackee boy makee sit in China boy's load?" gurgled the other.

"Yo' own dishyer lake?" taunted the little moke; "yo' gotter mo'galidge on dishyer bank? Go on wif yo' highfalutin' talk! Ah'll sot wherebber Ah wants, en ef[Pg 2] yo' comes erlong en goes tuh shovin', by golly, yo'll fin' Ah kin do some shovin' mahse'f."

"My gottee light comee down bank," asserted the Chinese boy, picking himself up. "My makee go allee same boathouse; you makee stay in load, you gettee shove. My plenty same choo-choo tlain, you makee sleep on tlack. Savvy? You makee some mo' shove, my makee some mo' shove, too."

The Chinese boy stood his ground. The black-skinned youngster sat up and pulled his string of fish closer.

"Ah nebber did lak Chinks," he grunted.

"My no likee blackee boy, all same," averred the Celestial.

"Ah reckons Ah kin lick yu' wif one han' tied behin' mah back. Go 'long, yaller trash! Ah's er hurriclone en a cynader, all rolled intuh one, when Ah gits sta'ted. Look out fo' a big blow en a Chink wreck, dat's all."

"Woosh! Blackee boy makee plenty blow. Me allee same cannon. My makee go bang, you makee go top-side. No likee your piecee pidgin."

Then a comical thing happened, and if any third person with a humorous vein in his make-up had been around, the proceeding would have been highly enjoyed.

Both youngsters glared at each other. Each had his fists doubled, and each fiddled back and forth across the steep path. The black boy sniffed contemptuously. The Chinese lad was a good imitator, and he also sniffed—even more contemptuously.

"By golly," fumed the little moke, "Ah dunno whut's er holdin' me back. Ef any one else had done tuh me whut yo' done, Ah'd hab tromped all ober him befo' now. Ah's gwine tuh dat boathouse mah'se'f. Git outen de way an' le'me pass, er Ah'll butt yo' wif mah haid!"

"My makee go to boathouse, too."

A little curiosity suddenly crept into the black boy's hostile brain.

"Whut bizness yo' got at dat boathouse, huh?" he demanded.

"Gottee plenty pidgin. My workee fo' Motol Matt."

"Yo' workin' fo' Motor Matt?" grunted the other. "By golly, he's mah boss."

"Him China boy's boss."

"Naw, he ain't. Yo's talkin' froo yo' hat. Doan' yo' go er prowlin' erroun' dat 'ar boathouse. Ah ain't a-lettin' nobody git dat job away f'om me."

"Motol Matt my boss, allee same," insisted the Chinese boy.

"When you all git hiahed by Motor Matt?" demanded the darky.

"Long time, allee same Flisco."

"Den dat let's yo' out, yaller mug. Motor Matt done hiahed me fo' days ergo, at two dollahs er day. Skun out. Doan' yo' try cuttin' me loose from dat 'ar job."

The darky took a step downward, but the Celestial planted himself firmly and put up his fists. Once more there was a hitch in proceedings, but the affair was growing more ominous.

"Ah shuah hates tuh mangle yo' up," breathed the darky, "but de 'sponsibility fo' what's done gwine tuh happen b'longs on yo' had en not on mine."

The Chinese lifted his yellow hands and crossed two fingers in front of his face, then, in a particularly irritating manner, he snorted at the black boy through his fingers.

That was about as much as flesh and blood could stand. The colored lad was so full of talk that it just gurgled in his throat.

"Dat's de mos' insulatin' thing what ebber happened tuh me!" he finally managed to gasp. "By golly, Ah doan' take dat f'om nobody. Dat snortin' talk Ah won't stan', dat's all."

"Blackee boy makee heap talk," taunted the Chinese; "him 'flaid makee hit with hands."

"'Fraid?" cried the darky. "Say, you, Pickerel Pete ain't afraid ob all de Chinks dat eber walked de erf. Chinks—waugh! Ah eat's 'em."

"Mebby you tly eatee Ping Pong?" invited the Celestial.

Pickerel Pete, watching his antagonist warily, stooped to pick up a small pebble. Very carefully he laid the pebble on his shoulder.

"Knock dat off," he gritted, his hand closing on the string that held the perch. "Yo' all ain't got de nerve. Yo's got gas enough fo' er b'loon dissension, but dat's all dere is to yu. Knock de stone offen mah shoulder! Go on, now, you yaller trash."

Ping leaned over and brushed the pebble away. That settled it. There was no retreat for either of the two after that.

Pete gave a whoop and struck at Ping with the string of perch. The string broke, and Ping got a perch down the loose collar of his kimono, while another slapped him across the eyes. For an instant the air was full of fish, and under cover of the finny cloud the enraged Chinese rushed at his enemy and gave him a push.

Pete sat down with a good deal of force, and, as it happened, he sat down on his fishhook. A fishhook was never known to lie any way but point up and ready for business, so Pete got up about as quick as he sat down. The next moment he rushed at Ping, trailing the line and the fishpole after him.

This time the two boys clinched, and the noise they made as they rolled about among the perch and pummeled each other caused a commotion at the boathouse. Motor Matt and George Lorry rushed out of the building and looked up the path.

"Great spark-plugs!" exclaimed Matt. "There's a fight going on up there, George."

"It looks that way, that's a fact," answered Lorry. "Let's go up and put a stop to it."

Matt was already bounding up the path. Before he had ascended more than fifteen feet he was met by two rolling, plunging, tumbling forms coming down. A tremendous clatter of sliding stones accompanied the descent, and a towed fishpole whacked and slammed in the rear.

Bracing himself, Matt succeeded in laying hold of the two closely grappled forms, and in bringing them to a stop; then, when he recognized who the fighters were, his astonishment held him speechless.

"Pickerel Pete!" exclaimed George Lorry.

"And Ping Pong," added Matt, as soon as he had recovered a little from his amazement. "The sight of Ping pretty near gives me a short circuit."

"My gottee job," whooped the breathless Ping; "Pickelel Pete no gottee!"

"Hit's my job, en Ah ain't er quittin' fo' no yaller feller like you!"

Thwack, thwack!

"Here, now," cried Matt, "this won't do. Stop it, you fellows!"

[Pg 3]

Pickerel Pete had a firm grip on Ping's pigtail—which is about the worst hold you can get on a Chinaman. Ping had one hand and arm around Pete's black neck, and the other hand was twisted in the fishline.

Every time Pete would pull the queue a sharp wail would go up from Ping, and every time the fishline was jerked Pete would howl and squirm.

"You boys ought to be ashamed of yourselves," said Matt, masking his desire to laugh with all the severity he could muster.

Lorry was leaning against a tree, his head bowed and his whole form in a quiver.

"Leavee go China boy's pigtail!" chirped Ping.

"Stop yo' pullin' on dat 'ar fishline!" howled Pete.

"Let go, both of you!" ordered Matt; then forcibly he pulled the two lads apart. "Here, Lorry," he called, "you hang onto Ping and I'll take care of Pete."

The youngsters were a disordered pair when separated and held at a distance from each other.

"What's the meaning of this?" demanded Matt.

CHAPTER II.

PICKEREL PETE'S REVENGE.

For several moments neither Pete nor Ping was able to reply to Matt's question. The darky was busy getting the fishhook out of his trousers, and the Chinese was hopping up and down on one foot, shaking the perch out of his flapping garments. Both the fish and the fishhook were extricated at about the same time.

"Say, boss," cried Pete, "yo' all ain't done passed me up fo' dat yaller trash, has yu? Ah's workin' fo' yu yit, ain't Ah? Dat 'ar slant-eye hefun was er sayin' dat he had de job, but Ah 'lows yo' wouldn't go en cut me offen yo' pay-roll fo' de likes ob him."

"My workee fo' Motol Matt," clamored Ping, "allee time. Blackee boy no workee. Me one piecee fine China boy. Lickee blackee boy allee same Sam Hill."

"Yo' nebber!" whooped Pete. "Ah kin git yo' on de mat wif mah eyes shut, en——"

"Stand right where you are, Pete!" cut in Matt sternly. "I'll not have any more rowdying. You and Ping ought to be ashamed of yourselves."

"You ketchee boat my sendee by expless, Motol Matt?" inquired Ping.

Matt had "caught" the boat, all right. Ping, without any instructions, had sent the eighteen-foot Sprite, with engine installed and various accessories in the lockers, from San Francisco to Madison, Wisconsin, by express, charges collect.

At first the king of the motor boys had been considerably "put out" by this unauthorized move of Ping's, but later he had been glad that the Sprite had come into his hands.

"Yes, Ping," said Matt, "I received the boat, and we have now got her in the boathouse down there, making some changes in her to fit her for the motor-boat race next week. Where have you been, Ping?"

"Makee come flom Flisco," answered the Chinese, hunting up his sandals and his hat. "My workee fo' you, so my come findee boss."

"The boat got here quite a while ago. How long have you been in the town?"

"Ketchee town yessulday. Makee ask chop-chop where my findee Motol Matt. Thisee molnin' 'Melican man say, so my come. Blackee boy allee same stone in China boy's load; China boy no see um, takee tumble; blackee boy velly mad, makee fight. Woosh!"

Pete, with snapping eyes, had been standing back listening to this talk. Now he thought it about time that he put in his own oar.

"Ah's brack, boss," said he to Matt, "but Ah ain't yaller. Cho'ly yo' ain't goin' tuh frow me down fo' dat 'ar no-'count hefun, is yo'? Ah's workin' fo' you fo' two dollahs er day. Ain't dat right?"

"Peter," said Matt, "you're not to be depended on. I hired you for two dollars a day to pilot me around the lakes, and I paid you for a day in advance. You went with me through the canal to Fourth Lake, and then up the Catfish to Whisky Creek. I left you to watch the boat, and you deserted, and I haven't seen you since until this minute. Now you bob up, just as though nothing had happened, and want to keep right on working for me. I don't think I need you any longer, Pete. You didn't work for me more than three hours, but you got paid for a full day, so you ought to be satisfied."

Ping puffed himself up delightedly. Pickerel Pete, on the other hand, seemed struck "all of a heap."

"Yo' doan' mean dat, does yo', boss?" he pleaded. "Ah's er good li'l moke, en Ah got testimendations f'om de gobernor ob de State. Yo' ain't gwineter turn down dem testimendations, is yo'?"

"I can't depend on you, Pete," said Matt. "I don't need a boy any more, anyhow; but I'm under obligations to Ping, so I'll have to take him on."

"Den Ah's kicked out?" shouted Pete.

"No, you're not kicked out. I don't need you, that's all."

"We had er contrack, en yo's done busted hit!" flared Pete savagely.

Matt could not restrain a laugh at the little darky's rage.

"You got the best of our contract, Pete," said Matt. "You owe me about a dollar and a half, but I'm willing to call it square."

"Ah owes yo' more'n dat," fumed Pete. "Yo's done kicked me out, en Ah ain't er gwine tur fo'git. Hit's dat yaller trash dat's 'sponsible"—he shook his black fist at Ping—"but Ah's gwine tuh play eben wif yo' all fo' whut yo's done. Jess watch mah smoke!"

"You little rascal!" spoke up Lorry; "what do you mean by talking that way? Get out of here!"

"Ah's gotter right tuh stay anywhere Ah please erround dishyer lake," cried Pete. "Yo' kain't drive me off, nuther. Yah! Dat ole boat you's fixin' up fo' de race ain't worf nuffin'. Ollie Merton he's gotter boat dat is er boat, en he's gwinter beat yo' outen yo' boots, dat's whut he is. Ah wouldn't 'sociate wif no sich fellers as you, en Ah wouldn't work fo' Motor Matt ef he paid me a millyun dollahs er day! Jess yo' watch mah smoke—Ah'll git eben, yassuh!"

With that the angry little rascal turned and ran up the path. But he did not run far. As soon as a bend in the crooked course had hidden him from the eyes of Matt and Lorry, he plunged off along the side of the bank, hiding himself in the undergrowth, and working his way slowly down toward the boathouse.

As soon as Pete had vanished, Lorry turned to Matt with a laugh.

[Pg 4]

"There's another enemy for us to deal with, Matt," said he.

"If he was bigger," returned Matt, "he might prove dangerous; but Pete's too small to count."

"Blackee boy no good," put in the smirking Ping. "My knockee blame head off!"

"Don't be so savage, Ping," said Matt humorously.

"So this is the chap that sent the Sprite to Madison by express, eh?" inquired Lorry, grinning as he gave the Celestial an up-and-down look.

"He's the fellow. Why did you drop out so suddenly in San Francisco, Ping?" and Matt turned to the Chinese.

"My waitee fo' you by Tiburon landing, you savvy?" said Ping. "Bumby, my see launly boss come down landing likee house afire. Woosh! No likee launly boss. My say 'goo'-by' and lun away. One, two, tlee day, my makee hunt fo' Motol Matt. Him gone. P'licee man say he gone Ma'son, Wiscon', so my gettee 'Melican man boxee boat, shippee Ma'son. You ketchee awri'. Velly fine. Now my workee fo' you. Hi-lee-lee, hi-lo-lo——"

Ping was happy. He had found Matt, and he was back on the job again. Not only that, but the "blackee boy" was cut out for good.

"Do you remember the three men who made us so much trouble in San Francisco, Ping?" asked Matt.

"Allee same. Red-whiskels 'Melican——"

"That's the fellow who's called Big John."

"Sure; him Big John, awri', and big lascal, too. Woosh! My lecollect Kinky and Loss. All thlee makee Matt heap tlouble."

"Big John, Kinky, and Ross, those are the men. Have you seen anything of them, Ping, since you left Frisco?"

"No see um, Motol Matt. My punchee head, me see um. Where Joe McGloly, huh? Him big high boy, Joe."

"McGlory's off around Picnic Point on a motor cycle, trying to find out how fast the boat is that the Sprite has got to beat. As the Wyandotte races through the lake, Joe was to race along the road on the lake shore, just keeping abreast of the boat. Then Joe's speedometer will tell him how fast the boat is going."

"No savvy," murmured Ping, shaking his head.

"Your talk is too deep for him, Matt," laughed Lorry. "Well, let's get back to the boathouse. You were just going to explain the changes you were making in the Sprite in order to make her fast enough to beat the Wyandotte."

"When Joe gets back," said Matt, "we'll know just how fast the Wyandotte can go, and just how fast the Sprite will have to travel."

"Merton may try to fool us, Matt. If he knows Joe is timing him, he'll not let the Wyandotte put in her best licks."

"I told Joe to be careful and not let any one on the Wyandotte see him. We've got to be just as careful. I'd hate to have Merton know what we were doing to the Sprite."

"Sure," nodded Lorry, "it won't do to have our hand tipped at this stage of the game."

Matt and Lorry started back toward the boathouse, Ping following them and looking back up the path on the chance of catching sight of Pickerel Pete.

"All the changes I'm making in the Sprite," continued Matt, "are drawn on that roll of papers I left on the work-bench. We'll go over those diagrams, one at a time, George, and I think I can make everything clear to you."

"Whatever you say, Matt, goes," returned Lorry. "You've got a head on you for such things. I know a good motor launch when I see it, and I can drive such a boat as well as anybody, but I'm no mechanic. All I want," and Lorry's eyes flashed and his words became sharp, "is to get a boat that will beat Merton's. You know how much that means to me."

"I do," said Matt, "and we're going to make a fast boat out of the Sprite. We'll give Ollie Merton a run for that prize, and no two ways about it. When Joe gets back, if he has had any kind of luck, we'll know just what we're up against."

The boathouse was large and roomy, and the doors were open, front and rear. Matt had transformed part of the interior into a workshop, and there was a bench, with a machinist's vise, under an open window at the side of the building. Tools and parts of the boat's machinery were scattered about, apparently in great disorder, but really with a methodical carelessness that left them handily in the spot where they would next be needed.

As the boys entered the boathouse, Matt started directly for the bench to get the roll of drawings. They were not where he had left them, and he turned blankly to Lorry.

"Did you do anything with that bundle of diagrams, George?" he asked.

"Never touched 'em, Matt," replied Lorry, with some excitement, "but I saw where you laid them—and it was right there."

Lorry dropped a hand on the work-bench, close to the open window.

"They've been stolen!" exclaimed Matt aghast. "They were taken while we were up the bank! Who could have done it?"

"Who but Merton and some of those rascally friends of his?" queried Lorry, his eyes flashing.

Matt ran to the other end of the boathouse and stepped out upon the small platform above the water, but, strain his eyes as he would, he could see nothing of any boat on that part of the lake.

CHAPTER III.

A "DARK HORSE."