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 PROMISE;

OR,

THE WRECK OF THE HAWK.

By the author of "MOTOR MATT."

CHARACTERS THAT APPEAR IN THIS STORY.

Motor Matt, a lad who is at home with every variety of motor, and whose never-failing nerve serves to carry him through difficulties that would daunt any ordinary young fellow. Because of his daring as a racer with bicycle, motor-cycle and automobile he is known as "Mile-a-minute Matt." Motor-boats, air ships and submarines come naturally in his line, and consequently he lives in an atmosphere of adventure in following up his "hobby." Carl Pretzel, a cheerful and rollicking German boy, stout of frame as well as of heart, who is led by a fortunate accident to link his fortunes with those of Motor Matt. Dick Ferral, a young sea dog from Canada, with all a sailor's superstitions, but in spite of all that a royal chum, ready to stand by the friend of his choice through thick and thin. Archibald Townsend, a wealthy though eccentric gentleman, who owns a remarkable submarine boat on which our friends have seen various adventures in the past. Cassidy, mate of the submarine Grampus. Whistler, Jurgens, Bangs, } a trio of rogues bent upon gaining possession of a prize.

Joe Dashington, Motor Matt's double, who proves how small a matter will sometimes turn a fellow from the wrong road into the right one. Shirley, of Scotland Yard, who springs a surprise at the end of the story. Fetterman, assistant chief of police, who helps the Scotland Yard man.

CHAPTER I.

ON THE LEVEE.

"Py shiminy grickets!"

"Well, strike me lucky!"

"Can I pelieve vat I see mit my eyes, Tick, or haf I got der plind shtaggers?"

"I'm guessing good and hard, Carl. It's main queer, and no mistake."

"Py all der rules oof der game dot feller iss Matt King, oddervise Modor Matt, oddervise Mile-a-minute Matt, King oof der Modor Poys und Gaptain oof der air ship Hawk, aber I bed you I nefer see him like dot pefore."

"It's Matt, all right, but sink me if I'm not taken all aback by the way he acts. What's come over the old ship to do like that?"

It was about half-past four in the afternoon, and Carl Pretzel and Dick Ferral were on their way along the water front of New Orleans. They had gone into town on an important errand and were now returning to Stuyvesant Dock, where their air ship was moored and where they had expected to find Motor Matt.

Just off the foot of Canal Street a steamer was loading for False River. Four-mule teams attached to heavy drays were backed up to the wharf and long lines of darkies were crossing the gang plank with bags on their shoulders and recrossing empty-handed for other burdens.

It was an attractive scene for the two boys and they halted for a few moments to watch; then, suddenly, a big surprise was sprung on them. They saw Motor Matt, hands in his pockets, loafing along the levee—at least they thought it was Motor Matt, for the lad was of the same build, the same height and with a face exactly like the young motorist's. Carl and Dick knew Matt so well that they were positive they were not mistaken, but there was something about Matt they could not understand.

In the first place, Matt was slouching along. That wasn't like him, for as a rule he was as spry as a cricket in all his movements. Then, again, Matt was wearing a slouch hat, a dingy red sweater and frayed corduroy trousers—all as different as possible from the trim young motorist in his leather cap and jacket. But—and this was[Pg 2] the most incomprehensible thing to Carl and Dick—Matt was smoking a cigarette. Now, Motor Matt was down on cigarettes good and hard, for he knew the havoc they made with a fellow's constitution, and that no one could keep in the pink of condition if he used them; and yet, there he was with one of the rice-paper things hanging between his lips.

Small wonder Carl and Dick were astounded. If a small-sized earthquake had happened along and shaken things up generally the two boys could not have been more astounded.

Although they were in plain view, yet Matt did not seem to notice them. For a while they stared—and then, abruptly, Dick had an idea.

"He's in disguise," averred Dick.

"For vy iss he dot?" inquired Carl.

"It must be he's watching somebody and don't want the fellow to know who he is."

"Vat a foolishness!" muttered Carl. "He can't make some disguises unless he geds anodder face. I vould know dot face oof his anyvere, no madder how he vas got oop, nor how many cigarettes he shmoked. Ach, du lieber! I am surbrised ad him, und dot's all aboudt it."

"Well," continued Dick, "this letter of Townsend's is important and I've got to get it into his hands. If Matt is watching somebody, the thing is to hand him the letter without giving him away. Any one seeing us chinning with him would suspect right away that he was our chum, for all three of us are pretty well known up and down the river front."

"Dot's righdt," said Carl. "Ve don'd vant to tip off his game oof he iss blaying vone. How ve vas going to gif him der ledder, hey?"

"I guess I can do it, but it won't be any first-chop work. I'll give a whistle and make him look this way, then I'll flash the letter, lay it on this bale of cotton, and we'll back off and give him a wide berth."

"Meppy der feller Matt iss vatching vill see you do dot?"

"Mayhap, but we've got to run the risk. This letter of Townsend's, you know, is important and must be acted upon to-night. Now listen while I pipe up."

Ferral put his fingers to his lips and whistled shrilly. Several loungers looked toward the two boys, Matt himself shifting his eyes languidly in their direction. Ferral at once drew a letter from the breast of his shirt, held it in front of him, cautiously pointed to it as he looked at Matt and then laid it on the bale of cotton.

It was far from being cleverly done—the very nature of the case, with so many loungers about, put cleverness out of the question. All Dick hoped for, however, was that the man Matt was watching might not see the move.

The work of Carl and Dick was built entirely on surmises. Unable to explain Matt's get-up and actions in any other way, they surmised that he must be watching some one; but the biggest surmise—and which, to the boys, seemed no surmise at all, but positive reality—was that the lad was Motor Matt.

Matt, hands still in his pockets and cigarette between his lips, shuffled toward the cotton bale.

"We've tipped him off," chuckled Dick, as he and Carl backed away. "He'll fall afoul of that letter, now, and it's up to us to give him a good offing. I hope the move wasn't seen by the swab he's got under his eye."

From a safe distance the two boys watched while Matt came close to the bale and leaned against it while he picked up the letter. He was amazingly open and aboveboard while he examined that letter. Carl and Dick thought he would sneak it off the cotton bale, tuck it in his pocket and lounge carelessly away. But they were mistaken. Matt held the letter up curiously and turned it around and around in his hand.

"Well, keelhaul me!" growled Dick. "He might just as well tell everybody what we've done as to examine the letter like that. There must be a screw loose in his head! Why, I never saw him act like that before. I can't smoke his roll any way you put it."

"I vas all mixed oop aboudt it meinseluf," said Carl, in a puzzled tone. "He iss acting so keveer as I can't tell. Oof he vas keeping drack oof somepody, vy don'd——"

Just then something happened that caused Carl to catch his breath. A startled exclamation escaped Dick.

In a flash the cotton bale had leaped into flame!

Wild shouts came from everywhere on that part of the levee. Stevedores dropped their burdens, bystanders lost their passive demeanor and teamsters jumped from their trucks. Buckets were secured and dipped in the river, and hustled toward the blazing bale with the water.

Meanwhile, Matt had slouched off to a good distance from the fire. While the boys drew nearer and watched excitedly, they saw an officer rush up to their chum, seize the cigarette from his lips and dash it on the planks and crush it under his foot.

"Can't you read, you idiot?" fumed the officer. "Look there!"

With his club he pointed to a sign which read, "No smoking." All over the levee there were signs to that effect. No matter which way a fellow turned the curt order, "No smoking," stared him in the face.

"Aw, forget it!" said Matt, with a curt disregard for legal authority that came to Dick and Carl like a slap in the face. "You're a copper, all right, but you can't get gay with me."

This insolence astounded the officer. Likewise it served to arouse his temper.

"I'll get gay with you, all right, my festive kiskedee," he snapped. "That cigarette of yours set fire to that bale, an' you'll just consider yourself pinched."

The officer's hand dropped on Matt's shoulder.

"You will pinch me, eh?" answered Matt. "Well, you've got another guess coming!"

With that his languid air vanished in a twinkling and he became imbued with the fiercest kind of energy. With a swift leap he wrenched himself free of the policeman's detaining hand. The policeman, with an angry shout, jumped at him, swinging his club. Matt's foot went out and the policeman was neatly tripped and measured his length on the planks.

This was energy of the kind Motor Matt could display, upon occasion, but he had never been known to direct it against an officer of the law. Nor was Motor Matt insolent—he had other ways for meeting injustice.

Astonishment at the swift progress of events and the unheard-of actions of their chum held Carl and Dick stunned in their tracks.

"He iss grazy!" averred Carl, with a gasp. "Modor Matt has gone off der chump! He iss pughouse, yah, so helup me!"

"He's all ahoo in his top hammer and no mistake!" agreed Dick. "But we've got to help him, Carl. We can't stand off and on while Matt's in trouble. Avast there!" he yelled, running toward the exciting scene.

[Pg 3]

"Hold back a minute, officer! Sheer off, and keep those men back!"

The policeman had scrambled to his feet, and stevedores and bystanders were all making a concerted rush in Matt's direction.

"Yah, yah," taunted Matt defiantly. "I'm ready for anything from a fight to a foot race."

He was lightning-like in his movements now. Pulling over a barrel that stood on end, he rolled it into the midst of his pursuers. Half a dozen of them went down in a tangled heap and so interfered with the others that pursuit was, for a moment, checked.

Matt made the most of this period of grace and ducked away toward Canal Street. There were two or three carriages at the edge of the wharf, and by the open door of one of them a man was standing.

"This way, King!" the man shouted, beckoning.

Carl and Dick saw the fugitive swerve in the direction of the carriage. Another moment and he and the man were inside, the door slammed, and the darky on the box whipped away. In less time than it takes to tell it, the carriage was lost in a crowd of vehicles, while Dick and Carl were gasping on the levee, staring blankly into each other's eyes.

CHAPTER II.

MIXED IDENTITIES.

"You're all right, neighbor," panted the fugitive as he settled back in the carriage seat. "I was in a tight corner, but the copper hadn't any call to rough things up with me like he did. How did you happen to be handy by and willing to give me a lift?"

"I've been watching you for fifteen or twenty minutes," answered the man.

"Piping me off, eh? Why was that? What's your graft, anyhow? Put me wise and oblige."

"Oh, drop it!" said the other disgustedly. "You know me, all right enough. Look!"

The man wore a black beard. Lifting his hands as he spoke he plucked it away, revealing a smoothly shaven face.

"Recognize me now?" he queried, with a husky laugh.

"If I do I'm a geezer," answered the youth. "Why the bogus wind teasers? Gee, but this is a warm play."

"You make me tired!" scowled the man. "My name's Whistler, as you know well enough."

"Whistler, Whistler," murmured the fugitive. "On the level, Whistler, you've got past my guard. But what's the diff? You're one-two-seven with me for lifting me out of that bunch of trouble. But, tell me, whose game of muggins is this, and what's the stake? Anything higher than two-call-five and a quarter to see puts me out of the running. You've heard of the bank that broke the man at Monte Carlo? Well, listen—I'm It. Please drop that dizzy front, old fel, and tell me why you're a counterfeit. Not being a has-wasser myself, I'm game for anything that promises kopecks, simoleons, or anything white or yellow with the eagle bird and E Pluribus Get-there on the side. Have one?"

With two yellow-stained fingers, the youth pulled a cigarette box from under his sweater and offered it to the man. The latter, apparently in a daze, shook his head negatively. With a grin, the fugitive lighted a cigarette and put away the box.

"Now, Whistler," he pattered, "cut away with the straight dope and tell me all about it."

Whistler narrowed his eyes and studied the fugitive's face for a minute.

"You've got more tricks in your basket, Matt King," said he, "than I've given you credit for, up to now."

"Thanks, Whistler," drawled the youth, "you'll never hear me putting up a roar when that sort of con talk is shoved at me. Yes, indeed, I've gathered much knowledge while knocking about our little planet. Experience came to me early and says, 'Joe, put your little hand in mine and let's go out and take a bird's-eye view of the Universe.' We went. Perhaps that's why, at the present speaking, I'm in N. O. all but broke. Being bashful and retiring, I don't like to feature myself; but you're keen, Whistler, and I couldn't dodge you."

The torrent of language flowed steadily, and as it flowed Whistler grew more and more surprised.

"Great jumping je-lucifer!" he muttered. "You've changed a whole lot in the last few days, King. I suppose that happened when you took to cigarettes?"

"Nay, not according to league rules." The lad allowed a mouthful of smoke to trickle out through his lips and nose. "King, eh?" he went on. "How you do keep handing me the bokays. I was king of the track when I rode the ponies, king of the plungers when I played 'em, and king of the 'bos now they've broke me. Oh, yes, call me King by all means."

Whistler, still staring, sat back and mumbled to himself.

"What do you call yourself, now?" he asked.

"A mistake. I took the wrong turn at the forks of the road. Prosperityville lay on the other track and I'm just over the hill from the poorhouse. Also I call myself Dennis, and I spell it M-u-d. When I was christened they named me Joe, and the other part of it was Dashington. Generally they referred to me as Dash. That's about all I amount to, now; just a dash—a straight line that ought to stand for something, but don't."

"You're a pretty slick counterfeit yourself, King," laughed Whistler. "I never dreamed that Motor Matt could play himself up like this."

"My, my!" murmured Joe Dashington. "He thinks I'm stringing him! If I'd been careless with the truth he'd have believed me; but now that I'm giving it to him straight, he winks the other eye and drops a mitt on his left shoulder."

The carriage came to a stop. Joe Dashington started up and looked through the carriage window.

"Have the cops landed on me?" he inquired, "or have we reached the place we're going?"

"We've stopped where I wanted to, Motor Matt," returned Whistler. "Do you see this?"

He lifted a hand from his outside jacket pocket and showed a glimmering bit of steel.

"Not being blind," answered Dash calmly, "I'm wise to the pepper box. Ah, ha, the plot thickens! Why the gun?"

"I said I was watching you, there on the dock," answered Whistler sternly, "and I was doing it for a purpose. You were disguised, and I believed then and am of the opinion now that you were trying to find out something about me. I intended going to False River on that boat, but changed my plans when I saw you.[Pg 4] You're going to get out here and accompany me into the house before which we have stopped; and you're going to remember, Motor Matt, that this pepper box is in my pocket all the time, and that I can use it there just as well as though I had it in sight."

"Yes, yes, this is a funny play, but I'm a passenger, Mr. Whistler, and you seem to hold all the trumps. I shall be glad to go into the house with you. Johnny Hardluck has been rubbing my fur the wrong way for days and days, and I'd get heart failure if he didn't keep it up."

Whistler opened the door with one hand, and he and the youth got out of the carriage, crossed the walk, climbed a flight of steps and vanished into the house. They were met in the hall by a man who showed a good deal of surprise.

"Great Scott, Whistler!" fretted the man. "I thought you were on your way to False River, by now."

"Changed my plan, Jurgens," replied Whistler. "Conduct us into the front room where the light is better. I've a surprise for you."

Jurgens gave a sharp look in the fugitive's direction, turned and led the way into an apartment where the late afternoon sun rendered objects clearer to the eye.

"What!" he cried, startled. "Matt King!" He whirled angrily on Whistler. "What do you mean by bringing him here?"

"Don't go off the jump, Jurgens," answered Whistler, "until you learn more. Bangs went with me to the landing, and just as I was about to go on the boat I caught sight of King. I wondered why he was got up like that, and I believed that he was watching me. While I was wondering whether I should go on the boat, or not, this lad turned a little trouble on the levee. Those two chums of his, the sailor and the Dutchman, signaled and one of them laid a letter on a cotton bale. King went forward to get it and a spark from his cigarette fired the bale. A policeman started after him, and I motioned for him to come to the carriage. I saw, then, that he didn't know me. He accepted my invitation and I brought him away. Now we can make him tell us what his game is, and we can have a look at that letter."

Joe Dashington listened to all this with a surprised grin.

"I suppose I ought to have heart failure over this," he remarked, "but, somehow, it don't phase me. I can't be much worse off than I am, no matter what happens. When you gents find out you've made a sucker play, perhaps you'll tell me how I can turn enough of the ready for a board bill and a place to pound my ear."

"He's trying to tell me that his name's not King," scoffed Whistler.

Jurgens, deeply interested, laid his head on one side and studied the youth at some length.

"His face is King's, plain enough," said he finally, "but he's rigged out like a hoodlum and talks like a beachcomber. What's the answer?"

"I'm by," laughed Joe Dashington. "You fellows tell me."

He lighted another cigarette.

"Pass over that letter," ordered Whistler.

Dashington, without a dissenting word, handed the letter to Whistler.

"I know as much about it as you do," said he. "If it's an invite to go out with a stocking full of sand, please count me in. Anything with money in it looks good to me."

The envelope bore the words, "For Motor Matt."

"He's King, easy enough," averred Jurgens, looking over Whistler's shoulder.

"That's a cinch," averred Whistler, opening the letter and removing the inclosed sheet.

Together the two men read the letter, managing to keep wary eyes on the youth as they did so.