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 TRIUMPH;

OR,

THREE SPEEDS FORWARD.

By the author of "MOTOR MATT."

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." Chub McReady, sometimes called plain "Reddy," for short, on account of his fiery "thatch"—a chum of Matt, with a streak of genius for inventing things that often lands the bold experimenter in trouble. Carl Pretzel, a cheerful and rollicking German lad, who is led by a fortunate accident to hook up with Motor Matt in double harness. Colonel Plympton, secretary of the Stark-Frisbie Motor Company. Uncle Tom, an old darky who was once a member of a traveling dramatic company, but who is now, by self-appointment, Motor Matt's "'fishul mascot." Mr. Trueman, of the Jarret Company, who gives Matt car No. 13 in the race. Slocum, an unprincipled schemer, who plays a deep game. Sercomb, Mings, Higgins, Grier, Finn, Martin, } six members of the Motor Drivers Association, some of whom prove themselves ready to go to any length to

keep Motor Matt out of the great race for the Borden Cup.

CHAPTER I.

THE WHITE-CAPS.

"Vat's der madder mit you? Ach, du lieber! Vaid a minid! For vy you do dot monkey-doodle pitzness? Hoop-a-la! Oof it vas a fighdt, den ged avay, a gouple oof tozen oof you, und come ad me vone py each. I show you somet'ing, py shings, vat you don'd like und—Wow! Himmelblitzen——"

The clamor which suddenly arose in that dark Denver cross-street was as suddenly hushed.

It was about nine o'clock in the evening, and two lamps on distant corners shed about as much light as a pair of tallow-dips. Midway between the two street-lamps lay the mouth of a gloomy alley, and here it was that the frantic commotion burst out and died abruptly.

A Dutch boy had been walking along the street, accompanied by a "loudly" dressed youth. At the entrance to the alley the Dutch boy's companion had stopped and given a low whistle. Almost immediately, and before the Teuton fairly realized what was going on, three figures had rushed from the gloom of the alley.

The Dutchman was caught from all sides, and, as he struggled, broke into a wild torrent of words. The torrent was suddenly stemmed by a cloth which was thrown over his head from behind; then, while smothered into silence and held helpless, he was lifted and borne along the alley to a basement door.

One of the four captors descended to the door and knocked three times in a peculiar manner. The door was pulled open, captors and captive vanished swiftly inside, and the door was closed. An inner door now confronted the party, and the same knock was given here as had been given outside.

"Who approaches?" demanded a sepulchral voice.

"Four drivers of racing-cars," answered the spokesman of the party, "bringing the Dutch chum of the fellow who calls himself Motor Matt."

[Pg 2]

"Give me the countersign."

"Four speeds forward and one reverse."

The countersign was whispered.

"Enter, drivers, and finish your work," went on the sepulchral voice.

Two minutes later the Dutch boy was seated in a chair, released, and the cloth whisked from his head. With a shout of anger he started to his feet.

"Sit down!" commanded a voice sternly.

The captive was blinded by a glare of acetyline lamps, the rays of which crossed the room from all four walls, interlacing and merging in one comprehensive glow. Gradually, as the captive's eyes became accustomed to the light, he made out the mouth of a small cannon thrust into his face. Back of the gun stood a figure cowled in white.

The Dutch boy started back from the leveled weapon and sank into his chair once more; then his wondering eyes swerved about him.

An automobile stood in front of him, backed up against the stone wall of the basement. It was a two-passenger roadster, with acetyline and oil-lamps lighted. In the driver's seat sat another cowled figure. Three chairs on either side of the automobile held more of the white-caps, all rigidly erect and silent.

"Vat a foolish pitzness!" growled the captive. "Oof you hat a ring ve vould haf a circus, und——"

"Silence!" thundered the white-cap with the gun.

He had taken a seat at the captive's side, and leaned from his chair to poke the point of the weapon in the captive's ribs.

Honk, honk!

The man in the car tooted his horn.

"Number Three," said he, "will report."

From one of the chairs on the right a white-cap arose, stepped in front of the car and kowtowed.

"Most Honorable King of Chauffeurs," said he, "I have to report that I met the captive at the railroad-station. He had claimed a couple of grips and sent them to a hotel by an expressman. I informed him that my name was Higgins, and that I had something of importance to tell him about this fellow who calls himself Motor Matt. He swallowed the bait, hook and all, and I brought him past the mouth of the alley. Aided by Numbers One, Two, and Four, we captured him easily."

Honk, honk!

"Very good, Number Three," said the King of Chauffeurs; "return to your station."

Number Three sat down.

"Py shiminy grickets!" cried the captive, who had been watching and listening with a good deal of amazement, "it looks like I vas Numper Nodding mit a douple cross alongsite!"

"Your name, captive?" demanded the man in the car.

"Carl Pretzel, Most Eggselent King oof der Sore Headts——"

Honk, honk!

"If the prisoner refers again to the head of this exalted society in such insulting terms, Warder, put a hole through him!"

This from the man in the car.

"Even so, your highness!" answered the Warder.

"You are the chum of the Big High Butter-in who calls himself Motor Matt?" proceeded the man in the car.

Carl's temper rushed to the surface.

"Don'd you make some insulding remarks neider!" he scowled. "Modor Matt don'd vas a putter-in! Und I peen his chum, efery tay und all der dime, yah, so helup me."

"Motor Matt came to Denver with Mr. James Q. Tomlinson, in Mr. Tomlinson's touring-car, the Red Flier?" proceeded the man in the car.

"Vat iss it your pitzness?" demanded Carl.

"Motor Matt has come here to enter the racing-field?" continued the other.

"Vell, he iss a pedder triver as anypody, und vy nod?"

"He intends to apply to Colonel Plympton for a place on the Stark-Frisbie staff of racers? He wants to drive a car in the race for the Bordon cup?"

"I don'd say nodding. Vatefer Modor Matt toes, he vill do, und it vill be pedder oof you leaf him alone."

"Carl Pretzel," went on the man in the car sternly, "we have a line on this Motor Matt. He is the original Buttinsky. Wherever he goes he noses around for a place where he can meddle with other people's business. A week ago he was at his old tricks down in New Mexico, and——"

Carl jumped to his feet angrily.

"Sit down!" commanded the fellow at his side, jabbing him with the muzzle of the gun.

"Ven I ged goot und retty," fumed Carl, "I vill sot down, und nod pefore. I know vat I know, und I shpeak it oudt. Make some holes in me oof you vant, aber I don'd t'ink you haf der nerf to make holes in anypody. Modor Matt don'd vas a Puttinsky. Dis iss a free goundry, I bed you, und no fellers in nighdt-gowns iss going to make some fault-findings mit my chum, Modor Matt. Vat he do in New Mexico? Vy, he safe his friendt, Tick Verral, from being killed twice. Dot's vat he dit mit his putting-ins. I don'd shday here no more und lis'en to sooch talk vat you make. Vich iss der vay oudt? Oof you don'd led me go, py shinks I make you more drouples as I can dell!"

Carl started toward the door.

Honk, honk!

"Seize him, drivers!" called the man in the car. "Bind him, blindfold him, and place him in the car. Assisted by the Warder, I will carry him off. Remain here, the[Pg 3] rest of you, until we return and go into executive session."

Carl was grabbed by all the white-caps; then, after he had been thrown on the floor, his feet and hands were tied and a cloth was bound over his eyes.

"Pretzel," went on the voice of the man in the car, "we racing-drivers are particular about those who enter our ranks. If Motor Matt attempts to race for the Borden cup, he will never live to face the tape at the start. In your pocket we will place a communication which you will deliver to him. It contains a threat and a warning. Let him ignore that letter at his peril."

"You fellers make me so dired as I don'd know!" stormed Carl, struggling to free himself. "Modor Matt don'd vas a kevitter. Vat you say don'd make no odds aboudt ter tifference. You vill know more vone oof dose tays dan vat you t'ink. Pah! You vas all a back oof gowards, und don'd haf der nerf to show your faces! Ven I dell Modor Matt vat——"

Honk, honk!

"Gag him, drivers, and lay him in the car!"

Something was pushed between Carl's lips and tied there. He still continued to splutter, but the sounds were muffled and the words indistinct.

He felt himself lifted and crumpled into the front of the roadster.

"Open the doors!" ordered the driver in the car. "Number One, crank-up!"

Carl could hear the doors thrown ajar, and this noise was followed by the popping of the motor as the cylinders took the explosion.

"Remember what I say, drivers," called the leader of the gang, "and wait here for us to return. We have plans to consider."

Then the car moved off on the low gear. Carl felt it turn through the entrance and chuggety-chug up an incline; another turn and they were in the alley, another and they were in the street. After that, for a few minutes, the vehicle flew swiftly. Presently it halted, Carl's ropes were stripped away, and he was thrown out.

Stumbling to his knees, he began frantically jerking off the cloth that covered his eyes, and the gag that interfered with his speech.

The tail-light of the roadster was just vanishing around a corner. Carl shook his fist after the car and got to his feet, saying things to himself.

His novel experience had dazed him. It was all so unreal that it seemed like a dream.

Still muttering to himself, he made his way to the sidewalk, found a policeman, inquired his way to the Clifton House, and set out hurriedly to find Motor Matt, and report.

CHAPTER II.

MOTOR MATT'S FOES.

Motor Matt was in his room at the Clifton House. Late that afternoon he and Carl had arrived in Denver in the Red Flier, having brought Mr. Tomlinson, the owner of the car, and Gregory, Mr. Tomlinson's driver, from Santa Fé. Matt had been in charge of the touring-car for several weeks, having taken it in hand at Ash Fork, Arizona.[A] He and Carl had brought it alone as far as Santa Fé, where they had been joined by Mr. Tomlinson and Gregory.

[A] See Motor Stories No. 5, 6, and 7.

The boys had had numerous adventures on the long trail, and not only they, but the car as well, had been placed in considerable peril. Now, however, the dangers were past, the car—owing to Matt's careful handling—had been placed in the garage in as good condition as when it had come into the young motorist's hands, and everybody was pleased—Mr. Tomlinson exceedingly so.

The extra luggage belonging to the boys had been checked to Denver from Santa Fé, and directly after supper Matt had sent Carl to the railroad station with the checks.

Matt, lounging in his room and waiting for Carl to return, thought his chum was taking a long time to do his errand. The expressman brought the grips, but no Carl came with them.

It was half-past ten before Carl came in. There was a bruise on the side of his face, his clothes were covered with dust and dirt, and he was puffed up like an angry robin.

"Great Scott, Carl!" exclaimed Matt, taking the Dutch boy's sizing with a quick glance; "did you have to have a fight with the baggage-smasher in order to get the grips? You look like you'd had a scrap!"

"Den," growled Carl, "I look like vat it iss." He threw off his coat and cap, pulled down his red vest, and flung himself into a chair. "I haf hat more shcraps as vone, Matt, und dot's all aboudt it. Py shiminy, I peen so madt I don'd can see srtraight," and he went on to rehearse his experiences to the wondering Matt.

"Sounds like a pipe-dream," commented Matt, when his chum had finished. "Instead of being in peaceful, law-abiding Denver, you'd think we had struck a mining-camp. Who was the fellow who met you at the station?"

"He say dot his name vas Higgins, aber I bed you dot don'd vas it, any more as my name vas Dunder. 'You peen Modor Matt's bard,' he say, like dot, making some friendliness mit me, 'und I got somet'ing to tell vat Modor Matt shouldt hear. You valk mit me,' he say, 'und I tell you, und you tell Matt.' Vell, I pelieve vat I hear, und he shteers me py der alley. Ach, it vas some put-oop chobs all der vay t'roo, you bed my life."

"You didn't recognize Higgins as being any one else?"

[Pg 4]

"I reckognize him as being some plackguards, all righdt!"

"I mean, you'd have known him for Ralph Sercomb, Balt Finn, Joe Mings, or Harry Packard if he had been one of them?"

"Sure; aber he don'd vas dot. He vas some odder fellers."

"All those chaps were mixed up in the trouble we had down near Lamy, in New Mexico, while we were helping Dick Ferral. They're the only Denver motor-racers I know who would have it in for me."[B]

[B] See No. 7 of the Motor Stories, "Motor Matt's Clue; or, The Phantom Auto."

"Meppy dose vas der fellers, Matt," said Carl, "aber dey vore vite caps ofer der faces und I don'd vas aple to see oof dey vas."

"Sercomb and his pals were all motorists," mused Matt. "But what good will it do for them to try to keep me out of the Borden cup-race? I've got a chance to make a record by going into that race, and I'm going to get into it, if I can."

"Sure you vas going indo der race, bard, und dose sore-headts von't be aple to keep you oudt."

"I'm not going to back-water for them."

"Dot's you," chuckled Carl. "You vill be dwice as keen to ged in der race now as you vas pefore. Dot's der vay Modor Matt iss pud oop! Py shinks, you vas der pest all-orundt modor feller vat efer habbened——"

"Oh, splash!" laughed Matt. "Use the soft pedal, Carl."

"Py chimineddy, I mean vat I say!" persisted Carl. "You know more aboudt modors in a year as some odder fellers know in a minid, und——"

"I guess that's right."

"Misder Domlinson say dot you peen a crack racer, und dot you ged oudt oof a car all der speed vat vas in it."

"Well, hang onto your bouquets for a while and let's see that letter the white-caps gave you to deliver to me."

"Vouldn't dot gif you some grimps?" cried Carl, reaching for his coat. "I vas forgeddng all aboudt dot ledder."

He extracted a sealed envelope from his pocket and tossed it to Matt. Matt pulled his chair closer to the light and examined the envelope.

He smiled grimly as he read, "'To Buttinsky, otherwise Matt King, otherwise Motor Matt. Kindness of Wienerwurst.' They're complimentary, that gang. Eh, Carl?"

Carl had been lifted out of his chair.

"Be jeerful, eferypody!" he muttered. "Is dot vat iss saidt on der enfellop, Matt? Iss it me dey mean by dot 'Wienerwurst' pitzness?"

"Of course! Who else?"

"Ach, ven I ged dime you bed you I go looking for dot cellar blace some more, und ven I findt it, I rip dot society oop der pack like some cyclones! 'Wienerwurst!' Pringle call me dot, vonce, und I gif him Hail Golumpy in forty-'lefen keys. Readt der ledder oudt loud, Matt. Oof it say anyt'ing more aboudt 'Wienerwurst,' meppy I go hunt for dot cellar blace do-night!"

"Barking dogs are not always the ones that bite, Carl," returned Matt, opening the envelope and extracting the enclosed sheet. "I haven't a very high opinion of those friends of Sercomb's, and I guess they'll be careful not to do anything very desperate."

"Vell, dey tied Verral in der Ret Flier und shtart him for der cliffs. Dot vas tesperade enough, ain'd it?"

"They did that out in the wilds; but we're in Denver now, and there's a policeman on every block."

Thereupon Motor Matt began to read.

"If Matt King thinks he can come to Denver and butt into the racing game, he's some shy of the situation. The motor-drivers of this town are a little particular who they associate with. Nearly all our members will be represented in the race for the Borden cup, and King is warned to stay out of it. He is also ordered to leave Denver inside of twenty-four hours, and to make no deal with Colonel Plympton, of the Stark-Frisbie Company. Unless King follows instructions, something will happen to him. A word to the wise is sufficient."

"Ach, iss dot so!" whooped Carl. "'A vort to der vise,' hey? Say, dot makes me madt as some horneds! I vonder oof dot punch oof plackguards t'ink dey boss der goundry? Donnervetter! I vould like to gif der hull oudfidt a punch in der slads!"

Matt was thoughtful.

"It's Sercomb and his gang all right," he averred finally. "When I saw Sercomb last, he swore he'd be even with me. He sent that letter, not because he doesn't want me in the racing game, but because he knows I won't pay any attention to his orders, and that it will give him an excuse to try some underhand work."

"I vould like to knock dot Sercomb's face indo his pack hair," fumed Carl. "He vas a lopsder, a rekular rank-a-tang! Und I bed you dot pefore he iss tone mit us he vill know dot he has peen mixed oop mit a gouple oof life vones. 'Wienerwurst!' He mighdt as vell haf called me a sissage. I'll show him I don'd vas anyt'ing like dot. Mings iss as pad as Sercomb, und so iss Packard, aber I ditn't t'ink Finn vouldt shtand for any sooch vork. Dere iss more as Mings, Packard, und Finn mit dem, too."

"Sercomb has told his own story to the rest of the members of that club," said Matt. "He has rubbed it into my character in pretty strong style, I suppose, and in order to get even with me, and have all the others on his side, he uses the race for the Borden cup as a pretext."

[Pg 5]

"Vell, be jeerful, Matt. It dakes t'ings like dose to keep a feller chinchered oop."

"Right you are, Carl," laughed Matt. "I'll get into that race, now, if it takes a leg."

"Sure!" cooed Carl. "You vill be in it mit bot' feets efen oof vone leg iss gone. How iss dot for a choke?"

"It may not be so easy to break into the game, after all."

"Eferyt'ing iss easy for Modor Matt," gloried Carl. "You vill ged indo der game schust like falling off some logs. For vy nod?"

"Well, for one thing, I haven't any racing record behind me."

"Ach, hear dot! Ditn't you beat oudt a Limidet Egspress Drain mit a modorcycle? Und hain't you peen racing pubbles efer since ve left Ash Fork?"

"All that hasn't given me a racing record. When a manufacturer puts a twenty-thousand-dollar racing-car in the field, he wants to be more than sure that his driver has plenty of nerve and skill. About the only way he can be sure of that is by looking back over his record and seeing what he has done."

"Vell, let dem look pack so far as dey blease ofer your recordt. Dey vill findt some surbrises, you bed you."

"The race for the Borden cup is only two weeks off, Carl. The Automobile Club decided it was to be run over a Kansas course, and limited to western machines. Why, some of the contestants have already been on the scene of the race for a week!"

"I don'd care for dot," averred Carl stoutly. "You vill make goot schust der same. Mindt vat I say."

Just then there came a rap on the door. Matt answered the summons and found the bell-boy with a card. "Colonel Jasper Plympton," ran the legend on the bit of pasteboard.

Matt caught his breath. Colonel Plympton was coming to see him!

"Ask him to come right up," said Matt, turning away.

"Who it vas?" queried Carl curiously.

"Plympton!" exclaimed Matt exultantly. "He is hunting me instead of letting me go looking for him."

Carl wore a grin you could have tied behind his ears.

"Now vat vouldt dot Sercomb gang say oof dey knowed dot!" he chuckled.

CHAPTER III.