Chapter XVI: Conclusion

Matt King opened his eyes in his old room at the Briggs House. The roar of the limited was still in his ears, and the awful grinding crash that he had last heard. Sheriff Burke was sitting beside the bed and there were innumerable bandages about Matt's body and a strong smell of drugs in the room.

"How's everything?" Matt mumbled, trying to sit up.

Burke gently pushed him back.

"Fine and dandy, Matt," said he: "but, best of all, is the way you got out of that smash."

"Oh, is it you, Mr. Burke?" queried Matt.

"Surest thing you know," laughed Burke. "That was a great race you made. Racin' the limited! First time it was ever done in these parts."

"Who brought me in?" went on Matt.

"A couple of freighters who were with the wagon you ran into. They thought you were going to turn up your toes, but 'Not for him,' says I. 'That boy,' I says, 'wasn't born to be snuffed out in a little smash like that.' But you've been unconscious for quite a while."

"How long?"

"Well, it's five o'clock now, and you had your race along about nine-forty, this morning."

"What's the matter with me?" demanded Matt, in consternation. "I'm not badly hurt, am I? I don't feel as though I was."

"Not a bone broken, and that's the wonder of it. You hit that wagon like an earthquake, they say. You've had the skin scraped off you in several places, but the doctor says you'll be as well as ever in a week--providing there are no internal injuries."

"Well," said Matt, "there aren't any. I'd know it, I guess, if there was."

"I guess you would."

"Heard anything from Phoenix?"

"Got news that will make you feel like a fighting-cock! A telegram got here sayin' that Clipperton has been freed----"

"Glory!"

"McReady got there in time to flash the affidavit of Pima Pete's before the case went to the jury; but the telegram says it wasn't the affidavit that turned the trick so much as the grit and determination of you and McReady in getting the document to Phoenix."

"But Clip's innocent! Everybody's got to know that."

"Everybody _will_ know it, too," averred the sheriff. "The two men who took the money from Fresnay were captured by three of the men I sent out on your tip. They brought the rascals in, not more than an hour ago, gold and all--not early enough to free Clipperton, but in plenty of time to set him straight with anybody who still had a doubt of his innocence. I wired the news to Phoenix an hour ago, and McKibben and some more people will be up on to-night's freight."

There seemed to be nothing more that Motor Matt could wish for. But he roused up from a reverie to ask after the _Comet_.

"That motor-cycle," said Burke, "is a mass of junk. You've had your last ride on it, Matt. You did a lot of good work with that machine."

"But the best work I ever did with it," said Matt, "I did this morning. What I accomplished for Clip was worth the price. And Chub! Talk about pluck and grit, he showed it if ever a fellow did."

"You both showed it," said Burke. "One of the captured scoundrels, Torrel by name, has turned State's evidence. He told me all about everything. Says he, and the fellow with him, have been staying at the house of a Mexican in Phoenix, ever since the Dangerfield gang was put out of business. They knew Dangerfield had buried ten thousand dollars in gold, not far away in the hills, and they knew Pima Pete had been let into the secret of the cache. They were in Phoenix watching Pete. A Mexican, belonging to the place where the two outlaws were staying, carried a note to you that had been given him by Pete. This was after the robbery----"

"But how did Torrel and his pal know about the pay-roll money?" interposed Matt. "If they were watching Pete in order to locate Dangerfield's gold----"

"That's right," broke in Burke, "I'm getting a little ahead of my yarn. Well, they heard from some one that Fresnay had come to town after the ranch-money. That gave them the idea they could make a rich haul without bothering with Pete, so they went out in the hills and made it. They learned, next morning, that Clipperton and Pete had been captured, that Pete had got away, and that circumstances pointed to Clipperton as the thief--Clip and Pete; see?"

"Then Torrel and his pal came back into Phoenix. That was the time they got next to the note sent by Pete to you. The Mexican messenger had read it. The real thieves knew at once that Pima Pete was planning to save Clip, and, naturally, Torrel and his pal didn't want it that way. If Clip and Pete were believed guilty, then the real thieves could enjoy their loot without having the authorities bother them. So Torrel's pal tried to bluff you out by sending the Mexican with a warning. You wouldn't be bluffed. The two scoundrels laid for you in the hills--and you showed them your heels."

"What did Torrel and his pardner want to hang around Prescott for?" queried Matt. "Why didn't they skip when they had a chance?"

"They were expecting to meet another of the old gang at the old Hopewell tunnel. They went there to meet him, and found Pima Pete. Then they held Pete a prisoner in the tunnel until they thought the law had taken care of Clip, got word that the man they were waiting for was in Maricopa, and pulled out early Sunday night, in the storm. That was the last of them, and their move once more gave Pete a free hand, for since that money of Dangerfield's had been taken in charge by the State as that stolen from Fresnay, they had no reason to hold Pete."

"What about the fellow at Maricopa?"

"I wired that town and an officer went after him. But the man will not be caught--I'm positive of that."

"Have you captured Pete?"

A queer look crossed Burke's face.

"I reckon I could have captured him, if I'd tried to right hard," said he slowly, "but I didn't try."

"Why not?"

"Well, he showed himself a good deal of a man, for a half-breed, and I'm not hungry to make a thousand off of him."

Matt reached out his hand and gave the sheriff's big paw a cordial grip.

"I'm glad you feel that way," said he. "I can't explain, but what you say does me a lot of good."

It was half-past ten that night before the Phoenix delegation arrived in Prescott.

McKibben and Leffingwell came, and Clip, and Chub, and Welcome Perkins, and--last but not least--Susie. Susie was going to take care of Matt until he was well enough to dispense with a nurse.

It is useless to dwell on the meeting of these friends with Matt. Clip's dark eyes expressed his feelings, and henceforth only death could wipe out the close friendship born of recent exciting events.

In a week, so well was Matt looked after, that he was up and around--not quite as full of ginger as ever, but rapidly getting back into his old form.

He had more money in the bank, too--even after Short had corralled the $500--than he had before Clipperton had got into difficulties. Some of Dangerfield's gold came to him--Matt would only take enough to offset Short's fee and other expenses--and there was a "rake-off" from the $2,000 Burke received for the capture of Tolliver and his partner.

Motor Matt, when he went back to Phoenix, found himself more popular than ever. He had lost the game little _Comet_, but it was only a start for higher things in the motor line. Just what these things were, and the fame and fortune they brought to Motor Matt will be touched upon in the next story.

THE END.

THE NEXT NUMBER (5) WILL CONTAIN

MOTOR MATT'S MYSTERY

OR,

FOILING A SECRET PLOT.

A Dutchman in Trouble--The Runaway Auto--The Man at the Roadside--The
Mystery Deepens--Matt Gets a Job--Concerning the Letter--The Two
Horsemen--On the Road--In the Hands of the Enemy--A Shift in the
Situation--A Surprise--Escape--The Hut in the Hills--Back to the
Car--A Race and a Ruse--In Ash Fork.

MOTOR STORIES

THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION

NEW YORK, March 20, 1909.

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THE TENNIS-GROUND MYSTERY.

By OLIVER K. ROSSE.

It was about half-past six, one brilliant morning in June, and the boys of Bidford School were dressing themselves, preparatory to "scudding" for the river, wherein to take their customary seven-o'clock "dip." Every one was out of bed, skipping to and fro, as lively as grasshoppers, throwing wet sponges at one another, and indulging in divers other jocular vagaries, which sufficiently accounted for the many strange noises and the repeated loud bursts of laughter that greeted the listening ear.

The inmates of dormitory number one were the younger members of the school, and the merriest and most popular of all were Caggles and Bottlebury.

"I say, Bottlebury," cried Caggles, a youth who had a deal of confidence in his own powers, "I'll swim you this morning, and 'lick' you by a dozen yards."

"All right," said Bottlebury; "but you can bet your life I'll have the laugh on you! I've been putting in a lot of practise lately."

"That's what you always say, 'Bot,' old bird."

"Well! it's right enough. Whoop! Here's a black beetle in one of my shoes!"

"Don't kill it! It's mine," cried a lanky youth, dashing forward.

"Look here, Fuzzy, you beast," said Bottlebury, "you'll get punched until you're black and blue if you bring such disgusting creeping reptiles up here."

Fuzzy was an amateur naturalist, and delighted to keep a stock of living insects about his person, in pill-boxes.

"This fellow got loose," he said, as he fearlessly picked up the coal-black beetle and popped it into the small cardboard prison which he had ready.

"I say, 'Cag,'" resumed Bottlebury, "it's our turn to roll the tennis-ground."

"So it is," said Caggles; "won't it be hot work if the sun hangs out all day!"

"I should say so!" assented his friend. "I say, though, you were dreaming like a madman last night."

"Was I?" laughed Caggles; "I'm an awful fellow to dream. I used to walk in my sleep, but I've got over that. They say it comes of having an active brain."

"Aye; and they say that kids with active brains like that generally turn out to be tip-top poets and authors."

"Do they?" said Caggles, suddenly imagining himself a budding genius.

"Oh," said Bottlebury, with delightfully refreshing candor, "I don't suppose it means anything in your case, you know."

"Why?" asked the disappointed Caggles, in an injured tone of voice.

"Well, I don't think you've got enough brains for 'em to be active. It'll be active nerves in your case. It's just the same, only it's different; see?"

"Was I talking in my sleep?" asked Caggles, anxious to change the subject.

"I think so. I just caught something about 'moles,' but I went to sleep pretty soon after."

"Well, I've been wishing for a mole," said Caggles; "Tupman says they've got no eyes, and I say they have. I'm going to hunt for one of the little beggars, just to see who's right."

At that juncture the door was flung open, and Crieff, one of the oldest boys in the school, rushed into the dormitory, red and breathless, and minus his cap.

Now, Crieff was usually a very sedate fellow, and went about as stately as an Oriental grandee. His neck was rather long, and at every stride he stiffened his legs and bulged out his chest, so that he was suggestive, somewhat, of a dignified stork.

The boys of the dormitory were astonished, therefore, to see him in so breathless and limp a state.

"What's up?" asked Caggles, with mouth agape.

"The tennis-ground!" gasped Crieff, mopping his face with a handkerchief.

The tennis-ground at Bidford School was reputed to be one of the finest in the whole neighborhood. It had been specially laid, and its smooth surface was as level as a billiard-table. Every boy was proud of it, and Crieff tended it with the anxiety of a father.

"What's up with it?" asked two or three voices.

"Spoiled! Ruined!" said Crieff, almost with tears in his eyes.

"Never!" cried Bottlebury.

"It is. Somebody has dug holes all over it with a spade. I've just been down and seen it."

"It was all right yesterday afternoon," said Caggles, with an expression of disgust on his face.

"Some one must have done it in the night," said Crieff; "I believe it's one of those village kids I thrashed last week for throwing stones."

"Very likely," said Caggles; "they'll do anything for spite."

"They used our spade, too," continued Crieff; "the one out of the shed. The lock of the door has been useless for some time, you know. They must have gone in and taken out the spade; I found it lying on the ground."

The inmates of the dormitory stood aghast. A grand match between themselves and a neighboring school had been fixed for this coming Saturday. Under the peculiar circumstances this, of course, would have to be postponed.

Hastily finishing their toilet, the boys accompanied Crieff to the tennis-ground, where they saw that his account was only too true. The ground was dug up in a dozen places.

Exclamations of rage rose from the fast-increasing crowd of boys, and energetic discussions were entered upon, until quite a confusing uproar prevailed.

"Whoever it was," said Caggles, almost bursting with wrath, "they ought to be kicked."

"I say, Crieff," said Bottlebury, "do you think they'll come again?"

"I don't think so," was the answer; "still, they may. I'm just trying to think of a way to catch the scoundrels."

"Put a lot of rat-traps about," suggested a small boy.

"Man-traps, you mean," said Caggles.

"Yes; that's it--man-traps," said the small boy.

"Where'll you get 'em from?" asked Caggles, as if bent on calling down derision on the youngster.

"Oh, anywhere--buy 'em," replied the small boy, in a vague way.

"But where from, you young ass?"

"Where they sell 'em;" and the small boy fled in time to miss Caggles' foot.

"Well," said Dumford, "if there's a doubt whether they'll pay us a second visit, it'll be hardly worth while sitting up all night."

Suddenly Caggles gave a cry of extreme pleasure.

"I know a good plan," he said; "I'll get a ball of strong, thin twine, fasten one end to the spade in the shed, carry the ball across the field, and up-stairs to the dormitory, and then tie the other end to my big toe. If any one walks off with the spade, the string will pull my toe and waken me. Then, down-stairs we go, and ask the midnight visitor if he wants any help."

Crieff laughed.

"It's a good idea," said he, "and there's no harm in trying it. It may answer and it may not. The schoolhouse isn't a hundred yards away."

"Very well," said Caggles, with a gleeful chuckle, "I'll get the twine and try it to-night. Let's roll the ground. They'll very likely to come again if they see we've patched it up."

This was done, the twine purchased, and that night Caggles got into bed with his toe attached to one end of the string and the spade in the shed tied to the other.

Poor Caggles! He little thought what a laugh there was to be at his expense.

For a considerable time the inmates of No. 1 dormitory lay awake in a state of anxious expectation, half-expecting to see Caggles dragged out of bed and go hopping down the room, with his big toe nearly pulled out by the roots, so to speak. But nothing happened, and one by one they closed their eyes and went to sleep, until all were wrapped in slumber. Even Caggles--despite the uncomfortable sensation of the twine round his toe--was not long in succumbing to drowsiness, for he was very tired, having rolled the tennis-ground all that afternoon.

Just as the faint sounds of the schoolroom clock striking one floated up-stairs, Bottlebury woke with a start, having dreamed that he was falling down a coal-mine. He wiped the perspiration of fear from his brow, rubbed his eyes, and sat upright. Then, turning his gaze in the direction where Caggles always slept, he saw by the light of the moon, which streamed in at the window, that his chum was not to be seen.

His bed was empty!

In an instant Bottlebury was on his feet.

"Wake up, you fellows!" he cried, as he dragged his trousers on. "Wake up! D'you hear?"

Dumford popped up his head and asked what the row was over.

"Caggles isn't in bed," said Bottlebury excitedly; "he's felt the string tug, I s'pose, and has hurried off without us."

In another minute every boy had donned his nether garments, and then away they went, pell-mell, down the darkened stairs.

As they rushed outdoors they descried a figure, clad in naught but a night-shirt, making for the tennis-ground.

"Why, that's Caggles!" said Dumford.

"What on earth has he come out like that for?" queried Bottlebury; "he'll catch his death of cold."

"Make no row," warned Dumford. "It strikes me there's something peculiar about this affair. Let's follow him quietly."

Caggles made straight for the shed, and, opening the door, disappeared inside.

In a few seconds he reappeared with the spade in his grasp, and, walking up to the tennis-ground, began to dig.

The onlookers gasped with amazement, and a light dawned on their minds.

"He's asleep," whispered Dumford; "it was nobody but he who dug the ground before."

"By Jove!" was all that the astonished Bottlebury could say--so unlooked-for was the revelation.

Suddenly Caggles was seen to fall to the ground. The twine had twisted round his legs and thrown him.

Bottlebury was quickly at his side and assisted him to his feet.

"What's this?" said Caggles, in great bewilderment, the fall evidently having brought him to his waking senses.

"Come along in," said Bottlebury; "you'll catch rheumatics, or something."

Caggles looked, in a dazed way, first at the spade and then at his now grinning companions.

"Did I do it?" he asked.

"I suppose so," replied Bottlebury; "but what in the name of goodness made you? What were you digging for?"

"Moles," said Caggles, after a slight pause, in which he shivered with cold; "I--I suppose I must have come out to look for moles."

And so he had. The assertion made by Tupman that moles were blind had caused him to long to test the truth of the statement. He even dreamed of the subject, following which a somnambulistic desire to dig for moles in the tennis-ground was born within him.

He never heard the last of the ludicrous adventure, and Bottlebury had a thorough good laugh at him.

The nocturnal mole-hunter thenceforth slept in a small room by himself, with the door securely locked and a patent "catch" on the window, "so that"--as some one facetiously remarked--"he should not again have necessity to tie spades to his toes."

MAKE QUEER CATCHES AT CAPE COD.

Many strange fish come to the nets of the weirsmen of Cape Cod. The collection of the amateur photographer who summered at Provincetown a season would not be complete without a plate of some of them to show wondering friends on winter evenings.

Most striking, perhaps, would be the giant horse-mackerel, which were often seen.

"Four-hundred-pounders each" they were, according to the offhand estimate of the local old salt who named them for the summer folks edification. They were indeed a handsome couple, although only medium-sized representatives of a marine clan--_orcynus thynnus_--of which hundreds are annually taken at Provincetown in the big "catchalls," commonly termed weirs.

In a small way, the horse-mackerel is a gladiator. Prior to his advent, the sand-lance, the mackerel, the herring, pollock, and dogfish make regular visitation in Cape Cod Bay.

When the breaching "sea-tiger," or horse-mackerel, with great goggle eyes staring stonily and lemon-hued, rearanal fins glittering goldlike in the shadow of its under body, comes rushing upon the scene, all minor species hurriedly decamp.

The horse-mackerel, or its familiar, is common in the Mediterranean, where it is known as the tuna, or tunny. For centuries the flesh of the tuna has been highly esteemed by the Latin races. Packed in oil, or salted, it has, since the days of the Phoenicians, been a very widely known commodity in the Mediterranean trade.

The horse-mackerel occurs in the west Atlantic as far north as the Gulf of St. Lawrence. It puts in an appearance at Provincetown early in June customarily, remaining in the vicinity until about October.

When much of the fishing-work there was performed by means of nets, the horse-mackerel was both a source of revenue and a pest to the small boatman; but the oil taken from it more than compensates for the loss resulting from its ravages upon nets.

One would suppose that the fishermen's nets would speedily be ruined by the creatures, but such is not the case. Upon striking a floating net, the horse-mackerel goes, bulletlike, straight through it--unlike the shark, which, rolling itself in the netting, tears the same enormously--making a clean, round hole, easy to repair.

Individuals weighing as much as 1,500 pounds have, it is said, been taken. Specimens of that weight are not taken off Provincetown, however, the average specimens weighing from 400 to 500 pounds, with an occasional 900 or 1,000-pounder.

The average length is about eight feet.

Horse-mackerel were seldom, if ever, used for food in this country until within a few years. At present quite all specimens taken in weirs are sent to city markets, where a ready sale at a good price is assured among immigrants from the south of Europe.

No horse-mackerel need now be set adrift as worthless, as was formerly the custom.

Usually the capture of a weir-imprisoned horse-mackerel is not a matter of great difficulty. Once in a while, however, the great strength of an individual nearly prevails over the efforts of its jailers. For instance: In July, 1897, Captain Henry J. Lewis, a skilful weir-manipulator, found in his harbor trap a big horse-mackerel, exhausted and apparently dead upon the dried-in "lint" when the crew gathered in the netting.

The disengaged end of the main throat-halyards was made fast to the tail of the supposedly dead fish, the bight was loosely attached to the main-sheet traveler, and Skipper Lewis and his helper straightway began to bail in herring.

All at once the stern of the boat settled. Down it went, suddenly, and water began to pour into the standing-room. The horse-mackerel had regained consciousness and was making the fact known.

Mate James hurriedly unloosed the halyards, and the immense fish disappeared below the surface and renewed its fight for freedom.

As the fish scurried away, the halyards tautened. The main-gaff started aloft, drawn by the hoisting-gear. The gaff-end caught, held securely for a moment, then broke, and up in a trice went the bellying sail, with broken spar dangling.

For a moment all was confusion on the boat. The fish, a 900-pounder, in one of its rushes approached the boat's quarter. One of the crew, ax in hand, delivered a swinging blow at him, but the agile horse-mackerel easily avoided it.

An instant later the strong wind struck full upon the bagging canvas and laid the boat over, well upon her side. A capsize seemed imminent. Correctly sizing up the situation, Mate Manuel James seized a sharp knife and with one stroke severed the halyards.

Immediately the horse-mackerel, with all but a small portion of the main-halyards tied to its tail, vanished like a flash through the broadside netting of the weir, vanished for good. Lewis, owner thereof, gave vent to sundry explosive ejaculations.

Cape Cod weirs scoop in many unexpected water-creatures. Recently a forty-foot-long--estimated--right-whale entered O'Neil's head of harbor Provincetown floating traps. Annoyed a half-hour later by would-be captors, this huge animal, bearing within its mouth baleen worth probably $2,000, with one rush burst through the heavy netting and went away to sea, leaving a badly torn weir behind.

In August, 1908, a baby finback whale, just out of leading-strings, evidently, it being only fifteen feet long, entered Blatchford's weir and was slain. The creature was exhibited under a tent upon the main beach.

The Lewis-James weir captured, October 9 of the same year, a bone shark seventeen feet long. The skin of that rare creature was removed intact, and is now being tanned for mounting by the purchaser, David C. Stull, known as the Ambergris King.

This species--_cetophinus maximus_--a native of Arctic seas, is one of the largest of sharks. Sluggish in movement, the bone shark swims lazily at the surface, apparently indifferent to the approach of boats. Food found in its stomach comprises a red, pulpy mass, probably the roe of sea-urchins. The teeth are small--the Stull specimen hadn't the vestige of a tooth, being very young--and the gill-rakers--a sort of Galway whisker worn inside, instead of outside, the throat--would indicate that it feeds at the surface, straining its food, as does the baleen-bearing whale.

A half-dozen years ago a West Indian sea-turtle, with a plump remora--sucking fish--adhering to its under shell, was taken from the "Jim" Lewis weir.

Very recently the largest lobster known to have been captured in Provincetown Harbor was taken from the Eastern weir. Its weight was twenty-three pounds, and its length, tail end to outer end of forward extended claws, was forty-two inches. This giant crustacean, carefully mounted, now graces Mr. Stull's museum of marine curios.

Recent sizable lot arrivals of fishes once deemed worthless at Provincetown, include the shadine, scientifically known as _etrumeus sadinia_, a species which occurs as far south as the Gulf of Mexico, but is most commonly found in Florida and Carolina waters, and the species variously called saury, billfish, skipper, and skipjack, the latter because of its surface-bounding habit when pursued by the horse-mackerel and bonito.

The shadine appeared at Provincetown for the first time, and in large numbers, in October, 1908. They are very valuable.

The saury, or billfish--_scomberesox sauris_--is found in all parts of the North Atlantic. Cod feed voraciously upon them. This long-beaked, slender-bodied species feeds upon soft, pelagic animals, its teeth being very minute.

This species, formerly considered worthless in Provincetown, has suddenly leaped into favor. All caught there are eagerly sought by New York and Boston commission men.

COLD FIRE.

Cold fire is a coming invention. So also is heatless light. You may find them in nature already, if you but inquire intelligently into her secrets.

Cold flame is exemplified in the firefly, and the glowworm gives forth heatless light.

Such flames and lights are not mysteries. Their cause is due to one of the subtlest forces in the universe--ether.

Only in an indirect way are the human senses acquainted with this wonderful substance. Yet ether flows through the earth's atmosphere in mighty currents, unchecked, resistless, and subtle. The ether is the direct parent of the X-ray and the speech of the wireless telegraph.

When man shall attain the perfect vacuum, then the rude ether blush of the electric-light bulb will give forth many times more light, purified and heatless, soft and healing as the light of the stars, penetrating as the sun. An examination of the firefly, when emitting flames or light, shows bodily movements that cannot be understood to mean anything else than vacuum producing.

The lights are always seen in the vacuum sac on the back. Immediately before emitting light, the insect will flatten the body, draw the legs in, droop the head, seemingly contracting in all directions; then with the relaxation comes the flame and light. The bodies of the glowworm and firefly always are transparent when filled with flame. The blades of grass or other debris are seen plainly through the bodies. Here are cases of nature anticipating man and dealing with X-rays.

_ESPECIALLY IMPORTANT!!_

MOTOR STORIES

_A New Idea in the Way of Five-Cent Weeklies._

Boys everywhere will be delighted to hear that Street & Smith are now issuing this new five-cent weekly which will be known by the name of MOTOR STORIES.

This weekly is entirely different from anything now being published. It details the astonishing adventures of a young mechanic who owned a motor cycle. Is there a boy who has not longed to possess one of these swift little machines that scud about the roads everywhere throughout the United States? Is there a boy, therefore, who will not be intensely interested in the adventures of "Motor Matt," as he is familiarly called by his comrades?

Boys, you have never read anything half so exciting, half so humorous and entertaining as the first story listed for publication in this line, called "=Motor Matt; or, The King of the Wheel=." Its fame is bound to spread like wildfire, causing the biggest demand for the other numbers in this line, that was ever heard of in the history of this class of literature.

Here are the titles to be issued during the next few weeks. Do not fail to place an order for them with your newsdealer.

No. 1. Motor Matt; or, The King of the Wheel.
No. 2. Motor Matt's Daring; or, True to His Friends.
No. 3. Motor Matt's "Century" Run; or, The Governor's Courier.
No. 4. Motor Matt's Race; or, The Last Flight of the _Comet_.

32 LARGE SIZE PAGES SPLENDID COLORED COVERS

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NUMBERS 1 TO 396

TIP TOP WEEKLY

ARE CONTAINED IN THE MEDAL LIBRARY

We know that there are thousands of boys who are very much interested in the early adventures of Frank and Dick Merriwell and who want to read everything that was written about them.

We desire to inform these boys that numbers 1 to 396 are pretty well out of print in the TIP TOP WEEKLY, but all of them can be secured in the numbers of the NEW MEDAL LIBRARY given below.

_The_ NEW
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FIFTEEN CENTS

150--Frank Merriwell's School-days.
167--Frank Merriwell's Chums.
178--Frank Merriwell's Foes.
184--Frank Merriwell's Trip West.
189--Frank Merriwell Down South.
193--Frank Merriwell's Bravery.
197--Frank Merriwell's Hunting Tour.
201--Frank Merriwell in Europe.
205--Frank Merriwell at Yale.
209--Frank Merriwell's Sports Afield.
213--Frank Merriwell's Races.
217--Frank Merriwell's Bicycle Tour.
225--Frank Merriwell's Courage.
229--Frank Merriwell's Daring.
233--Frank Merriwell's Athletes.
237--Frank Merriwell's Skill.
240--Frank Merriwell's Champions.
244--Frank Merriwell's Return to Yale.
247--Frank Merriwell's Secret.
251--Frank Merriwell's Danger.
254--Frank Merriwell's Loyalty.
258--Frank Merriwell in Camp.
262--Frank Merriwell's Vacation.
267--Frank Merriwell's Cruise.
271--Frank Merriwell's Chase.
276--Frank Merriwell in Maine.
280--Frank Merriwell's Struggle.
284--Frank Merriwell's First Job.
288--Frank Merriwell's Opportunity.
292--Frank Merriwell's Hard Luck.
296--Frank Merriwell's Protégé.
300--Frank Merriwell on the Road.
304--Frank Merriwell's Own Company.
308--Frank Merriwell's Fame.
312--Frank Merriwell's College Chums.
316--Frank Merriwell's Problem.
320--Frank Merriwell's Fortune.
324--Frank Merriwell's New Comedian.
328--Frank Merriwell's Prosperity.
332--Frank Merriwell's Stage Hit.
336--Frank Merriwell's Great Scheme.
340--Frank Merriwell in England.
344--Frank Merriwell on the Boulevards.
348--Frank Merriwell's Duel.
352--Frank Merriwell's Double Shot.
356--Frank Merriwell's Baseball Victories.
359--Frank Merriwell's Confidence.
362--Frank Merriwell's Auto.
365--Frank Merriwell's Fun.
368--Frank Merriwell's Generosity.
371--Frank Merriwell's Tricks.
374--Frank Merriwell's Temptation.
377--Frank Merriwell on Top.
380--Frank Merriwell's Luck.
383--Frank Merriwell's Mascot.
386--Frank Merriwell's Reward.
389--Frank Merriwell's Phantom.
392--Frank Merriwell's Faith.
395--Frank Merriwell's Victories.
398--Frank Merriwell's Iron Nerve.
401--Frank Merriwell in Kentucky.
404--Frank Merriwell's Power.
407--Frank Merriwell's Shrewdness.
410--Frank Merriwell's Set-back.
413--Frank Merriwell's Search.
416--Frank Merriwell's Club.
419--Frank Merriwell's Trust.
422--Frank Merriwell's False Friend.
425--Frank Merriwell's Strong Arm.
428--Frank Merriwell as Coach.
431--Frank Merriwell's Brother.
434--Frank Merriwell's Marvel.
437--Frank Merriwell's Support.
440--Dick Merriwell at Fardale.
443--Dick Merriwell's Glory.
446--Dick Merriwell's Promise.
449--Dick Merriwell's Rescue.
452--Dick Merriwell's Narrow Escape.
455--Dick Merriwell's Racket.
458--Dick Merriwell's Revenge.
461--Dick Merriwell's Ruse.
464--Dick Merriwell's Delivery.
467--Dick Merriwell's Wonders.
470--Frank Merriwell's Honor.
473--Dick Merriwell's Diamond.
476--Frank Merriwell's Winners.
479--Dick Merriwell's Dash.
482--Dick Merriwell's Ability.
485--Dick Merriwell's Trap.
488--Dick Merriwell's Defense.
491--Dick Merriwell's Model.
494--Dick Merriwell's Mystery.

=Published About January 5th=

497--Frank Merriwell's Backers.

=Published About January 26th=

500--Dick Merriwell's Backstop.

=Published About February 16th=

503--Dick Merriwell's Western Mission.

=Published About March 9th=

506--Frank Merriwell's Rescue.

=Published About March 30th=

509--Frank Merriwell's Encounter.

=Published About April 20th=

512--Dick Merriwell's Marked Money.

=Published About May 11th=

515--Frank Merriwell's Nomads.

=Published About June 1st=

518--Dick Merriwell on the Gridiron.

=Published About June 22nd=

521--Dick Merriwell's Disguise.

STREET & SMITH, _Publishers_, NEW YORK CITY

Transcriber's Notes:

Added table of contents.

Bold is represented with =equal signs=, italics with _underscores_.

Changed oe ligatures to oe; ligatures retained in HTML edition.

Retained some questionable spellings of scientific names from the original.

Retained possible typos in dialogue due to possibility of intentional dialect.

Page 2, added missing period after "what we're goin'."

Page 3, removed unnecessary quote before "But the command...."

Page 6, changed "Howdy, Matt?" to "Howdy, Matt!" and "you eye-winkers" to "your eye-winkers."

Page 7, changed "Peter" to "Pete" in "Pima Pete came here."

Page 8, removed stray quote after "or any one else."

Page 10, removed stray quote after "spoke up Fresnay."

Page 12, changed "saws he dug" to "says he dug."

Page 17, removed stray quote after "rolled into bed."

Page 30, "They'll very likely to come again" looks like an error, but this is retained as printed.

End of Project Gutenberg's Motor Matt's Race, by Stanley R. Matthews