Chapter XVI: The End of the Mid-Air Trail

The failure of Carl, Harris and Jerrold to make a landing on the "island" has already been recorded.

They had seen the Hawk, moored at one edge of the cleared space, and they had seen Brady and the others; but, of course, it had been impossible for them to see anything of Matt. The young motorist, at that time, was bound hand and foot and lying on the cot in the hut.

With bullets flying around them and threatening injury to the Eagle, it was not policy to remain hovering over such a nest of desperate scoundrels very long.

"We'll get out of here," cried Harris, angrily, "and come back with men and guns enough to give those fellows a taste of their own medicine. Don't let any harm come to the air-ship, Jerrold. We're going to need her, later."

Just as Harris finished speaking, a bullet slapped into the motor and the machinery at once began to go wrong.

"Too late," responded Jerrold grimly; "they've already nipped us."

"Py chimineddy," roared Carl, "I vish I hat somet'ing vat I could shoot mit ad dem fillains!"

Limping and staggering, Jerrold managed to urge the Eagle out of harm's way.

"She won't drop on us, will she?" asked Harris, looking anxiously downward at the tree-tops.

"No," replied Jerrold, "the gas-bag is uninjured, so we can't fall; and the motor is working, too, after a fashion, and that enables us to make a slow rate of speed. But there will have to be some repairs before we can do anything more with the air-ship."

"Where'll we go to make them? Back to South Chicago?"

"Lake Station is nearer. We'll come down there and ascertain the extent of the damage. It may be that we shall have to go back to South Chicago if the injury is at all serious."

"All right," acquiesced Harris. "I'll be able to do some telephoning and get a few more men out here from headquarters. I'll have them bring rifles, and then we'll give Brady a set-to that he'll remember."

"I ditn't see Matt in der blace," mourned Carl.

"He may have been there," said Harris. "There were two sheds, and they may be keeping your chum a prisoner in one of them."

"Vell, vile ve're avay fixing oop der Eagle, meppy dose fellers pack dere vill fly off mit demselufs in der Hawk. Oof dey do dot, den ve vill have some drouple for our pains."

"We shall have to keep watch of the sky in the direction of the swamp," said Jerrold. "By doing that we can tell whether or not the Hawk gets away."

Carl made that his work.

"I don'd know how I can see mit der naked eye ven ve ged py Lake Sdation," he remarked.

"We'll have to hunt up a spyglass, or a pair of binoculars," suggested Harris.

"Vat oof der Hawk moofs pefore we ged dem?"

"Then we'll be up against it, and no mistake."

There was a lot of excitement in the little town of Lake Station when a real, sure enough air-ship descended close to the blacksmith shop. The whole population gathered and stared.

While Jerrold was busy tinkering with his crippled motor, Carl succeeded in finding an old-fashioned spyglass and climbed with it to the top of the highest building in town. There he perched himself on the edge of the roof and watched continually in the direction of Willoughby's swamp.

Meanwhile, Harris had been talking with police headquarters in South Chicago. As a result, three officers were detailed to catch the first train for Lake Station.

The repairs to be made to the Eagle were somewhat extensive, and taxed the capacity of the blacksmith shop. Had Jerrold been in his own workroom he could have fixed up the motor more easily and quickly, but to take the Eagle back to South Chicago would have resulted in a loss of time.

Hour after hour the inventor labored, helped by the blacksmith and eyed with wonder by the townspeople. The detail of officers arrived, and they could do nothing but wait until the Eagle was ready to carry them to the "island" in the swamp. Any attempt to reach the "island" on foot was hardly to be considered.

While Jerrold's labors were nearing completion, a yell from Carl called the attention of Harris.

"What's the matter with you?" he shouted.

Carl was dancing around on the roof top, waving the spyglass frantically.

"Come oop!" he cried, wildly. "Der Hawk is gedding avay mit itseluf! Ach, plazes, vat a luck!"

Harris made haste to reach the top of the building where Carl had been patiently waiting and watching.

"Pud der spyglass to your eye, Harris," said Carl, "und look off to der nort'. Ach, dose fellers haf made some ged-avays, und I bed you dey have dook Matt along!"

With the glass at his eye, Harris swept the horizon in the direction indicated by Carl. Finally he found what he was looking for--an oblong blot gliding through the heavens and proceeding in a northerly direction.

"That's the Hawk, all right," said he, in a tone of intense disappointment, "but why is it heading in that direction?"

"Prady vouldn't dare go pack by Sout' Chicago," said Carl. "I bed you somet'ing for nodding he has got anodder hang-oudt in dot tirections. Ach, vat vill I do for dot bard oof mine?"

Gloomily the two descended from the roof, and Carl returned the spyglass to its owner.

Half an hour later the Eagle was ready for flight, and the officers and Carl got aboard. It was decided to proceed to the swamp and look over the "island" and then, if nothing of importance developed, to return to South Chicago.

The Eagle's motor, apparently, worked as well as ever, and the four miles separating Willoughby's swamp from Lake Station were covered in record time.

As they neared the "island" the officers made ready to use their guns. There was no hostile demonstration, however, and not a soul was anywhere in sight. The Eagle descended, and the officers, accompanied by the anxious Carl, proceeded to make a search.

They found nothing but two meagerly furnished houses, apparently recently deserted. Silence reigned everywhere, ominous of events that had happened.

"Vell," said Carl, gloomily, "dis means dot I haf got to do some more looking for Modor Matt. Der gang haf made off mit him some more, und I vas so tisappointed as I can't dell."

For that matter, they were all disappointed--Jerrold in particular. Motor Matt had served Jerrold well, and the inventor had been anxious to make him some repayment in kind.

But there was nothing left for the air-ship party to do but to point the Eagle toward home. As the air-ship passed the rolling mills and came close to the balloon house where Brady had formerly housed the Hawk, it was observed by those in the car that the doors of the big building were closed, and that two officers had mounted guard in front of them.

"That means something," muttered Harris. "Drop lower, Jerrold, so I can talk with those two cops."

Jerrold descended until the top of the car was nearly on a level with the balloon house, and Harris leaned over the guard rail.

"Hello!" he called. "What are you fellows doing there?"

"Watching the air-ship," was the astounding answer.

"Do you mean to say that Brady's air-ship is in that balloon house?"

"Sure."

"Has Brady been captured?"

"Why, no. You went after him, didn't you?"

"We went after him, but he and his men fired on us and damaged our motor. We went to Lake Station to fix the machinery, and while we were there we caught sight of the Hawk, through a spyglass, making north. As soon as we could, we started for the swamp, but there was no one there. Naturally, we supposed that Brady and his gang had made their escape, and it's mighty surprising to hear that the Hawk is back in its old cage and didn't bring Brady along."

"The Hawk brought Motor Matt----"

Carl gave a yell and nearly fell out of the car.

"Modor Matt?" he shouted. "Vas you shdringing me, oder iss it shdraight goots?"

"I'm giving it to you straight," answered the officer on the ground. "Motor Matt got away from the swamp and brought two prisoners with him, in the Hawk. They were two of the men who robbed Jerrold of his plans."

"Zum lauderbach haben, mich shtets----" began Carl, singing loudly and then interrupting himself to gloat. "Dot's my bard vat dit dot! Yah, so! Leedle Modor Matt who iss alvays doing t'ings vat you don'd oxbect. He has shtarred himseluf some more, you bed you! Vere iss Modor Matt now, officer?" Carl called down.

"He took a train into Chicago--said he was behind his schedule for that five-day race. The two prisoners are at police headquarters."

"Well, by thunder!" muttered Harris, mopping his face with a red handkerchief, "that Motor Matt must be a regular young phenomenon!"

"I never heard of anything to beat him!" averred Jerrold.

"Und you nefer vill!" declared Carl. "He iss vone oof dose fellers vat can't be peat."

"You might take us to police headquarters, Jerrold," suggested Harris.

"Und you mighdt shtop on der vay py der railroadt sdation," piped Carl. "I vant to ged py Chicago so kevick as der nation vill led me."

* * * * *

When Carl next saw Matt, the young motorist was spinning around the great oval in a Jarrot machine, which he knew so well and had driven to victory in Kansas. The five-day race was not for one driver alone, but several drivers were to be at the steering wheel of each car. Matt had reached the Coliseum just in time to take his place in the racing schedule.

Every time Matt whirled around the oval, Carl had something to say to him, but it was not until evening that the boys were able to get together for a talk.

They decided between them that Brady, and those whom Matt had left on the "island," must have made their escape from the swamp by a secret route known only to themselves.

Where Harper, the driver of the Hawk was, was likewise a mystery to the police.

Matt had turned the bag of loot stolen from Hartz & Greer over to the police with instructions to say that it was recovered by Miss Brady, and that no reward would be accepted for its return.

"How you tink dot air-ship pitzness is, anyvays, Matt?" asked Carl, when the boys had had their talk out and were ready to crawl into bed.

"I _like_ it," answered Matt, enthusiastically, "and I wish I could have more of it!"

His wish was destined to fulfillment, for, as events proved, his thrilling work in South Chicago and at Willoughby's swamp was but the beginning of a series of air-ship experiences. Matt may have congratulated himself with the thought that he was through with Hector Brady, but Brady was by no means done with Matt--as will be made clear in the story to follow.

THE END.

THE NEXT NUMBER (10) WILL CONTAIN

Motor Matt's Hard Luck;

OR,

THE BALLOON-HOUSE PLOT.

An Old Friend--A Trap--Overboard--Rescued--Buying the Hawk--Matt
Scores Against Jameson--At the Balloon House--The Plot of the Brady
Gang--Carl is Surprised--Helen Brady's Clue--Jerrold Gives His
Aid--Grand Haven--The Line On Brady--The Woods by the River--Brady a
Prisoner--Back in South Chicago.

MOTOR STORIES

THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION

NEW YORK, April 24, 1909.

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THE BIG CYPRESS.

The rifle cracked and the piece of boiler plate, which had been erected as target against the bank fifty yards away, fell shattered like a pane of glass.

"How's that, Colonel Fearon?" coolly inquired the young fellow, who had fired the shot, as he turned to the tall, sallow-faced man who stood beside him.

A curious expression crossed the latter's face, but he answered quickly, "Amazing, Rutherford! Simply astonishing. I could never have believed such a thing possible. A pom-pom shell could hardly have smashed the plate more effectually."

The boy--he was hardly more--laughed. "I thought it would startle you, colonel. Will you feel justified in sending me up to Washington?"

"I reckon that's the place for you to go to, Rutherford. The war department'll need that new bullet of yours in their business. You mean to tell me you invented that bullet all by yourself?"

"I did, colonel. You see, I was always fond of dabbling in chemistry and the idea for this came to me one day when I was at work in my father's store. I didn't worry about it much, until the poor old man went broke, and then it struck me there was money in it. It was the mayor of our town, Orangeville, told me to come to you. He said that you could give me the proper introductions."

"He was right," said Colonel Fearon. "I can fix you up with the proper people. Let me have a shot."

Lionel Rutherford handed the colonel a cartridge, which outwardly looked precisely similar to an ordinary rifle cartridge. He then walked across the lawn of fine Bermuda grass, put a fresh piece of steel plate in position, and came back.

The colonel fired, and, as before, the tough steel simply sprang to pieces and lay in scattered fragments on the grass.

"I reckon there's more money in this than in keeping store," said the colonel thoughtfully. "Rutherford, I'll be pleased if you'll stay here at my house for a day or two till I can write to the proper people."

Young Rutherford thanked him warmly and the two walked back toward the long, low, wide verandaed house.

Late that night the colonel and his son, Randal Fearon, sat together in the well-appointed smoking room and talked earnestly in low tones.

"There's thousands in it, father," said the younger man sharply. "Thousands!"

"I know that as well as yourself," returned the other irritably. "But the invention's not yours or mine."

"What's Rutherford?" sneered Randal. "Here he is, a fellow who's never known anything of life, who's lived all his days in a little one-horse backwoods town, and now he's going to roll in riches while we are on the edge of bankruptcy."

He paused, and glanced at his father, who sat fidgeting uneasily. The colonel, fine-looking man that he was, was as weak-willed as his tall, thin, sharp-faced son was strong.

"A real nice scandal there'll be when we go smash," went on Randal Fearon. "Think of the headlines. 'Fraudulent Bankruptcy. Prominent Floridian lives beyond his means.' How the yellow press'll revel in it!"

Again the colonel moved uneasily. "I don't see how you're going to get the specifications from him, anyhow," he said at last.

"You leave that to me," replied Randal with sneering emphasis.

"Look you here, Randal, I won't have any violence." For once Colonel Fearon spoke decidedly.

"I guess you needn't worry your head about that," answered Randal. "I've got the whole plan cut and dried. You've asked him to stay?"

"Yes," said the colonel. "He will stay."

Randal laughed as if pleased. "That's all right. To-morrow we'll settle it, Pete Dally and I."

"How?"

"I'll tell you in the morning. Don't worry yourself. As you are so anxious to avoid it, I promise you there shall be no violence."

Randal chuckled in ugly fashion as he got up, flung the stump of his cigar into the fireplace, and, lighting a small hand lamp, left the room.

* * * * *

"How much farther have we got to go before we run into any of this game you talked about, Mr. Fearon?" asked Rutherford as he stopped and wiped the perspiration from his streaming face.

"I thought we'd have seen a buck before now," replied Randal Fearon. "We don't often have to come this far into the Big Cypress to find game, do we, Pete?"

"No, sah; we gen'rally finds it quite clos' to the aidge of de swamp," said Pete, who was a burly, square-shouldered negro with a face as black as ebony.

Rutherford was rather puzzled. That morning Randal Fearon had suggested that it would be very good fun to go shooting in the Big Cypress, a huge tract of wild, swampy forest, the edge of which was about five miles from Colonel Fearon's place.

"You might try the effect of some of your explosive bullets," Randal had suggested; and Rutherford had laughed and said that there wouldn't be much left of any game smaller than a buffalo or an elephant if struck by one of his projectiles.

All the same, being a keen sportsman, he had willingly agreed to the shoot. What puzzled him was that they should have tramped for hours through this steaming bush, which reeked with signs of game, and yet not seen a single thing to shoot at.

"Don't you worry. We shall find deer soon," said Randal when Rutherford expressed his astonishment. "We're getting near a good place now. I reckon we'd better stop and eat our dinner first. Pete, make a fire."

Pete Dally dropped the big haversack he was carrying over his broad shoulders, and obeyed. In a very few minutes a fire was blazing, and the fragrant fumes of frying bacon and strong coffee filled the close, steamy air. Lionel Rutherford, tired by the long tramp and the hot-house atmosphere of the jungle, enjoyed the meal greatly.

After they had finished they marched on again. They had left the pine trees behind, and were pushing along a narrow track through a forest of great ilex, bastard oak, and magnolia. The undergrowth was of saw palmetto, growing in huge, impenetrable clumps, among which the muddy track wound in and out.

The scent of yellow jasmine was almost stifling, but the only life visible was an occasional cardinal bird with its vivid crimson plumage, or a stub-tailed water moccasin which raised its triangular, copper-hued head with an ugly hiss and dragged itself sluggishly out of sight among the tangled herbage.

The path was so narrow that they were compelled to walk in single file. Randal made Pete lead the way. More than once the negro had tried to drop behind, but each time Randal roughly ordered him to push ahead.

The silence of the swamp grew as oppressive as the intense heat. It began to get upon young Rutherford's nerves.

"A tough place to get lost in," he said at last.

Randal turned quickly. There was a queer expression on his sharp face as he replied:

"Yes, pretty bad, I reckon."

Somehow, Rutherford fancied there was something sinister in his tone.

"I don't like the chap," he thought to himself. "I wish I hadn't come." Then common sense got the better of his fears. "It's the place, not the people, that's worrying me. These big hamaks are worse than a desert. There you can see the sky; here it's like one great, green prison."

"Look out, sah. Dah's a wild cat in dat tree," suddenly hissed Pete Dally, and slipped out of the path into the thicket. "Quiet or youse done frighten him."

Rutherford, all excitement, slipped his rifle from his shoulder.

But Randal barred his way. He was standing still, peering up into the tree indicated.

"Where? I don't see it," he exclaimed harshly.

"Dere it am, sah. On dat big fork," declared Pete, pointing. And then as Randal stepped forward, the negro slipped back round a clump of palmetto, and Rutherford felt a hand fall sharply on his arm, while these words were whispered in his ear:

"Dat man mean you no good, sah. Watch me, an' doan' do what he say."

He turned in amazement, but Peter was already gone. He had glided back, and was standing at Randal's elbow, pointing out the exact spot where he alleged he had seen the cat.

But there was no cat there now, and Rutherford wondered if there ever had been. Randal cursed Pete angrily, and once more they moved forward.

Rutherford, more worried than he cared to own even to himself, followed, as before, the last of the little procession.

It was getting late and the bullfrogs had begun to bellow harshly in unseen pools in the forest. But there was no decrease in the sullen heat. Not a breath stirred the moist, stagnant air, and the farther they went the thicker grew the tangled vegetation till there was no longer any sign of a path. In unbroken silence the three forced their way through primeval forest.

Presently trees broke away, and they stood upon the muddy marge of a reedy lagoon, across the stagnant waters of which the low sun cast a lurid light.

"Here we are," said Randal Fearon sharply. "This is where the deer come down to drink. You wait, Rutherford, in the bushes here, and you'll soon get a shot. Pete and I will take up our places on the far side. Then whatever comes some of us will get a buck."

"Watch me, and don't do what he says." Pete's words were ringing in Rutherford's ears. He cast a glance at the negro. Pete made a quick sign, which the English boy took to mean that he was to follow instead of remaining.

Next moment Randal had plunged off through the palmetto with Pete at his heels.

"What's it all mean?" muttered Rutherford angrily. "Is Fearon fooling me, or is it Pete? Of the two, I infinitely prefer the nigger. I'll do what he says."

He left his shelter, and moved as quietly as possible on the track of the other two.

Sure enough, they did go round the pool! Rutherford began to wonder if he was wrong; whether Pete for some unknown reason was fooling him.

The going was dreadful. The ground below the almost impenetrable palmetto was deep mud. Swarms of mosquitoes rose and stung viciously. Lionel was afraid that the crashing of the parted bushes would betray him.

He knew he was falling a long way behind, and panic seized him that he might lose the others. Though young Rutherford had lived all his life in America, yet he had never been in a big swamp like this. The store had kept him busy.

At last he reached the spot which Randal had pointed out as his own shooting station. To his horror, there was no one there. Randal and Pete had both disappeared. He was alone in the tangled heart of this monstrous swamp, and knew that without help he could never hope to find his way out.

After the first moment of panic Lionel Rutherford pulled himself together. He had plenty of pluck. He rapidly considered the situation. For some reason best known to himself Randal Fearon wished to abandon him, to lose him in the swamp. But he himself had no idea of dying of hunger, fever, or snakebite in this impenetrable wilderness. He had two courses open--go back and try to find his way out along the trail they had come by, or follow after Randal and Pete.

There were no objections to the first. It was a very long way, and it was doubtful if he could find it even in broad daylight. As it was, it would be dark in an hour. Besides, Pete had certainly meant him to follow.

Randal must mean to spend the night in the swamp. That was clear. Therefore he must have some camping place.

"I'll follow," muttered the boy between set teeth, and started off.

Though the sun was not yet down, it was already dusk beneath the thick shade of the towering timber, and in the half light the trail was most difficult to follow. The others had long ago passed out of hearing.

The night life of the swamp was waking. Enormous owls hooted weirdly, then came the thundering bellow of a bull alligator, and presently above all these the ghastly, half-human shriek of a panther calling to its mate.

Stumbling and struggling, Lionel hurried on. In a little he came to a thick belt of tall saw grass. The two pairs of footmarks entered it, but the trails beyond were so confused with the passage of deer and other animals that the boy recognized with a shock that he could not follow the human footsteps.

Very near despair, he turned back. No, he could not find Randal's trail. He stopped. "I'm done!" he muttered hopelessly, and stood straining his ears for any sound of his former companions.

Just then, as he was almost giving up, he caught sight of a morsel of something white stuck on a broken stem beside the trail. It was a tiny piece of paper, and on it, marked with a muddy finger tip, an arrow pointing in a certain direction.

"Pete!" exclaimed Lionel joyfully. A load rolled off his mind. Marking the direction carefully, he pushed on fast. Now he was on the lookout, he found other signs; a broken twig, a stick, laid in the path.

Darkness fell rapidly. There is little twilight in Florida.

"They can't go much farther," he said. He was right. In a very short time the dull glow of a fire showed where the others had camped.

"What shall I do?" he asked himself. "Go right up and tackle Randal Fearon? No; he'd have some excuse ready, and I'd only get Pete into trouble. I must wait till Randal goes to sleep."

The mosquitoes were savage. Young Rutherford, tired and hungry, found it maddening to wait in the damp gloom, and watch Randal gorge on the supper which Pete cooked. Nearly two hours passed before Randal, having finished a cigar, rolled himself, head and all, in a blanket and lay down.

A few minutes more, and a snore told Rutherford it was safe to venture closer.

Pete heard him, and glided out. The black man chuckled silently when he saw the boy. "Reckoned you'd be along, sah. You foun' de sign Pete lef' for you. Now de firs' thing is you eat. Den we talk."

He put corn, bread, and bacon into Rutherford's hands, and the boy made a hearty meal.

"Now, sah," said Pete. "You see what dat man want to do. He lose you in de swamp, den go home, say you fell in de water and was drowned. Den he an' his dad, dey take dat blow-up bullet ob yours an' sell him."

Lionel Rutherford was aghast. He had never dreamed of such wickedness.

"But we beat dem," went on Pete, with a chuckle. "I like you, an' I hate dat Randal."

"What can we do?" asked Lionel eagerly.

"Why, we play de same trick on him he try play on you. We take all de stuff, go off, an' leab him. He no more find his way out of de Big Cypress dan you. Only Pete know de trails."

"That won't do, Pete," returned Lionel sharply. "I won't be any party to murder."

Pete was amazed. He expostulated strongly.

"No, I'll tell you what we will do, Pete. We'll go off and hide, and let him think he's lost. We'll follow and watch, and when he's got the soul nearly scared out of him we'll find him again. See?"

Pete saw. He chuckled again in high good humor. "Dat's a very fine game, sah. We play dat to-morrow morning. Now I take de things away, an' when Randal wake he find no breakfast, no Pete, no nothing."

* * * * *

"He done lost hisself, sure pop!" declared Pete.

It was nine o'clock next morning, and Lionel Rutherford and the negro had been following Randal for more than an hour.

His language when he woke up and found Pete gone had been something appalling.

Having found that this did no good, he had started off back along the track they had come by on the previous day, but in less than ten minutes he was off it; and the two, who followed at a discreet distance, had watched his growing fury and fright when he found himself quite lost in the pathless depths of the wilderness.

"He can't go dat way much furder," observed Pete. "He gettin' down in de deal bad swamp. He go in up to his fool neck if he don't be keerful."

Sure enough the quaking muck-land broke beneath the young scoundrel's weight, and in he went. With a yell of fright he caught at a branch, pulled himself out, and staggered back.

"What's he going to do now?" whispered Lionel.

"Reckon he going climb dat tree an' see whar he am."

Pete was right. Randal began shinning up the stem of a tall, slender tree by the water's edge, the only one which seemed to give a possible view of any of the surrounding country. No doubt he thought he might spot the trail from the summit.

Rutherford, who had been staring hard at the tree, suddenly clutched Pete's arm. "What's that thing up in the branches just above him?" he asked sharply.

Pete took a long stare. "By golly, sah, it am a snake! An' a mighty big one, sure!"

Rutherford started forward, slipping a cartridge into his rifle.

"Don't shoot, sah," whispered Pete. "Dat ain't no poison snake. It am only a old white oak snake."

"Looks like an ugly customer," muttered Lionel.

At this moment Randal reached the first boughs and stood up. The movement alarmed the snake, which raised its ugly head and hissed sharply.

Randal heard the hiss, and, turning, saw the reptile. He gave a scream of terror, and almost lost his hold. Then he backed rapidly on to a branch which actually overhung the creek.

"Time to end this now," said Rutherford, raising his rifle. "I shall shoot the snake."

Pete seized his arm. "De snake won't hurt him, sah. But dey will."

He pointed to the water. The big alligator had seen Randal, and silently moved up till it was just beneath him. Another of almost equal size had also risen to the surface. Yellow eyes agleam, the hideous brutes were watching for this rash intruder upon their domain.

At the very instant there was a snapping crackle. The bough on which Randal cowered was breaking. And the wretched man, clinging vainly for a hold, had caught sight of the huge reptiles below. He screamed till the forest resounded with his agonizing cries.

He snatched at the branches above, but could reach only twigs, which broke in his grasp. He was falling clean into the open jaws of the alligators.

If Rutherford's rifle had been loaded only with an ordinary cartridge nothing could have saved Randal. It was just pure luck that he had flung one of his explosives into the breech.

Simultaneous with Randal's fall the rifle spoke. The bullet caught the nearest alligator on the side of the head, and the air was full of mangled fragments of flesh and bone.

Into this horrible geyser Randal dropped heavily and vanished.

Next moment he rose again, and struck out madly for the bank.

"I can't shoot again," cried Lionel. "I should kill him if I did."

"Dere ain't no need to," said the negro. "You done scared de stuffin' out ob dat oder gator."

"Thank goodness he's safe," exclaimed Lionel as Randal scrambled ashore and fell in a heap on the bank. "Now we'd better get him home."

Pete laughed. "Yes, sah. I reckon he done had enough ob de Big Cypress."

When Randal came round Rutherford soon realized he had no more to fear. The fellow's nerve was broken. He shivered and trembled like a frightened child.

They took him home, and then Lionel went boldly to Colonel Fearon, and told him the whole story plump and plain. When he had finished the colonel sat speechless. His face was gray and pinched.

Lionel looked at him. "I shan't make any trouble for you," he said coolly. "All I want is those introductions. Write them now, and I'll take them myself to Washington."

Without a word the colonel obeyed.

Lionel Rutherford is now a rich and rising man. Pete is his faithful major-domo. Whenever Lionel gets a holiday the two go off down south for a week or two of shooting. But they never again penetrated the desolate depths of the Great Cypress.

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406--Buffalo Bill's Fiesta; or, At Outs with the Duke of Cimarron.
407--Buffalo Bill Among the Cheyennes; or, The Rescue of Paquita.
408--Buffalo Bill Besieged; or, Texas Kid's Last Trail.
409--Buffalo Bill and the Red Hand; or, The Ranch of Mystery.
410--Buffalo Bill's Tree-Trunk Drift; or, The Cold Game "Gent" from Red
Tail.
411--Buffalo Bill and the Spectre; or, A Queer Layout in Spook CaƱon.
412--Buffalo Bill and the Red Feathers; or, The Pard Who Went Wrong.
413--Buffalo Bill's King Stroke; or, Old Fire-top's Finish.
414--Buffalo Bill, the Desert Cyclone; or, The Wild Pigs of the Cumbres.
415--Buffalo Bill's Cumbres Scouts; or, The Wild Pigs Corralled.

BRAVE AND BOLD WEEKLY

All kinds of stories that boys like. The biggest and best nickel's worth ever offered. =High art colored covers. Thirty-two big pages. Price, 5 cents.=

321--Madcap Max, The Boy Adventurer; or, Lost in the Land of the
Mahdi. By Frank Sheridan.
322--Always to the Front; or, For Fun and Fortune. By Cornelius Shea.
323--Caught in a Trap; or, The Great Diamond Case. By Harrie Irving
Hancock.
324--For Big Money; or, Beating His Way to the Pacific. By Fred
Thorpe.
325--Muscles of Steel; or, The Boy Wonder. By Weldon J. Cobb.
326--Gordon Keith in Zululand; or, How "Checkers" Held the Fort. By
Lawrence White, Jr
327--The Boys' Revolt; or, Right Against Might. By Harrie Irving
Hancock.
328--The Mystic Isle; or, In Peril of His Life. By Fred Thorpe.
329--A Million a Minute; or, A Brace of Meteors. By Weldon J. Cobb.
330--Gordon Keith Under African Skies; or, Four Comrades in the
Danger Zone. By Lawrence White, Jr.
331--Two Chums Afloat; or, The Cruise of the "Arrow." By Cornelius
Shea.

MOTOR STORIES

The latest and best five-cent weekly. We won't say how interesting it is. See for yourself. =High art colored covers. Thirty-two big pages. Price, 5 cents.=

1--Motor Matt; or, The King of the Wheel.
2--Motor Matt's Daring; or, True To His Friends.
3--Motor Matt's Century Run; or, The Governor's Courier.
4--Motor Matt's Race; or, The Last Flight of the "Comet."
5--Motor Matt's Mystery; or, Foiling a Secret Plot.
6--Motor Matt's Red Flier; or, On The High Gear.
7--Motor Matt's Clue; or, The Phantom Auto.
8--Motor Matt's Triumph; or, Three Speeds Forward.
9--Motor Matt's Air-Ship; or, The Rival Inventors.

_For sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address on receipt of price, 5 cents per copy, in money or postage stamps, by_

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

=IF YOU WANT ANY BACK NUMBERS= of our Weeklies and cannot procure them from your newsdealer, they can be obtained from this office direct. Fill out the following Order Blank and send it to us with the price of the Weeklies you want and we will send them to you by return mail. =POSTAGE STAMPS TAKEN THE SAME AS MONEY.=

________________________ _190_

_STREET & SMITH, 79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York City._

_Dear Sirs: Enclosed please find_ ___________________________
_cents for which send me_:

TIP TOP WEEKLY, Nos. ________________________________

NICK CARTER WEEKLY, " ________________________________

DIAMOND DICK WEEKLY, " ________________________________

BUFFALO BILL STORIES, " ________________________________

BRAVE AND BOLD WEEKLY, " ________________________________

MOTOR STORIES, " ________________________________

_Name_ ________________ _Street_ ________________

_City_ ________________ _State_ ________________

ADVENTURES OF A BOY GENIUS

MOTOR STORIES

Most five-cent weeklies are founded upon the adventures of boy wonders who perform all sorts of impossible feats and who never act or talk as a boy really does. This is displeasing to the intelligent boy of the present day, who is better educated, and who, consequently, demands more logical reading than the old-time boy did.

The boys who want to learn something from what they read, as well as to be interested by it, will never find another publication that will satisfy them so well as MOTOR STORIES. "Motor Matt" is not an impossible boy character. He is simply a youth who has had considerable training in a machine shop where motors of all kinds were repaired, and who is possessed of a genius for mechanics. His sense of right and wrong is strongly developed, and his endeavors to insure certain people a square deal lead him into a series of the most astonishing, but at the same time the most natural, adventures that ever befell a boy.

Buy the current number from your newsdealer. We feel sure that you will be just as enthusiastic about it as the fifty thousand other boys throughout the United States have become.

HERE ARE THE TITLES NOW READY:

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."
No. 5.--Motor Matt's Mystery; or, Foiling a Secret Plot.
No. 6.--Motor Matt's Red Flier; or, On the High Gear.
No. 7.--Motor Matt's Clue; or, The Phantom Auto.

TO BE PUBLISHED ON APRIL 12th

No. 8.--Motor Matt's Triumph; or, Three Speeds Forward.

TO BE PUBLISHED ON APRIL 19th

No. 9.--Motor Matt's Air-ship; or, The Rival Inventors.

TO BE PUBLISHED ON APRIL 26th

No. 10.--Motor Matt's Hard Luck; or, The Balloon House Plot.

TO BE PUBLISHED ON MAY 3d

No. 11.--Motor Matt's Daring Rescue; or, The Strange Case of Helen Brady.

TO BE PUBLISHED ON MAY 10th

No. 12.--Motor Matt's Peril; or, Cast Away in the Bahamas.

=Price, Five Cents=

At all newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, by the publishers upon receipt of the price.

_STREET & SMITH, Publishers, NEW YORK_

Transcriber's Notes:

Italics are represented with _underscores_; bold with =equal signs=.

Retained inconsistent hyphenation ("reentered" vs. "re-entered").

Page 12, changed "anyhere" to "anywhere" ("we can go anywhere").

Page 13, removed unnecessary quote before "In the letter, over his own signature." Changed "propellor" to "propeller" ("propeller forces the air-ship").

Page 16, changed "Yon" to "You" ("You can handle the machine").

Page 18, changed "times" to "time" ("right time arrives").

Page 19, changed "geen" to "been" ("chum has been getting").

Page 26, changed "Mat" to "Matt" ("get a look at Matt").

Page 27, changed "nearer" to "neared" ("As they neared").

Page 28, changed "bulding" to "building" ("big building were closed").

Page 29, changed "crossel" to "crossed" ("curious expression crossed"). Changed "outwarlly" to "outwardly" ("outwardly looked precisely"). Changed "varandaed" to "verandaed."

Page 30, changed "thicked" to "thicker" ("thicker grew the").

Page 31, changed "clutchel" to "clutched" ("clutched Pete's arm").

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