Chapter XVI: Conclusion

"Scoot" is the only word that would fittingly describe the Hawk's return to her home port. A thirty-mile wind was directly behind her, and the propeller--which it was necessary to keep going in order to make the air ship fairly manageable--still further helped her along. Part of the time, as the three chums figured it, they were dashing through space at the rate of a mile a minute.

Overhead the skies had become black and threatening, and an occasional flash of lightning and roll of distant thunder told the boys what they were presently to expect.

That was the first time they had ever been in such a wind with the Hawk, and the first time a storm had ever threatened them while aloft. Even Matt, stout hearted as he was, felt a qualm of dread as he saw how the air craft flung onward by sheer force of the wind.

It was not more than twenty minutes from the time they left River Forest until they sighted the grimy chimneys of South Chicago.

"What're we going to do with the Hawk, mate?" shouted Ferral.

"If the balloon house hasn't been too badly dismantled," Matt answered, "we'll put the Hawk in there until the storm blows over."

By the time Matt had finished speaking, they were hard upon the big shed. But Hagenmyer's men were even then at work. The roof of the structure was gone, and its usefulness as a shelter, of course, went with roof.

"Py shinks," bellowed Carl, "I don'd like der looks oof t'ings! Ve got to do somet'ing mit der air ship, but vat it iss? Dell me, somepody!"

"We'll try Jerrold!" said Matt. "He keeps the Eagle in that big back yard of us, and perhaps he can help us out with the Hawk."

"Drop down in the yard, anyhow," suggested Ferral, "and take chances."

Dropping down in such a gale was hazardous business.

How Matt ever executed the manoeuvre as safely as he did he could not have told, for a good many things had to be done, and done quickly.

He flung the Hawk downward full fifty feet before he reached the confines of Jerrold's big back yard. The air ship had to slide sixty feet down the void, and in sliding those sixty feet the wind carried her over more than the fifty feet necessary to clear Jerrold's high board fence.

The bottom of the car struck the ground with a jolt that tipped Carl out heels over head. Carl had been standing ready with one of the mooring ropes, and he still clung to it. Ferral went out on the other side with another rope.

Meanwhile, the Hawk was lurching sideways and bounding up and down in a most terrific manner, lifting the car at each leap and pounding it on the surface of the ground.

Fortunately for Matt and his friends, Jerrold and his assistant, Payne, were close by, making the fastenings of their own air ship secure. They rushed to the assistance of Carl and Ferral, and succeeded, between all four of them, in getting the mooring ropes in place.

Jerrold thereupon brought four more ropes from his workshop, and the Hawk was likewise lashed with these. Matt's canvas shelter was then brought out, unfolded and put in place over the gas bag.

This task had no sooner been completed than the rain began to come down in torrents. Thankful that they had reached a safe haven in the very nick of time, Helen, Brady and Matt and his friends went into Jerrold's house and watched the rain pouring from the windows.

* * * * *

It was not until the day after their difficult landing in Jerrold's yard that Matt and his friends, accompanied by Helen Brady, paid a visit to the office of the chief of police.

Brady had already been taken back to Joliet, and Pete and Whipple were penned up in cells, awaiting trial.

"They'll go up, all right," said the chief, "and Brady will have the pleasure of seeing the two members of his old gang in the same institution where he is at hard labor."

"What about the Hooligans, chief?" queried Matt.

"Harris, Burton, and Sanders had their hands full with Pete and Whipple," replied the chief, "and they were not able to look after the caretaker and his wife. They telephoned the River Forest authorities, though, and some officers went there. They found the place deserted. Hooligan and his wife, fearing to be called to account for their rascality, had fled, and left the mansion to take care of itself. The River Forest police put some one else in charge of the place, and have cabled to the Caspars, in Paris. The La Grange officers are watching the Hooligan house in that town, and when the caretaker shows up there he will be captured."

Justice seemed to have failed in the matter of the Hooligans, but possibly it was only deferred. Their home was still in La Grange, and, sooner or later, one or both of them would return there.

"I just received a telegram from the detail I sent to Willoughby's swamp," went on the chief.

"To look for the loot?" asked Matt, turning his eyes on Helen.

"Yes."

"I didn't know Helen had told you where the stuff was hidden."

"She wrote out the instructions on the back of an old letter I had in my pocket, matey," spoke up Ferral, "while she and I were waiting for you and Carl to come back with the Hawk. She gave the instructions to Sanders, and he turned them over to Harris when he and Burton, with their prisoners, came after him in the automobile."

"That was the way of it," continued the chief. "The detail went out last night, in the rain, because we did not think it well to have any delay in such an important matter. Here's what the telegram says."

Opening a yellow slip, which had been lying on his desk, the chief read aloud the following:

"'Plunder found. There's a raft of it. Will bring it in by train,
under guard.'"

"Dot's fine!" cried Carl. "Und der peoble vat geds der shtuff pack vill haf to t'ank Miss Prady for dot."

"They have already had to thank my father for losing the property, in the first place," said Helen sadly, "so they won't feel very grateful to me. And it's not right they should," she added.

"Yes, it is," said the chief kindly. "You've played a noble part all through these troubles which the law has had with your father, Miss Brady, and your faithfulness in standing firmly for what you thought was right, has won universal recognition and gained you many friends. What will you do now?"

"I think I shall go to my mother's sister, who lives in New York," replied Helen. "She has always wanted me to come and live with her. She is alone in the world and needs somebody for a companion."

"You couldn't do better," said the chief approvingly. "By the way," and here he whirled to his desk and drew a yellow envelope from one of the pigeonholes, "here's another message, and it's for you, Matt. It came yesterday, and, as you know, this is the first chance I have had since then to deliver it."

Wondering who the telegram could be from, Matt opened it, read it over to himself, laughed, and then read it aloud.

"'Will guarantee you one thousand dollars a week to come here and
give exhibitions with your air ship. Deflate it and forward by
express, and come by train. Wire me if you accept.'"

"Well, what do you think of that!" exclaimed the chief.

"Vone t'ousant tollars a veek!" jubilated Carl. "Py shinks, ve vill haf Morgan und Rockyfeller backed off der map! Vone t'ousant a veek! Binch me, somepody."

"Where's it from, matey?" asked Ferral, with suppressed excitement.

"From Atlantic City, New Jersey," answered Matt.

"Big summer resort," observed the chief. "The people who go there can afford to have what they want, and pay well for it. What name's signed to the message, Matt?"

"Kitson Steel Pier Company."

"Well, it must be all right," said the chief. "Anyhow, the Kitson Steel Pier Company show a whole lot of sense in advising you to deflate the gas bag and ship the air ship by express. That's a whole lot better than trying to fly there, and butting into such storms as we had last night. What message are you going to send to Atlantic City, Matt?"

"'Terms accepted; start at once.'"

Ferral tossed up his hat delightedly, and Carl floundered to his feet and began shaking hands all around.

"We'll go to Atlantic City by way of New York," Matt went on, with a glance toward the girl, "and see Miss Brady safely in the hands of her aunt."

"Good idea!" approved the chief heartily.

Helen lifted her eyes to Matt's, and then reached out impulsively and caught his hand.

THE END.

THE NEXT NUMBER (12) WILL CONTAIN

MOTOR MATT'S PERIL;

OR,

Cast Away in the Bahamas.

Carl as Buttinsky--The Moving-picture Man Makes a Queer Move--Warm
Work at the "Inlet"--Prisoners On a Submarine--Through the
Torpedo Tube--The Cape Town Mystery--Off for the Bahamas--An
Accident--Matt and His Chums Go it Alone--The Air Ship Springs a
Leak--Wrecked--Luck, or Ill-luck--A Move and a Countermove--Motor
Matt's Success--A Few Surprises--Matt Takes Townsend's Advice.

MOTOR STORIES

THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION

NEW YORK, May 8, 1909.

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A FALL TO FORTUNE.

"I say, mother, Mr. Carey's going to take me to the balloon ascent. Isn't it good of him?"

Mrs. Keen turned to the kindly faced, bearded man who had followed her son into the cottage kitchen. "It is most kind of you, Mr. Carey. Clifford has been longing to go ever since he heard about Professor Starley. But"--sadly--"I couldn't even find the necessary quarter for admission."

"Won't you come, too, Mrs. Keen?" said Carey cheerily. "Do you no end of good."

She shook her head. "No, I won't come," she said gently. "But perhaps you will come back to tea with us afterward."

Carey said he would gladly do so, and he and Clifford started for the fair ground, from which the famous aëronaut, Professor Starley, was going to make an ascent by balloon and a drop by parachute.

"Wish your mother had come, Cliff," said Mr. Carey, as they walked up the street.

"Wish she had, too," echoed the boy. "But she never goes anywhere now. Tell you the truth," he went on, lowering his voice, "I believe she's afraid of any of our old friends recognizing her. You're the only one we keep up with."

"Oh, but that's foolishness!"

"I've told her so lots of times," declared Clifford. "But you know it's pretty hard to come down from a nice house to a cottage like that. Not that I care," he hastened to add. "But it's tough for mother. Fancy her having to do all the cooking! And she's got no nice clothes like she used to have before dad was drowned."

Mr. Carey shook his head gravely. "She's always fretting about him," he said. "I don't wonder. It was a terrible business altogether. And what made it worse was leaving her almost penniless."

He paused. "Cliff, do you know I've always suspected that that fellow Moise didn't treat your mother squarely?"

"Have you, Mr. Carey?" cried the boy eagerly. "D'you know, I've often thought the same thing myself. Seems a bit queer, after dad had always had lots of money, that old Moise should swear there was nothing left except about five hundred dollars. Don't you think there's something awfully queer about Moise's face? He never looks at you straight."

"I've noticed that myself," said the other dryly. "But here we are. We'll talk about this again some other time."

The crowd was tremendous. All Dunthorne seemed to have turned out. As they worked their way through the masses of people Clifford Keen could see over their heads the great varnished globe swaying in the breeze.

Clifford was not the sort to be content with a back seat. He wormed his way through the packed throng till he reached the very front row, where a number of volunteers were holding the mooring ropes. The breeze was brisking, and the balloon tugged and leaped like a live thing.

"Here, sonny, catch a hold!" came a quick voice as a powerfully built man in tights and spangles caught sight of the boy's eager face. "Don't let go till I tell you. Mind!"

Clifford seized the rope delightedly.

Starley sprang back into the open space underneath the balloon. The balloon had no car, only a trapeze. On this Starley seated himself, holding the side ropes tight with both hands. The parachute, Clifford noticed, was fastened up against the side of the balloon.

"Now, gentlemen, when I give the word I want you all to release the cords at the same instant. The wind makes----"

At that very moment came such a gust that Starley's speech was cut short. The balloon came whirling over almost on top of Clifford, and two men who had hold of the same rope let go and sprang out of the way with shouts of alarm.

"Cowards!" muttered Clifford, holding on tighter than ever.

He knew nothing whatever of the lifting power of a balloon. Next instant as the gust passed the balloon came back with a jerk to the perpendicular, and Clifford was swung completely off his feet.

Before he could realize what had happened or make up his mind to let go he was far above the heads of the crowd.

From the whole fair ground rose an extraordinary sound--a deep groan. It was this that first made the boy realize the extreme peril of his position.

Nineteen boys out of twenty finding themselves dangling at the end of a rope in mid-air would have let go at once, and, of course, been smashed to atoms. Clifford happened to be the twentieth. The first thing he did was to crook his right leg in the rope, the second to shut his eyes in order to arrest the horrible dizziness which made his head swim like seasickness.

The next thing he was conscious of was a quiet voice from above.

"Say, sonny, can you climb up here?"

Clifford looked up. The aëronaut, seated on the crossbar about ten feet above him, was looking down with a cool expression, which helped to restore Clifford's confidence.

"I'll try," he answered.

"Come right along, then. Don't get flustered. It's just as easy as climbing a tree. And say, you keep looking at me. Don't look down."

"All right," replied Clifford briefly, and started to swarm up the rope. He was rather indignant at Starley's suggestion as to his getting flustered. Up to the time of his father's death he had always meant to be a sailor. He prided himself he could climb and stand heights as well as most chaps.

All the same, he wished the rope wouldn't swing so. To climb a cord that is describing great arcs in mid-air is rather different from swarming one in a school playground.

"That's first class," said Starley encouragingly. "Keep a good grip with your legs. Come on."

He held out an encouraging hand. Clifford found time to marvel at the airy ease with which the aëronaut balanced on the thin bar of the trapeze, holding by one hand only.

Another yard, and strong fingers clutched his collar. Next moment he was seated beside Starley on the trapeze.

At first this was almost worse than the rope. For the life of him the boy couldn't help looking down, and it gave him a curious shock to see men like black insects crawling among toy buildings, and little carriages moving down streets no wider than a window sill.

For a moment his head reeled, and he felt that horrible impulse to let go and fling himself down.

Starley's strong arm was round him. "All right, sonny, you'll get over that in a jiffy. When you feel fit again we must hold a council of war."

"I'm all right," declared Clifford, half angrily. He was savage with himself for giving way. "What are we going to do now?"

"That's just the trouble," replied the American with a dry smile. "It beats me to know how we're going to get back to the solid."

"Can't we both go down in your parachute?"

Starley shook his head. "She'll take my weight, and not ten pounds more. If we both hung on to her we'd rip the stuffing out of her, and there'd just be a splash to show where we hit the floor."

Clifford glanced at his companion with startled eyes.

"There's worse than that, sonny," went on the other. "You see, this isn't like a balloon that'll come down just when you like by pulling a valve cord. She's just an old thing I use for these descents, and trust to pick up wherever she happens to fall."

"Then you and I can't go down together?" said Clifford sharply.

Starley shook his head.

"What'll happen, then?"

"We'll go on up till we freeze and can't hold on any longer and drop off, or else the balloon'll bust, and we'll both come down a bit too quick for the good of our health."

"Is there nothing else we can do?" cried the boy.

"There's just one other chance," replied the aëronaut. "If you've got the pluck to take the parachute, I'll climb up in the netting and put my knife through the cover of the balloon. If I rip her enough she'll come down all right."

"That wouldn't be fair," returned Clifford sharply. "You take the parachute. I'll stick to the balloon."

Starley hesitated a moment. "Have you got the nerve to climb up there"--pointing aloft--"and cut the cover?"

"Yes," said Clifford firmly.

"Reckon he'd be safer that way," muttered the man to himself. Then, aloud: "If you can do it you'll be safe enough, sonny. Safer by chalks than if you take the parachute. It's an ugly job, anyway you look at it, but the parachute's the worst for a beginner. The jerk when she opens pretty near takes the arms out of you, and we're up all of three thousand already."

He pulled out a big clasp knife, and handed it to Clifford. "Let's see you up on the ring before I let loose," he said. "You'll feel a bit safer so long as you haven't got to climb it alone. But look sharp. We're still rising, and the wind's carrying us pretty sharp."

Clifford took the knife, slipped it into his coat pocket, and, clutching the side rope of the trapeze, set his teeth and began to climb.

For a horrid moment the ghastly dizziness clutched him again. But he set his teeth, and swore he would not give way to it.

Starley's weight kept the rope taut, and it was easier to climb than the other had been.

At last he was clinging to the iron ring of the parachute, with the great globe of varnished silk immediately above him.

"Are you right, sonny?" cried the aëronaut, looking up.

"Yes," called back Clifford with a cheeriness he was far from feeling.

Then as he swung a leg over the ring and pulled himself up sitting, both hands clutching the netting, he saw Starley lean over and grasp the rope of the parachute.

"Rip her well, and as high up as you can. And hang on till she reaches the ground," were Starley's last words of advice.

Then he gave the parachute rope a sharp jerk, there was a slight ripping sound, and the man dropped like a plummet toward the distant earth.

The balloon, relieved of his weight, made an enormous bound upward.

For a full thirty seconds the boy clung there, unable to do anything but watch Starley shooting down into the awful depths below. He gave a gasp of relief as the parachute at last opened like an umbrella, and went sailing away earthward as gently as a feather.

Then he got out his knife. "Now for it," he muttered bravely.

By this time the balloon was nearly a mile above the earth, and the breeze had long ago carried it clear of the town. It was sailing over what looked to Clifford like a patchwork quilt of little fields and woods and farmsteads, with here and there the silver ribbon of a river.

The whole position was so amazing that Clifford found it sheerly impossible to believe that one brief half hour before he had been one of those ants that he now saw crawling at such an enormous depth beneath him.

Clinging here close to the side of the balloon envelope the boy felt safer. He had something more or less solid to hold on to. He was so interested and excited that for the moment he almost forgot about the knife.

It was the cold that brought him to himself again. Down below it had been a warm if breezy September afternoon. Up here Clifford, in thin summer clothes, was rapidly chilling to the bone. His fingers were already blue.

He looked at them blankly. "If I don't hurry up they'll be too stiff to use the knife," he said half aloud. He opened the knife with his teeth, and, taking a long breath, stabbed boldly at the silk.

The blade flashed through with a ripping sound, and gas gushed out in such volumes that Clifford, half suffocated, was forced to hastily abandon his position and clamber a little way round out of reach of the rush.

Learning by experience, he reached as high as he could stretch, and made a long, sideways gash, then dropped hastily back to the ring.

"That's done it!" he cried delightedly. For the cut was followed by a long, hissing tear. The envelope had split for several feet, and the lower part was rapidly crumpling like a burst bladder.

He glanced down. It looked exactly as if fields and houses were rushing up to meet him. The balloon was dropping at tremendous speed.

At the same time Clifford noticed that the shadow of the balloon was swishing across the fields at almost the pace of an express train. He had dropped into a swift air current, and the rapidly deflating balloon was actually traveling at more than thirty miles an hour.

A small town loomed below, with a tall factory chimney sticking spike-like from its centre.

"If I hit that I'm a gone coon," muttered the boy, but the balloon passed far above its smoking summit, and swirled away over villas and gardens toward a wood.

Clifford saw people looking up, heard shouts of surprise and alarm, but he was past it all in a minute and swinging down toward the wood.

A fresh spasm of fright seized him as he saw the tall trees bending in the gale.

But the balloon scudded just above their leafy tops, and swooped toward a large square building, which lay in its own grounds surrounded by a high brick wall.

Even in the one flashing glance he caught of the place there was something sombre and forbidding about it. The tall gray walls, the barred windows, the dark elms, and the heavy shrubbery.

Now the balloon was flying straight for the outer wall.

With a shout of alarm Clifford scrambled wildly into the netting. Just in time. With a loud clang the iron ring struck the top of the wall. It caught a second, the whole envelope heeled over, the branches of a thick yew tore Clifford from his hold, and the last thing he remembered was the thump with which he reached the ground.

A face was the first thing Clifford caught sight of when he opened his eyes again.

Such a face! Huge, dull, heavy, with deep, sunken eyes, which shone out with a lurid light from under cavernous eyebrows.

They were fixed upon the boy with such a beast-like glare that Clifford, sick and shaken with his heavy fall, could only lie and gaze and vaguely wonder whether he was awake or dreaming.

Gradually as his senses came back he realized that he was lying on a grassy path, and the owner of the eyes, a tall, powerfully built man, was sitting on a moss-grown log leaning over him.

But who and what he was, and why he glared in this ghastly fashion, never attempting to offer help, Clifford could not imagine.

The fixed stare was slowly hypnotizing him. He made an attempt to roll out of reach of the horrible eyes.

Instantly a long arm shot out, and fell on his shoulder with a grip painful in its vise-like strength.

"You'll do," said the owner of the eyes in a queer, hoarse voice.

"Do what?" muttered the boy faintly.

"To kill," replied the man in the coolest tone imaginable.

"Oh, I must be dreaming!" thought Clifford. But the painful grasp on his shoulder was good proof he was doing nothing of the sort.

"Nice and young and tender!" said the brute, licking his leathery lips. He let go of Clifford's shoulder, and suddenly produced from his pocket an ordinary table knife. Clifford saw with a shudder that its blade had been ground to razor-like keenness.

The man ran a finger along the sharp edge--ran it so carelessly that the thin steel ripped the skin, and blood dropped to the grass.

At the sight of the blood his dull face turned to a mask of fury, and he sprang to his feet with a howl resembling that of a wild beast hungry for its food.

The movement broke the spell. Clifford bounded to his feet, and, ducking just in time to escape a vicious stab, ran for dear life toward the house.

With a scream of balked fury the man was after him.

Bruised and shaken as he was, Clifford had never in his life before run so fast. At first he gained a little, but presently the long legs of his pursuer began to tell, and he heard the hot panting so close behind that each moment he expected to feel the sharp steel buried in his back.

The path ran right up under the blank windows of the silent house. Reaching the angle, Clifford swerved wildly to the right. A figure was standing by the door.

With a wild yell of "Help!" Clifford dashed toward it.

To his horror it vanished, slamming the door in his face.

Once more Clifford dodged, and reached an opening in the thick shrubbery which bordered the drive. As he dashed in among the trees his foot caught in a root, and down he came with a crash that knocked the remaining breath out of him.

His pursuer was so close that he could not stop, and, tripping over the boy, went over on his head, burying his knife deep in the ground.

At the same moment a gaunt, middle-aged man with a gray beard and hair burst out of the thick bushes alongside, and hurled himself upon Clifford's assailant.

Clifford, scrambling wildly to his feet, saw the big man struggling to rise. He was howling with rage, and in his bull-like fury was throwing the other about like a feather.

Clifford glanced round. A dead branch lay close by. It was the work of an instant to snatch it up and bring it with all his force across the great head of his would-be murderer.

"Well done!" cried the gray-bearded man, as the other straightened out and lay still. "I've often told them that Prynne was dangerous. But how did you get here?"

He turned, and for the first time caught sight of Clifford's face.

For a moment the two stared at one another in an amazement beyond any description.

Then staggering back, with face white as chalk, the elder man muttered, "Clifford!"

"Father!" replied the boy, unable to believe his eyes.

At this moment footsteps crunched on the gravel of the drive.

The gray-bearded man recovered himself. "They're coming," he hissed in a tense whisper. "Don't let on you know me. Moise put me here. Tell Carey."

It was all he had time to say before a wandering man burst upon them.

"What's up here?" he cried gruffly. Then, catching sight of Clifford, "And what are you doing here?"

"Dropped in a balloon," retorted Clifford sharply. The man's tone was most offensive. "This brute"--pointing to the insensible man--"tried to kill me. He must be mad."

The warder burst into a hoarse guffaw. "Mad--of course he's mad. They're all mad here."

Then like a thunder clap the truth burst on Clifford. His scoundrelly partner had immured his father in this horrible place. The boy blazed with fury. It was all he could do to keep down the rage which consumed him.

But he did it. He turned to the warder. "The sooner I'm clear of the place, the better I shall be pleased," he said. "Perhaps you'll kindly show me the way out."

"The sooner you're out the better, my lad," returned the man with an ugly grin. He led the way to a tall iron-spiked gate, unlocked it, and, with a sigh of intense relief, Clifford found himself on the highroad.

That the first passer-by told him he was eighteen miles from home, every step of which he would have to tramp, hardly made the slightest impression on the eager excitement with which Clifford looked forward to the release of his father.

* * * * *

Three days later Mr. Keen and his wife met once more. As for Moise, when he found that his villainy was discovered, he took what ready cash he could lay hands on, and vanished with all speed. Clifford is never tired of hearing his father tell of the shipwreck and the injury to his head, which gave his ex-partner the opportunity to declare him mad, and imprison him under a false name in the private asylum from which he was so wonderfully rescued.

Since his liberation Mr. Keen has made use of a part of his recovered fortune to force an investigation of the methods employed in the private asylum. And the owner of the house with the barred windows found himself in such extremely hot water that he followed Moise's example and cleared out of the country.

TIP FOR RABBIT HUNTERS.

A West Duluth man says he has the newest and best way to catch rabbits. He finds a creek running through a swamp and follows it until he comes to a place where the rabbit tracks are thick. Then he scrapes the snow off a large surface of the ice and piles bark and wood in the middle of the space. In the evening just after dark he lights the fire and leaves the spot. In the morning he comes back with a pack sack and picks up the rabbits.

How does he get them?

It is this way: When the rabbits see the fire they get curious and go out on the ice. They sit around gazing at the flames until the fire goes out, never noticing that the surface of the ice has melted, and after the heat subsides they find they are frozen to the ice and unable to move. The man comes around with a club in the morning and kills the rabbits.

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682--Frank Merriwell's Pupil; or, The Boy with the Wizard Wing.
683--Frank Merriwell's Fighters; or, The Decisive Battle with Blackstone.
684--Dick Merriwell at the "Meet"; or, Honors Worth Winning.

NICK CARTER WEEKLY

The best detective stories on earth. Nick Carter's exploits are read the world over. =High art colored covers. Thirty-two big pages. Price, 5 cents.=

633--The Moving Picture Mystery; or, Nick Carter's Blindest Trail.
634--The Tiger-tamer; or, Nick Carter's Boldest Strategy.
635--A Strange Bargain; or, Nick Carter's Dead-shot Circus Case.
636--The Haunted Circus; or, Nick Carter Lays a Ghost.
637--The Secret of a Private Room; or, Nick Carter Makes an Experiment.
638--A Mental Mystery; or, Nick Carter on a Difficult Trail.
639--The Sealed Envelope; or, Nick Carter's Search for a Lost Fortune.
640--The Message in Blue; or, Nick Carter's Clue to a Vast Conspiracy.
641--A Dream of Empire; or, Nick Carter and the Queen of Conspirators.
642--The Detective's Disappearance; or, Nick Carter is Saved by Adelina.
643--The Midnight Marauders; or, Nick Carter's Telephone Mystery.
644--The Child of the Jungle; or, Nick Carter's Ingenious Ruse.
645--Nick Carter's Satanic Enemy; or, The Case of an Easy Mark.
646--Three Times Stolen; or, Nick Carter's Strange Clue.
647--The Great Diamond Syndicate; or, Nick Carter's Cleverest Foes.

_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, " ________________________________

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BRAVE AND BOLD WEEKLY, " ________________________________

MOTOR STORIES, " ________________________________

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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:

Added table of contents.

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

In this text version, oe ligatures are expanded to oe; the ligatures are retained in the HTML version.

Retained inconsistent/unusual spellings in dialect (e.g. "leetle" vs. "lettle").

Retained inconsistent hyphenation (e.g. "passerby" vs. "passer-by").

Page 2, added missing footnote reference (original text had footnote, but no matching asterisk). Changed ? to ! in "Howdy, Matt!"

Page 4, changed "techincal" to "technical" ("talked on technical points").

Page 5, changed "Mat" to "Matt" ("mit Matt, dough").

Page 28, changed comma to period at end of "Binch me, somepody."

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