Chapter XVI: Conclusion

Doctors are not infallible, and the post doctor was no exception in this respect. All his experience and skill in diagnosing the ills of humanity, made him certain that Prebbles was booked for the other world. But there was an error--and, more than likely, that error was due to the arrival of Newt, who, it will be remembered, the doctor had wired it would be useless to send.

Prebbles was singing his Salvation Army hymns when Newt stepped into the sick room. All night he was marching the streets, in his disordered mind, pounding the cymbals and exhorting. Occasionally there crept into the oral wanderings a reference to the young man watching at the bedside.

Most unexpectedly--most unaccountably, to the doctor--a lucid moment came to Prebbles in the early morning. He saw his son, he recognized him, and he felt his handclasp. There was a smile on the old man's lips as he drifted back into his sea of visions.

But, from that moment, there was a noticeable change. There seemed more resisting power in the wasted body of the old clerk, as though hope for better things had grown up in him and was giving him strength.

To Matt, Newt Prebbles told what he knew about the accident to poor Harry Traquair.

Siwash Charley, under agreement with Murgatroyd, had tampered with Traquair's machine before the fatal flight, just as he had tampered with Matt's machine before the official trials at Fort Totten. But Traquair had not been so fortunate as the king of the motor boys.

Newt had learned of this villainous work through Siwash Charley, and had received from Siwash, at a time when the ruffian was under the influence of liquor, an incriminating note from the broker, signed with his _alias_, "George Hobbes."

Prebbles had made use of this document, holding it over Murgatroyd's head and extorting money from him on account of it.

This, of course, formed a sad commentary on the character of young Prebbles. But Motor Matt, in "advancing the spark of friendship," so played upon the facts in the case, and showed up the broker's duplicity, that the old clerk's illness formed the turning point in his son's career.

Such transformations are not so rare as it would seem.

Cameron, Matt, Ping, and Roscoe arrived at the post in the afternoon following the arrival of Matt and young Prebbles. Murgatroyd, of course, accompanied them.

Murgatroyd was tried, not on the Traquair charge, but on the later one of conniving, with Siwash Charley, to injure the aëroplane at the government trials, thus endangering the life, not only of Motor Matt, but of Lieutenant Cameron as well.

His sentence was commensurate with the evil he had attempted, and he followed Siwash Charley to the Leavenworth prison.

After a few days the post doctor was as certain Prebbles would recover as he had been positive, at the time he sent his message to Cameron, that he had not many hours to live.

The reward paid by the government for the capture of Murgatroyd was made over to the old clerk. On this, he and his son were to begin life anew.

One of the first things Matt did, after reaching the post with Newt Prebbles, was to write to Mrs. Traquair, at Jamestown, settling a mystery which had long puzzled every one who knew of Murgatroyd's attempts to secure the Wells County homestead.

There was coal under the soil of the quarter-section, and the railroad company wanted it. That was the secret, and Mrs. Traquair profited handsomely by the knowledge of it.

The mortgage was paid, and the homestead passed into the hands of the railroad company.

In a country so barren of trees as North Dakota, coal is a valuable commodity.

Matt still kept the aëroplane, and still persistently refused to put it in storage at the post, to be called for later.

"The _Comet_," said Matt, one evening when he and McGlory were again with Cameron, "has got to earn something for Joe, and Ping, and myself."

"Ping comes in on the deal, does he?" laughed Cameron.

"Share and share alike with the rest of us," averred Matt. "That Chinese boy is loyalty itself. Down in that shelter tent, below the post trader's, he spends his nights and days watching the aëroplane."

"And talking to it, and singing about it, and burning rice-paper prayers to the heathen josses, asking them to keep it carefully and not let it go broke while up in the air," put in McGlory. "Oh, he's a freak, that Ping boy; but, as Matt says, he's a mighty good sort of a freak at that. Look how he ran off with the rifles when we fooled the Tin Cup punchers on the hill! And remember how he slammed that stone through the window when Murgatroyd had drawn a fine bead on me and was about to press the trigger. Share and share alike? Well, I should say."

"You're still determined to go into the show business, Matt?" asked Cameron anxiously.

"I don't see why we shouldn't," said Matt. "Five hundred a week isn't to be sneezed at. Joe's agreed, and so has Ping. When the first favorable day arrives, we're going to fly to Fargo."

Two days later the favorable moment was at hand. All the soldiers at the post were out to witness the start, and even the gruff post trader was present to say good-by to the king of the motor boys and his friends.

Matt's last call, at the post, was made on Prebbles. The old man was practically out of danger, but his recovery would take time, and for a long while yet he would have to remain in bed.

He was not able to say much, but what little he did say Matt considered an ample reward for the strenuous adventures that had befallen him and his chums on their flight to the upper Missouri.

Newt had become his sworn friend. Whenever Matt wanted any help, in any way that was within Newt's power to grant, he was surely to call on young Prebbles.

When finally Motor Matt took his way down the post hill for the last time, he was in an exceedingly thoughtful mood.

He remembered when he had first come to Devil's Lake, knowing nothing about aëroplanes, and had practiced with the _June Bug_ until he had acquired the knack of flying the machine and had made good and sold the machine to the government for enough to give large profit to himself and his friends, and, what pleased him most, to place Mrs. Traquair above want.

He remembered, too, how he had sailed away alone into Wells County on a fool's errand, had become entangled in a losing cause, and had experienced a sharp reverse.

But, best of all, in his estimation, was the night journey back to the post from the Missouri River, bringing Newt Prebbles to his father's bedside.

Down into the cheering throng below the post trader's store went the king of the motor boys, shaking hands with every one he met, Indians, whites, or "breeds," receiving good wishes from all and heartily returning them.

For the last time the aëroplane was dragged from the shelter tent, given a strong start along the old familiar roadway, and then watched as it climbed up and up into the air and winged swiftly eastward, carrying Motor Matt, and Joe McGlory, and Ping into untried ventures and fresh fields of endeavor.

THE END.

THE NEXT NUMBER (27) WILL CONTAIN

Motor Matt's Engagement;

OR,

ON THE ROAD WITH A SHOW.

"On the Banks of the Wabash"--In the Calliope Tent--An
Eavesdropper--Queer Proceedings--Motor Matt Protests--A Blaze in the
Air--Was it Treachery?--A Call for Help--Black Magic--The Mahout's
Flight--The Paper Trail--Carl Turns a Trick--The Lacquered Box--The
Hypnotist's Victim--"For the Sake of Haidee"--The Rajah's Niece

MOTOR STORIES

THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION

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MOSE HOWARD'S FISH TRAP.

Nicodemus Squab, Professor of Orthography in the Jimtown district school, was a man of an inquiring turn of mind.

Overhearing some of the scholars discussing a prospective coon hunt that was to come off the following Saturday night, the professor drew near and inquired if they would allow him to join them.

"Of course you kin jine us," said Mose Howard, who was the ringleader in all the devilment in the neighborhood. "Glad tu have you go 'long. We'll come by for you."

"Thank you," said the professor. "I never was coon hunting in my life, though I've always wanted to go--just to see how it is done, you know."

According to promise, Mose Howard, Dick Miller, and Joe Smiley came by for the professor, who was ready and waiting, and who joined the hunters, anticipating a jolly old time.

After winding up the coon hunt, which resulted in the capture of five possums and three coons, Mose Howard proposed that they should go back by the fish trap and catch a mess of fish.

The proposition was unanimously agreed to, and they struck off down the creek, the professor bringing up the rear, puffing and blowing, though highly elated at the variation that this additional act in the programme promised, as well as at the prospect of a successful raid upon the finny tribe.

The "Dofuny" contraption that Mose dignified with the name of fish trap consisted merely of a large sack held open by a hoop, around which the mouth of the sack was fastened, and a couple of ropes, one end of which was fastened to each side of the hoop, while the other ends were fastened to trees on the opposite sides of the stream, in such a way as to allow the hoop to remain about halfway submerged.

On the bank of the creek was a lantern, in which was about half a tallow candle.

Producing some matches, Mose lit the candle and proceeded to explain to the professor the modus operandi of catching fish with his new-fangled trap.

"You just take the lamp, and wade into the trap, and hold the lamp right in front of the mouth so that the fish can see how to run in, and we boys'll go away down the creek and pull off our clothes and wade into the creek and drive the fish up and into the trap."

The professor, as unsuspicious of any trick as a sucking baby, shucked himself, and then taking up the lantern, waded into the trap that the boys set for him instead of for fish, and in the construction of which they had not only exhausted their financial resources in the purchase of the material out of which it was constructed, but also their ingenuity in the getting up and fabrication of the same.

"Ugh!" grunted the professor, as he reached the trap and placed the lantern in the position indicated, "this water is cold as ice. I want you boys to make haste."

"Yes, sir," responded the boys.

"You'll hear us hollerin' as we come," said Mose, and off they started down the creek in a trot.

"All right," said the professor.

As soon as they got out of sight their gait slackened to a walk, which they kept till they reached a point some four hundred yards distant from the trap, when, seating themselves on a log, they began the most uproarious din of yelling and howling that had ever awakened the slumbering echoes of those old woods since the aborigines had vacated the premises.

After about an hour spent in this way the boys got up and advanced slowly up the bank of the stream about a hundred yards, when they seated themselves on another log, where they continued to whoop and yell like so many wild Indians.

After another hour thus spent they made another advance which brought the professor and the fish trap within their range of vision, though, owing to the darkness, they were not visible to him.

"Hurry up, boys!" he shouted. "I'm nearly froze, and the candle's nearly out."

That was what they were waiting for--the candle to burn out--so that their failure to catch fish could be laid to the absence of the light.

"Yes, sir!" they shouted back; "we're hurrying as fast as we can!"

And renewing their yells, they advanced slowly--very slowly--up the stream.

"Hurry up! hurry up!" again shouted the professor. "The candle will be out in two minutes."

"Ay, ay, sir!" shouted Mose back; "but you must stop hollerin', or you'll skeer the fish."

Sure enough, in about two minutes the candle gave a last convulsive flicker, and in the twinkling of an eye thick darkness reigned as absolutely over the professor and the fish trap as elsewhere.

"Boys," said Mose, in a tone of voice loud enough for the professor to hear him, "there ain't no use wadin' in this water any longer; let's go back an' git our cloze."

Seating themselves on a log, they sat perfectly silent for a while--long enough, as they thought, for it to have taken them to go back to where they commenced their drive, dress themselves, and reach that point on their return--when they got up and resumed their progress upstream.

On reaching the trap, they found the professor on shore, and though he had completed his toilet, his teeth were chattering together worse than a pair of castanets rattling off a quickstep march.

"We'll have to try it over ag'in some other time," said Mose, "and fetch more candles with us. I thought we had plenty this time, but we didn't. I guess I'll bring enough next time."

"Why didn't you fellows hurry up?" said the professor. "What made you come so slow?" the chattering of his teeth as he spoke causing him to cut the words into more than the legitimate number of syllables to which they were entitled.

"Couldn't come no faster," said Mose. "The water was so thunderin' cold the fish wouldn't drive fast."

Satisfied with this explanation, the professor fell into ranks as the boys filed off in the direction of home. The exercise of walking soon brought a reaction in his system, the first effect of which was to put a stop to the music of the castanets, and on reaching home he pronounced himself all right again.

Sometime during the ensuing week Mose Howard informed the professor that they were going to try the fish trap again the following Saturday night, and asked him if he didn't want to go along.

The professor gave an involuntary shudder as the recollection of that protracted soaking in ice water of the previous Saturday night flashed across his mind.

Discretion prompted him to give a negative response. Curiosity, however, got the better of discretion, and he accepted the invitation.

"I'll be on hand," said he. "There's no fun standing in that cold water, especially when you get no fish; but if you can stand it I guess I can."

At the appointed time the boys came by, when, the professor joining them, they proceeded to the fish trap.

On arriving there, Mose produced a couple of pieces of candle, one of which he proceeded to light and put in the lantern. It was nearly twice as long as the one they had burned out on the previous occasion.

The other piece he placed in the lantern, so that it could be easily got at if it should be needed.

This latter piece Mose had had manufactured himself especially for the occasion, and had taken some little pains in its construction.

After soaking the wick in water until it was perfectly saturated, he had taken a skillet and melted some tallow therein; then placing the wick in a mould, he filled the latter with the melted tallow, and the thing was accomplished.

This particular candle he had carefully marked, so as to be able to distinguish it from any other candle.

Before completing their arrangements at the fish trap, preparatory to beginning the drive, the professor proposed that one of the boys should take his place at the trap while he accompanied the others and assisted in driving the fish.

"Kin you swim?" asked Mose Howard.

"No," answered the professor.

"Well, you'd run the resk ov gittin' drownded, then," said Mose.

"You go on, then," said the professor, "and I'll mind the trap."

So off the boys started, and going down the stream about a mile, seated themselves upon a log, and began yelling and whooping, as on the previous occasion.

Hour after hour passed, each hour seeming to the benumbed professor an age.

The yelling approached slowly but surely.

The boys had now arrived at a point where every motion of the professor was distinctly visible.

The piece of candle Mose had lighted and put in the lantern was nearly burned out. Taking up the other piece, the professor proceeded to light it. Placing it in the lantern, it gave a splutter and went out. Dark! Dark was no name for it. No moon, no stars, no matches.

But that bogus candle would have been a match for a whole box of matches.

"What in thunder's the matter now?" shouted Mose.

"The candle's gone out," shouted the professor back. "Have you got any matches?" he inquired.

"Nary match," said Mose.

"What's to be done?" inquired the professor.

"Nuthin'," said Mose. "The thing's played out. Put on your cloze, while we go and git ourn, and then we'll git for home."

Seating themselves on a log, the boys remained quiet for a while, then rising to their feet, they came up to where the professor was waltzing around trying to get up a circulation.

"Another waterhaul," said Mose.

"Looks a good deal like it," said the professor.

"Don't know why the mischief some of us didn't think tu bring some matches," said Mose.

"I don't know, either," responded the professor, in a deprecating tone of voice, as though he entertained the idea that somehow or other he had been mainly instrumental in producing the bad luck.

"Better luck next time," said Mose philosophically, as he struck out for home, followed by the others.

They had proceeded about two-thirds of the way home, groping their way as best they could through the thick darkness, when a shrill, prolonged scream directly ahead of them, and apparently at no great distance, broke upon their startled auriculars.

"Painter!" ejaculated Mose, in a low tone of voice, though sufficiently loud to be distinctly audible to the professor, at the same time springing to one side, and the next moment he was out of the professor's hearing.

The fact was he had only taken a couple of steps and then squatted in the grass as completely concealed from his companions by the intense darkness as though he had been on the opposite side of the globe.

"Painter!" repeated the other boys, following Mose's example, of springing to one side and squatting in the grass.

Left alone, the professor, with hair on end, paused a moment to collect his scattered thoughts; but only for a moment.

Another scream long drawn out, and apparently but a few yards distant, set his dumpling-shaped body in motion, and the next moment he was streaking it across the country as fast as his duck legs could carry him.

Tumbling over a log lying on the edge of a bank some twenty feet high and nearly perpendicular, down which he rolled, he landed in a mud hole at the bottom.

Gathering himself up he began looking for his hat, which had parted company with him on the way down the bank, when, another scream breaking upon his ear, he struck out once more on his race for life, hatless and covered with mud from his head to his heels.

Coming to a brier patch, he was on the point of diverging from his course in order to try and go around it, when another scream precipitated the terror-stricken professor into the patch like a catapult.

Emerging from the brier patch with his coat tails torn into ribbons, the mud-begrimed professor held on the even tenor of his way without any diminution of speed for a hundred yards or so, when his pace began to slacken a little. Another scream, however, put him to his mettle again, but as that was the last, and as he was about exhausted, he soon settled down to a walk, and presently stumbling over a log, he picked himself up and seated himself thereon.

After resting a while, plunged in the meantime in a deep cogitation, he finally concluded to try and seek a shelter for the remainder of the night. So, starting forward, he wandered about first in one direction and then in another, and it was not until daylight began to streak the eastern horizon that he stumbled on a clearing in the woods, in the midst of which was a log cabin.

Cautiously approaching the cabin, he had reached the foot of a sapling some fifty steps from the door when a big dog came dashing around the corner of the house, barking in a most furious manner.

No sooner did the professor catch sight of the dog bouncing along in the direction of him and the sapling than he was seized with such a sudden panic as to cause him to grasp the sapling in his arms and start up it, though, owing to want of practice, with hardly the agility of a squirrel. After a tremendous effort he succeeded in reaching a fork some ten feet from the ground, where he seated himself, and awaited the issue of events.

He didn't have long to wait. The furious barking of the dog soon roused the inmates of the cabin.

Scarcely a minute had elapsed after the professor had succeeded, by the most superhuman exertions, in seating himself comfortably in the fork of the sapling, out of the reach of the dog, when the door of the cabin opened and a huge six-footer of a backwoodsman, somewhat airily attired, with a rifle of corresponding size with himself in his hand, emerged therefrom.

"What you got thar, Bull?" said the man, as he approached the sapling, at the root of which the dog was barking in a most vociferous manner. "What is it, old feller?" he continued. "B'ar, painter, ur catamount?"

Bull's response was an abortive attempt to climb the tree, accompanied by a most furious outburst of barking.

"Be quiet, old feller," said the man; "we'll soon see what it is," at the same time raising his rifle to his shoulder.

"Hold on there," shouted the professor, who was beginning to realize the perilous position in which he was placed, and the imminent danger he was in of being shot for a bear or catamount. "I am no varmint. I'm Nicodemus Squab, Professor of Orthography in the Jimtown district school."

"Hallo," said the backwoodsman, as he lowered his rifle, "is that so? Well, that gits me. What in thunder ur you doin' up thar?"

"Wait till I get down, and I'll tell you."

And crawling out of the crotch in which he had been seated, the professor slid down the sapling, when he soon succeeded in explaining matters to the satisfaction of that thinly clad backwoodsman and his savage bulldog.

It was now broad daylight, and when he reached Jimtown the sun was some distance above the horizon, climbing upward toward the zenith.

Of course every man, woman, and child in the place beheld, with wonder-depicted countenances, the advent of the mud-begrimed, hatless professor, and a thousand conjectures were indulged in as to the cause of his singular appearance.

The professor was disposed to be reticent on the subject, answering interrogatories in relation to the matter evasively; but the joke was too good to be kept, and in less than twenty-four hours his approach toward any crowd was greeted by a broad grin overspreading the countenances of a majority of the members thereof, and his departure signalized by a long guffaw.

This conduct on the part of the citizens annoyed the professor considerably at first; then it grew monotonous, and he became disgusted.

Finally he burst into a flame of indignation, and after taking his revenge out of the hides of the pupils, especially Mose Howard and his confederates, the irate professor shook the dust of Jimtown off his feet, and betook himself to parts unknown.

PHOTOGRAPHS TAKEN IN DANGEROUS PLACES.

"Race war in Alabama. Take cinematograph pictures of fighting and country." "Want pictures of Dyaks of Borneo as soon as possible." "Series wanted of whale-hunting in Arctic regions."

The average man, receiving one of these messages with his breakfast, would not regard the commission exactly in the light of a pleasure trip. To the cinematograph man, however, such orders are all in a day's work. He simply packs up his machine, makes his arrangements in the shortest possible time, and goes right ahead with the business.

It is thrilling and wonderful work at times; and it requires a little patience, too. "One of our photographers," said the manager of a company recently, "once sat beside a geyser in Iceland for three weeks, waiting for an eruption to take place, in order that he might obtain some pictures of this wonderful phenomenon. The geyser seemed in no hurry to oblige him, so he left the district for a couple of days. When he returned he found that the eruption had taken place and the geyser had again become inactive.

"Another of our photographers, who went out to Borneo to take pictures of the home life of the natives, narrowly escaped losing his head as well as his machine. The natives thought the latter was some new and powerful weapon, and it was only by the timely intervention of the interpreter, who explained matters, that they adopted a more friendly attitude.

"By the way, this particular photographer raised a good laugh when he came home. We wanted some pictures taken while traveling down the water chute at an exhibition. It was necessary for the operator and the machine to be strapped to the boat, in order that he might be quite free to turn the handle and take the photographs as he shot down the chute. I asked the photographer from Borneo to do the job. 'I would rather be excused,' he said; 'I've got a weak heart.' Here was a man, who spent weeks among one of the most savage tribes in the world, who was afraid to go down a water chute. Nerves are peculiar things.

"I think, however, the worst experience which has befallen one of our photographers was that of the man we sent to take the pictures of a whale-hunting expedition. A fine school--I believe that is the correct term--of whales was sighted one day. The boats went in pursuit, and our photographer with his machine entered one of them. The crew of this boat managed to harpoon a fine big whale, who went through the sea at a terrific pace, dragging the boat behind him. Our photographer was just congratulating himself on getting some of the most realistic pictures ever obtained, when suddenly the whale doubled in its tracks, and, to make a long story short, smashed the boat. Luckily, another boat came up at the critical moment and rescued the crew and the photographer. But the latter is always bemoaning the fact that one of the finest sets of cinematograph pictures ever taken lies at the bottom of the Arctic Ocean."

Some of the most interesting pictures shown, however, are scenes taken en route while traveling by rail in various parts of the world. A special engine is chartered, and the operator, with his machine, takes his place on the front platform of the engine, or on a low truck which the engine pushes in front of it. Thus mile after mile of scenery is photographed as the engine rushes along. It is a rather ticklish job, particularly in wild regions where all sorts of animals stray on to the line, and there is a risk of collision and general smash.

Doubtless many readers are acquainted with the entertaining and novel manner in which these pictures are afterward shown. One sits in a stationary model of a railway carriage, the picture being thrown on a screen at the end. A motor underneath the carriage gives a realistic impression of the noise made by a train when traveling, and thus one seems to be rushing through the country which is being depicted on the screen. It is a novel notion, which is deserving of all the success and popularity it has attained.

COSTLY FISHES.

The most beautiful and withal costly fishes in the world come from China, and of these the most expensive and rarest is the brush-tail goldfish. Specimens of these have sold for as high as $700 each, and in Europe the prices range from $250 to $500. The brush-tail goldfish is so small that a half-crown piece will cover it, and probably there is no living thing of its size and weight that is worth so much money.

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MOTOR STORIES, " ________________________________

_Name_ ________________ _Street_ ________________

_City_ ________________ _State_ ________________

A GREAT SUCCESS!!

MOTOR STORIES

Every boy who reads one of the splendid adventures of Motor Matt, which are making their appearance in this weekly, is at once surprised and delighted. Surprised at the generous quantity of reading matter that we are giving for five cents; delighted with the fascinating interest of the stories, second only to those published in the Tip Top Weekly.

Matt has positive mechanical genius, and while his adventures are unusual, they are, however, drawn so true to life that the reader can clearly see how it is possible for the ordinary boy to experience them.

_HERE ARE THE TITLES NOW READY AND THOSE TO BE PUBLISHED_:

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.

10--Motor Matt's Hard Luck; or, The Balloon House Plot.

11--Motor Matt's Daring Rescue; or, The Strange Case of Helen Brady.

12--Motor Matt's Peril; or, Cast Away in the Bahamas.

13--Motor Matt's Queer Find; or, The Secret of the Iron Chest.

14--Motor Matt's Promise; or, The Wreck of the "Hawk."

15--Motor Matt's Submarine; or, The Strange Cruise of the "Grampus."

16--Motor Matt's Quest; or, Three Chums in Strange Waters.

17--Motor Matt's Close Call; or, The Snare of Don Carlos.

18--Motor Matt in Brazil; or, Under the Amazon.

19--Motor Matt's Defiance; or, Around the Horn.

20--Motor Matt Makes Good; or, Another Victory for the Motor Boys.

21--Motor Matt's Launch; or, A Friend in Need.

22--Motor Matt's Enemies; or, A Struggle for the Right.

23--Motor Matt's Prize; or, The Pluck that Wins.

24--Motor Matt on the Wing; or, Flying for Fame and Fortune.

To be Published on August 9th.

25--Motor Matt's Reverse; or, Caught in a Losing Game.

To be Published on August 16th.

26--Motor Matt's "Make or Break"; or, Advancing the Spark of
Friendship.

To be Published on August 23d.

27--Motor Matt's Engagement; or, On the Road With a Show.

To be Published on August 30th.

28--Motor Matt's "Short Circuit"; or, The Mahout's Vow.

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.

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

Page 2, corrected "aëroplan" to "aëroplane" in "Traquair and his aëroplane."

Page 3, corrected "Tarquair" to "Traquair" in "try-out of the Traquair" and "you and Mrs. Traquair sold."

Page 6, corrected "wil" to "will" in "money will go to you."

Page 10, corrected "se" to "see" in "see the time-piece."

Page 14, converted ligature in "manoeuvre" to "oe" for text edition; ligature retained in HTML version.

Page 25, corrected "Pebbles" to "Prebbles" in "good stuff in young Pebbles."

Page 29, corrected "thty" to "they" in "which they kept till."

End of Project Gutenberg's Motor Matt's Make-and-Break, by Stanley R. Matthews