Chapter XII: Matt Lays His Plans

On the way through the woods and back to the road by the car track, Motor Matt was extremely thoughtful.

By Ben Ali's cleverness in getting some white man to represent the agent of the British ambassador, the Hindoo had succeeded in luring his niece from the home of the English woman in whose care the girl had been left.

Once this was accomplished, it was easy to guess how the artful Hindoo had proceeded. Miss Manners had been a hypnotic subject for so long that it was useless for her to attempt to fight against the black magic of her rascally uncle. He had but to catch her eye and snap his fingers, and the girl would be utterly in his power.

To fight such a man as Ben Ali called for ways and means at once bold and wary. He was not to be easily snared.

"You're as mum as an oyster," grunted Burton, as they neared the road. "I've spoken to you half a dozen times, and you didn't seem to hear me. Come back to earth now, and tell me what's on your mind?"

"I'll tell you later, Burton," laughed Matt. "I've got a hard problem to solve, and I don't want to say anything about it until it's all worked out."

"From what you said at that house with the green shutters, I take it you're not going back to the show with me?"

"No."

"Be back there in time to take the aëroplane aloft at six-thirty? The wind's down, and you can pull off the trick."

"There'll be no aëroplane flight this afternoon, Burton. I have more important matters to attend to."

Burton began to bristle.

"By Jerry," he cried, "what am I giving you your salary for? We've missed one ascension to-day, and the people will be wild if we don't have one this afternoon."

"Then," answered Matt, "tell them that we'll give an aëroplane performance for the whole of Grand Rapids to-morrow. That ought to satisfy them, and I know you'll make a lot of capital out of it."

Burton stopped stock-still and stared.

"You're crazy?" he bluntly inquired. "To-morrow's Sunday, and I've never yet been able to get you to make an ascension on Sunday. Backsliding, eh?"

"For this one time," said Matt. "I'm not doing this for the benefit of your show, Burton, but because, as I size the matter up now, there's nothing else to be done."

"Whew!" whistled the showman, "you're about the biggest conundrum, now and then, that I ever tackled. When'll you get back to the grounds?"

"This evening, some time."

"Hunt for me the minute you get there, and let me know what's up."

They found Ping waiting for them in the road. He was a disconsolate-looking Chinaman, and ran up to Matt the moment he slipped down the steep bank.

"You heap mad with Ping, huh?" the Chinese boy chattered. "You know him makee shoot Loman candle, play plenty hob with side show? Woosh! My velly bad China boy."

Matt laughed. That laugh caused Ping to brighten.

"I'll have to forgive you this once, Ping," said Matt. "A whole lot of good has resulted from that flare-up in the side-show tent. But I don't like practical jokes--you know that. Get on the car and go back to the grounds with Burton. As for the Roman-candle business, we'll talk about that later."

"You no pullee pin on China boy?" faltered Ping.

"No. You make your peace with Carl, that's all."

"Hoop-a-la!" said Ping, and limped aboard an electric car that Burton had flagged.

Matt caught a car going the other way, and, as soon as he reached Monroe Street, hurried to the nearest automobile garage, bent upon making the most of the daylight that remained.

He hired a car and a driver who knew the city. It was a small roadster, and Matt had the driver take him beyond the city limits and out for five miles on the Elgin road.

They passed through a small oak opening, which looked as though it might be the place where Ben Ali was to meet his crony, Dhondaram.

"This will be far enough," said Matt. "Now, turn around and take us back to town."

The king of the motor boys gave careful attention to all the landmarks, going both ways. Returning, dusk had begun to fall, and his survey could not be as comprehensive as the one made on the outward trip. However, he was abundantly satisfied with the information he had acquired.

When they reached the garage, Matt bargained with the proprietor for a powerful touring car, with the same driver who had already been with him, to be at the show grounds at Reid's Lake at eight o'clock the following morning.

After that, he dropped in at a restaurant and had a good meal, then boarded a car for the lake, and rode back to the grounds with a crowd of people who were going to the evening performance of the show.

He had a good deal of amusement listening to the disappointed expressions of the people regarding the failure of Burton to have any aëroplane flights. Mixed up in the talk were a number of complimentary references to Motor Matt and his chums. These, so far as they applied to himself, the king of the motor boys tried not to hear. But, nevertheless, they caused a glow of satisfaction to mount to his face. It was certainly pleasant to know how his efforts in the line of duty had struck a popular chord.

That wild half-hour in the air, over Jackson, when Matt found his batteries short-circuited by a coiling cobra, had been exploited through the press. These, while arousing the popular admiration, only made the general disappointment more keen because of the failure of the Saturday flights at Reid's Lake.

When Matt got off the car at the lake, he made his way to the brilliantly lighted show grounds, and repaired immediately to the calliope tent.

Burton was there, smoking a cigar and nervously walking back and forth in front of the canvas-covered calliope.

"The people are pulling me all to pieces, Matt," he cried the moment the king of the motor boys entered the tent. "They're saying we could just as well have had a flight to-night, that I'm not living up to my promises, and all that. By Jerry, it hurts!"

"Let it be announced in the circus tent," said Matt, "that there'll be a flight to-morrow morning at nine o'clock--not for exhibition purposes, as Motor Matt doesn't give a performance on Sunday--and that all who wish to can see it."

"Good!" declared Burton. "I guess that'll catch them. But what are you making the flight for, if not to please the people?"

"For the purpose of backcapping Ben Ali, capturing him, and finding out where he has taken Margaret Manners."

Burton whirled around and gave Matt a steady look.

"What have you got up your sleeve?" he demanded curtly. "Are you going to try that, all alone, in the _Comet_?"

"Not all alone. You, and Twomley, and Joe are going to help. Send Harris and another trusty man over to that house with the green shutters, will you, and have them relieve the Englishman and McGlory. I want them here to talk with them."

Harris was Burton's brother-in-law, and a thoroughly reliable man in every respect.

"I've already sent them supper, a lantern, and a couple of chairs," said Burton, "but it seems to me all foolishness to hold the prisoners in the house. Why not send 'em to jail, where they belong?"

"Because Wily may not belong in jail, and because, if Dhondaram is taken there to-night, Ben Ali might hear of it and not present himself in that oak opening on the Elgin road to-morrow."

"Can't you tell me what you're going to do?"

"Not till Twomley and Joe get here."

With that, Matt dropped down on a cot, at one side of the tent, and tried to get a little rest. He was used to the band, and to the many other sounds that characterized a show just preceding a performance, and these did not bother him; but his head! that had suddenly begun to remind him that it had been badly treated during the afternoon.