Chapter XVI: Conclusion

All that happened, after Matt received that check for $2,000, was a good deal like a dream to him. He remembered descending into the _Sprite_ for a return to the clubhouse, and finding Ping Pong in the boat.

Where Ping Pong had come from no one seemed to know. Not much attention had been paid to him after Matt boarded the _Sprite_ and started for the stake boat. Yet there the little Chinaman was, kneeling at the bulkhead of the boat, fondling the steering wheel, patting the levers, laying his yellow cheek against the gunwale, and all the while crooning a lot of heathen gibberish.

"What's the blooming idiot trying to do?" McGlory shouted.

It seemed impossible for the cowboy to do anything but yell. His exultation suggested noise, and he talked at the top of his lungs.

"Don't you understand, Joe?" said Lorry. "He's trying to thank the _Sprite_ for winning the race."

"Sufferin' Hottentots! Why don't he thank the king of the motor boys?"

The next moment Ping was alongside of Matt, sitting in the bottom of the boat and looking up at him with soulful admiration.

"Him allee same my boss," pattered Ping, catching his breath. "He one-piecee scoot."

"Oh, tell me about that!" guffawed McGlory. "One-piecee scoot! Say, Ping's not so far wide of his trail, after all."

The next thing Matt remembered was standing in the clubhouse, in the locker room, receiving the vociferous congratulations of the Yaharas. Before he realized what was going on, he and Lorry had been picked up on the members' shoulders.

"Three times three and a tiger for Motor Matt and Lorry!" went up a shout.

Well, the Yaharas didn't exactly raise the roof, but they came pretty near it. Matt was voted an honorary member of the club on the spot, and given free and perpetual use of all the clubhouse privileges.

"There isn't any one going around handing me ninety-nine-year leases on a bunch of boats and a lot of bathing suits," caroled McGlory. "But then, I don't count. I'm only carrying the banner in this procession. Matt's the big high boy; but he's my pard, don't forget that."

McGlory's wail caused the Yaharas to vote him an honorary membership; and then, in order not to slight anybody, or make a misdeal while felicitations were being handed around, Ping was likewise voted in.

After that there was a ride to Yankee Hill in the Lorry motor car, with Gus at the steering wheel; then a spread, the like of which Motor Matt had never sat down to before. A good deal was eaten, and a great many things were said, but Matt was still in a daze.

Every time he made a move he seemed to feel the vibration of the twenty-horse-power motor sending queer little shivers through his body.

What was the matter with him? he asked himself. Could it be possible that he was going to be on the sick list?

He remembered crawling into the same big brass bed with the mosquito-bar canopy, and then he dropped off into dreamless sleep.

When he came to himself he was pleased to find that his brain was clear, and that he could move around without feeling the vibrations of the motor.

His health was first class, after all, and he never had felt brighter in his life.

While he was dressing, McGlory and Lorry came into the room.

"What you going to do with that check, pard?" asked McGlory.

"I'm going to cash it, divide the money into three piles, give one pile to you, one to Ping, and keep the other for myself," said Matt.

"Don't be foolish, Matt," implored the cowboy. "A third of two thousand is more'n six hundred and fifty dollars. What do you suppose would happen to me if all that wealth was shoved into my face?"

"Give it up," laughed Matt; "but I'm going to find out."

"And Ping! Say, the Chink will be crazy."

"I can't help that, Joe. He's entitled to the money. I wonder if you fellows realize that we've never yet paid Ping for the _Sprite_? Here's where he gets what's coming to him. He's full of grit, that Ping. You ought to have seen how he helped me at the burning boathouse."

"What are you going to do with Ping, Matt?" queried Lorry.

"I haven't given that a thought," said Matt, a little blankly.

"Well," suggested McGlory, "you'd better hurry up and think it over. He's walking around the servants' quarters lording it like a mandarin. He says he's working for Motor Matt, and that you're the High Mucky-muck of everything between Waunakee and the Forbidden City. Better find something for him to do."

"We'll talk that over later," said Matt. "What about Ollie Merton?"

"You can hear all sorts of things, Matt," answered Lorry. "They say he had a violent scene with his father, that he has squandered fifteen thousand dollars while his parents were in Europe, and that he is to be sent to a military school where there are men who will know how to handle him."

There was a silence between the boys for a moment, broken, at last, by Matt.

"That's pretty tough!"

"Tough?" echoed McGlory. "If Merton had what's coming to him he'd be in the reform school. Don't waste any sympathy on him."

"Why," spoke up George, with feeling, "he's just the fellow that needs sympathy. It's too bad he hasn't a Motor Matt to stand by him and help him over the rough places he has made for himself."

George Lorry was speaking from the heart. He knew what he was talking about, for he had "been through the mill" himself.

THE END.

THE NEXT NUMBER (24) WILL CONTAIN

Motor Matt On the Wing;

OR,

Fighting for Fame and Fortune

Wanted: A Man of Nerve--Foiling a Scoundrel--Matt Makes an
Investment--Matt Explains to McGlory--Ping and the Bear--A New
Venture--A Partner in Villainy--Matt Shifts His Plans--Dodging
Trouble--Blanked--Siwash Shows His Teeth; and His Heels--"Uncle Sam"
Takes Hold--On the Wing--Dastardly Work--The Government Trial--Fame;
and a Little Fortune.

MOTOR STORIES

THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION

NEW YORK, July 31, 1909.

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TRICKED BY TWO.

"This is a public path," said Guy Hereford quietly.

"Ay, but you can't use it," returned the man he faced, with an ugly glint in his eyes.

"All the same, I'm going to," said Guy coolly. "I'll trouble you to move out of my way, Mr. Harvey Blissett."

For a moment the two faced one another on the narrow sandy road between the bare, barbed-wire fences over which hung the fragrantly blooming orange branches. Both were mounted, Hereford on a well-groomed Florida pony, Blissett on a big, rough Montana, an ugly beast with a nose like a camel and a savage eye.

"I'll give you one more chance," growled Blissett. "Turn and make tracks."

"This is my road," said Hereford, as serenely as ever.

"Then 'twill be your road to kingdom come," roared Blissett, and flashed his pistol from his hip pocket.

But Hereford's steady eyes had never wavered. He was no tenderfoot. With the bully's movement he ducked, and at the same moment drove spurs into his pony's flanks.

As Blissett's bullet whistled harmlessly into the opposite trees the chest of Hereford's pony met the shoulder of the Montana with a shock that staggered it, and before Blissett could pull trigger a second time the loaded end of the other's quirt crashed across his head.

Blissett dropped like a shot rabbit. At the same time the Montana gave a vicious squeal, lashed out violently, and bolted.

Hereford was off his pony in a moment, and, with an exclamation of horror ran to Blissett and stooped over him. But a single glance was enough. One of the Montana's heels had caught the unfortunate man exactly on the same spot where Hereford's blow had fallen and crushed his skull like an eggshell.

He was dead as a log.

"This is a rough deal!" said Hereford slowly, as he rose to his feet. "Wonder what I'd better do."

The trouble was that every one for miles round knew the bad blood which existed between the young orange grower and his neighbor.

Blissett was a cattleman who had bitterly resented the fencing of the land which Hereford had bought. He had deliberately cut the wires and let his scrub cattle in among the young trees, doing endless damage. Hereford had retaliated by pounding the whole bunch so that Blissett had to pay heavily to regain them.

Then Blissett had brought a law suit to force Hereford to give a public road through his place. He had won his suit, but done more than he intended, for the authorities extended the road through Blissett's own land and forced him to fence it.

It was on this extension of the road that the tragedy had taken place.

"If I go to the sheriff there's sure to be trouble," said Hereford aloud. "Ten to one they'll bring it in manslaughter."

"Murder, more likely," came a voice from behind, and Hereford, starting round, found himself face to face with his cousin, Oliver Deacon, who, hoe in hand, had just come through the fence from among the orange trees.

"Why murder?" asked Hereford sharply.

The other, a sallow-faced man some years older than Hereford, gave a disagreeable chuckle. "My dear Guy, every one knows the terms you and Blissett were on. There'll be a jury of crackers, all pals of the late unlamented, and they'll be only too glad to have a chance of taking it out of a man they think an aristocrat."

"What's the good of talking rot?" exclaimed Hereford impatiently. "If you were working in the grove I suppose you saw the whole thing?"

"Yes, I saw it," replied Deacon slowly.

"That's all right then. You know he brought it on himself."

There was a very peculiar look in Deacon's close-set eyes as he glanced at his cousin.

"I saw you hit Blissett over the head with the lead end of your quirt," he said in the same measured tones.

"What in thunder do you mean, Oliver? Didn't you see his pony kick him on the head?"

"I'm not so sure about that," was Deacon's reply.

Guy Hereford stared at his cousin in blank amazement.

"Will you kindly tell me what you do mean?" he asked icily.

"Yes, I'll tell you," said Deacon harshly. "Look here, Guy, I'm full up with playing bottle washer, and it seems to me this gives me just the chance I've been looking for. Need I explain?"

"I think you'd better," said Guy Hereford grimly.

"All right. I'll give you straight goods. I want to be paid, and well paid, for my evidence. Here are you with a place of your own and a good allowance from your father, you've a decent house and a first-class pony. And as for me, I haven't a red cent, and am forced to do grove work like an infernal nigger. As I said before, I'm sick of it, and it's going to stop right here."

Hereford looked his cousin up and down. Then he said, "I knew you'd sunk pretty low, Oliver, but I didn't quite realize the depths you've dropped to. Whose fault is it you are hard up? Your own. You had more than I ever had, and chucked it all away. People were decent to you down here until you were caught cheating at poker. And now you want to force me to pay you hush money under threats of false evidence. May I ask how much you consider your evidence worth?"

Guy's tone of icy contempt brought a dull red flush to the other's sallow cheeks. But he answered brazenly, "I'll take a thousand dollars."

Guy laughed.

"I wouldn't give you a thousand cents."

"Then you'll hang," retorted Oliver viciously.

"Well, that won't do you any good."

"Oh, won't it? Plainly, you don't know much about Florida law, my good Guy. I'm your cousin. Don't forget that. And by the law of this State I'm your next heir. See? When you've left this vale of tears I come in for the whole outfit--your grove and everything. Now, perhaps, you'll sing another song."

Guy's face went white. Not with fear, but anger. And his gray eyes blazed with a sudden fury that made the other step hastily backward.

"You mean, skulking hound!" he cried. "You're worse--a thousand times worse--than that fellow who lies dead there. Get out of my sight before I kill you."

Oliver's eyes had the look of a vicious cur. "All right," he snarled. "You'll change your tune before I'm done with you. If you don't fork up the cash by this time to-morrow I'll go and give the sheriff a full and particular account of how you murdered Harvey Blissett."

* * * * *

"What's de matter, boss. Warn't dat supper cooked to suit you?"

"Supper was first-rate, Rufe. Only I've got no appetite," replied Guy.

"You done seem plumb disgruntled 'bout something ebber since you come in dis evening," said Rufus, Guy's faithful negro retainer.

Guy looked at the man's sympathetic face. He felt a longing to talk over the black business with somebody, and Rufe, he knew, would never repeat a word to any one else.

"Heard about Harvey Blissett?" he asked.

"No, sah. What he been doing?"

"He won't do anything more, Rufe. He's dead."

"You doan' mean tell me dat man dead?"

"It's quite true."

"How dat come about?" inquired Rufus, his eyes fairly goggling with eager interest.

Guy explained how Blissett had come by his end.

"Well, boss, I doan' see nuffin to worry about. 'Twaren't your fault as dat Montanny animile kick him on de head. An' anyways, we's mighty well rid ob him. Dat's my 'pinion."

"But suppose I'm accused of killing him, Rufe?"

"Dere ain't nobody as would believe dat, sah," stoutly declared Rufus.

"But if some one who hated me had seen it and gave evidence against me?"

Rufus started.

"I bet five dollar dat's dat low-down white man, Mistah Deacon!" he exclaimed.

"You're perfectly right, Rufus. That's who it is."

"And he see you, and sw'ar dat it wasn't de hawse, but your quirt done it?"

"That's about the size of it."

"Hab you done told de sheriff, sah?"

"Yes, I did that at once. Rode straight into Pine Lake."

"And what he say?"

"Told me I must come into the inquest the day after to-morrow."

"Den seem to me, sah, you done took de wind out of dat Deacon's sail. He ain't seen de sheriff befoah you."

"That's all right, Rufe, as far as it goes. Trouble is that he'll be in at the inquest to-morrow and he'll swear that it was my quirt did the trick. That is, unless I give him a thousand dollars to keep his mouth shut."

The negro's face changed suddenly from its usual smiling expression. "Den I tell you what, Massa Guy," he exclaimed with sudden ferocity. "You gib me your gun, an' I sw'ar dat man nebber go to dat inquest to-morrow."

Guy knew well that Rufe meant what he said. He was touched. "You're a good chap, Rufe, but I'm afraid your plan is hardly workable. You see you'd be hung, too."

"Not dis nigger! I nebber be found out!" cried Rufe.

"Still we won't try it," said Guy in his quiet way.

Rufe stood silent for some moments. Then he turned to go back to the kitchen.

His silence was ominous.

"Mind, Rufe," said Guy sharply. "No violence. You're not to lay a hand on my cousin."

"All right, sah," said Rufe reluctantly. "I try t'ink ob some odder plan."

The time dragged by slowly. Guy tried to write letters, but found he could not settle to anything. The fact was that he was desperately anxious.

He knew Deacon's callous, revengeful nature, and was perfectly certain that he would carry out his threat if the money to bribe him was not forthcoming. It was all true what his cousin had said. A jury of cattle owners, "crackers," as they are called in Florida, would certainly find him guilty on his cousin's evidence, and even if he escaped hanging his fate would be the awful one of twenty years' penitentiary.

For a moment he weakened and thought of paying the price. But to do so meant selling his place. He could not otherwise raise the money. Sell the place on which he had spent four years of steady, hard work! No, by Jove; anything rather than that. And even if he did so, what guarantee had he that this would be the full extent of his cousin's demands?

Absolutely none. No, he laid himself open to be blackmailed for the rest of his life. He hardened his heart, and resolved that, come what would, he would stick it out and let the beggar do his worst.

Presently he got up and went out of his tiny living room onto the veranda. The house was only a little bit of a two-roomed shack with a penthouse veranda in front. He had built it when he first came, and had been intending for some time past to put up a bigger place. Now that dream was over.

Sick at heart, Guy flung himself into a long cane chair, and presently, worn out by worry, fell asleep.

He was wakened by the pad pad of a trotting horse, and looking up sharply saw in the faint light of a late-risen moon a figure mounted on one horse and leading another passing rapidly along the sandy track outside his boundary fence.

The something familiar about the figure of the man struck him like a blow.

"By thunder, it's Deacon! What mischief is the skunk up to?" he muttered. And on the impulse of the moment he sprang from the veranda, and, slipping round the dark end of the house, made for the stable.

In a minute he had saddle and bridle on Dandy, and, leading the animal out through the bars at the far end of the grove, was riding cautiously on his cousin's track.

At first he made sure Deacon was going to Pine Lake. To his great surprise the man presently turned off the main road and took a cut across a creek ford, and round the end of a long cypress swamp.

"Must be going to Orange Port," he muttered. "There's something very odd about this. And what in thunder is he doing with that second horse?"

They came to a bit of open savanna dotted with great islands of live oak. The moon was higher now, and the grassy plain was bathed in soft, silver light. As Deacon passed out of the deep shadow of the pine forest Guy gave a gasp.

The horse that Deacon was leading was Blissett's Montana pony.

Guy actually chuckled.

"I'll bet a farm he's picked it up and means to sell it in Orange Port," he said to himself. "Well, it mayn't save me, but at any rate I'll be able to make things hot for him."

It was sixteen miles to Orange Port. Deacon, with Guy still at his heels, reached the place about six in the morning, and took the animal straight to a small livery stable, the owner of which was Sebastian Gomez, a mulatto of anything but good repute.

Guy dogged him cautiously, and when he had left the stable and ridden off, went in himself, put Dandy up, and had him fed.

Then he went to work cautiously, and by dint of a tip to one of the colored men about the place, found that his precious cousin had indeed sold the Montana to the owner of the stable, and had got fifty dollars for the animal.

"Not such a bad night's work," said Guy to himself as, after breakfast and a bath, he rode home again. He reached his place about nine to find Rufus much disturbed at his long absence. Merely telling the negro that he had been away on business, he lay down and had a much-needed sleep.

At four he woke and rode off to Pine Lake. He meant to find a lawyer to whom he could intrust his case on the following day, but to his deep disappointment Vanbuten, a clever young Bostonian and a great pal of his, was away at Ormond for a week's sea bathing. There was nothing for it but to send him an urgent telegram, begging him to return at once, and then ride home through the warm tropic starlight.

"Wonder if I shall ever ride back to the dear little old shop again," thought Guy sadly, as he opened the gate and led his pony in and up the neat path through the palmetto scrub. He loved every inch of his place, as a man can only love a property which by the sweat of his own brow he has carved out of the primeval forest.

Arrived at the house, he stabled Dandy and fed him, a job which he never trusted to any one else, not even the faithful Rufe.

As he entered the house he could hear Rufe busy with pots and pans in the kitchen. "He'll miss me, if no one else does," muttered Guy; and, feeling desperately depressed, he went into his bedroom to change his boots and coat. Hereford, being a Boston-bred man, was one of those who, even when baching it alone in the wilds, still try to keep up something of their old home customs.

He struck a match and lighted the lamp, then, as the glow fell upon his cot, he started back with a cry of horror.

TO BE CONCLUDED.

HOMES ON THE RIO GRANDE.

The Mexican Indian huts in the villages and upon the ranches of the lower Rio Grande border region of Texas have a style of architecture and construction that is distinctly their own. This type of primitive buildings is rapidly passing out of existence. Modern structures are taking their places. At many places on the border families of Mexicans have abandoned their jacals and moved into more pretentious homes.

One thing that recommended the old style of residence to the poorer Mexicans was its cheapness of construction. No money outlay is necessary in erecting the picturesque structures, neither is a knowledge of carpentry needed. A double row of upright poles firmly set or driven into the ground forms the framework for the walls. Between these two rows of poles are placed other poles or sticks of shorter length, forming a thick and compact wall. At each of the four corners of the building posts are set, reaching to a height of about eight feet. Roughly hewn stringers are laid from one post to another and to these stringers are tied the other poles that form the framework of the walls. The strong fibre from the maguey plant or strips of buckskin are used to tie the poles into position. The rafters are tied to the ridgepole and stringers in the same manner. At one end of the building is built the opening through which the smoke of the inside fire may ascend. Stoves are unknown among these Mexicans and the cooking is all done upon the ground.

When the rafters are in position the thatched roof is put on. Palm leaves form the most satisfactory roof, both as to durability and effectiveness in shedding the rain, but owing to the scarcity of this material on the Texas side of the international boundary stream, grasses and the leaves of plants are used for the purpose. The roofing material is tied to the rafters in layers. Some of the Mexican house builders exercise great ingenuity in putting on the thatched roofs.

The only opening in most of these Mexican jacals is the door which extends from the ground to the roof. The floor is the bare earth. The ventilation is obtained through the crude chimney opening. The door itself is seldom closed. The Mexican Indian is usually a man of large family. A one-room house accommodates all. Perhaps several dogs and a pig or two may share the comforts of the room with them on cool or disagreeable nights.

PIGEONS AS PHOTOGRAPHERS.

Many wonderful feats have been credited to the instinct of the homing or carrier pigeon, but "the limit," to quote the phrase of the moment, seems to have been reached by Herr Neubronner, a Kronberg chemist, who has actually trained pigeons to take photographs. For some time Herr Neubronner has been utilizing pigeons, not only for the transmission of messages to doctors in the neighborhood, but also to carry small quantities of medicine. The latter are inclosed in glove fingers slung about the birds' wings. The method has proved entirely successful, experiments showing that the pigeon can carry a properly distributed load of 2-1/2 ounces a distance of 100 miles.

Toward the end of last year one of the birds lost its way and did not arrive at its cote until after the expiration of four weeks. There was, of course, no means of ascertaining where and how the bird had got lost. It then occurred to Herr Neubronner that a pigeon, equipped with a self-acting camera, would bring in a photographic record of its journey. He thereupon constructed a camera, weighing less than 3 ounces, which he fixed to the bird's breast by an elastic strap, leaving the wings completely free. The process of snapshotting is, of course, automatic. At regular intervals the machine operates by a clockwork arrangement, and registers pictures of the various places covered by the bird in its flight.

The German government has taken a keen interest in Herr Neubronner's notion of utilizing pigeons as photographers, and there certainly seem great possibilities in the idea. The carrier-pigeon photographer would prove extremely valuable for obtaining information in times of war of the country, position, and strength of the enemy.

The carrier pigeon flies at a height of between 150 feet and 300 feet, safe from small shot and very difficult to hit with bullets. Pigeons might be released from air ships at any height within the enemy's lines, and they would carry home with them pictures of great value. The carrier pigeon is peculiarly well suited to service of this character, because when set free in a strange place it commences its flight by describing a spiral curve, in the course of which several pictures could be taken from various points of view.

Then, when the pigeon has determined the position of its goal, it flies thither in a straight line at a uniform speed of about 40 miles an hour. As the moment of exposure can be regulated with a fair amount of precision, the object which it is desired to photograph can generally be caught.

In besieged fortresses information concerning the besiegers can be obtained by tumbler pigeons, which, when released at their home, fly in circles for a time and then return to their cotes.

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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.

To be Published on July 12th.

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

To be Published on July 19th.

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

To be Published on July 26th.

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

To be Published on August 2nd.

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

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.

Retained some inconsistent hyphenation ("work-bench" vs. "workbench") from the original.

For this text edition, oe ligatures have been replaced with the letters "oe."

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

Page 2, changed "inisted" to "insisted" after "Motol Matt my boss, alle same," and "cred" to "cried" after "Here, now."

Page 3, changed "out" to "ought" in "You and Ping ought to be ashamed."

Page 4, changed "instiution" to "institution" ("Another institution, known as...").

Page 9, changed "sprit" to "spirit" ("said Matt, with spirit").

Page 10, corrected "stakeboak" to "stake boat" ("As good as passed the stake boat").

Page 12, changed "wth" to "with" ("forcing an interview with").

Page 19, corrected "Larry" to "Lorry" ("While speaking, Lorry...").

Page 23, added missing close quote after "prove that by telling you what just happened."

Page 27, corrected "red as a beat" to "red as a beet."

Page 28, corrected "Villiany" to "Villainy" in "next number" table of contents.

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