Chapter XVI: A Bit of a Backset

The preparing of the aëroplane for loading was not a difficult matter. The small front planes were removed, and lashed between the two larger planes. This narrowed the machine sufficiently so that it could be loaded into the car especially prepared for it.

After the machine had been safely stowed, the two tired lads went to their section in the sleeper. Burton was there, sitting under a lamp and hastily running over the contents of the basket.

"I guess it's all here," said he, dumping the silver and bills into the receptacle and closing the lid. "Anyhow, I'm too much fagged to bother any more with the stuff to-night. It's about time we all turned in, don't you think?"

"I'm Ready's whole family, when it comes to that," yawned McGlory. "Talk about your strenuous days! I think this has been a harder one than that other day we put in at Lafayette, Indiana. What do you say, Matt?"

"We seem to have worked harder than we did then, and to have less to show for it," said Matt.

"Less to show for it!" repeated Burton. "I don't know what you mean by that, son. It isn't every day you save your flying machine from a mad elephant and wrestle with a cobra on the _Comet_, in midair!"

"And it's not every day the Big Consolidated is held up, thieves captured, and _dinero_ recovered, all before we leave town," supplemented McGlory.

"It was exciting enough," said Matt, "but it all seems so useless."

"The hand of Ben Ali was behind it all," remarked Burton, pulling off his shoes. "That villain ought to be run down and put behind the bars for ninety-nine years. You'll not be safe a minute, Matt, until he's locked up."

"I guess," ventured the king of the motor boys, "that Ben Ali, after this lesson, will keep away from me."

"I wish I could think so," said Burton.

"What'll you do with Dhondaram?" inquired McGlory. "You can't send him to jail in any other town for an offense he committed in Jackson."

"Sending him to jail is the last thing I'm thinking of," was Burton's response. "What I want is to induce him to talk. He may give us a line on Ben Ali that will enable Matt to keep away from the wily old villain."

"Don't hang onto Dhondaram on my account," said Matt. "I've told Ben Ali what to expect if he ever comes near me again."

"That's you!" exulted McGlory. "All your scare-talk, Burton, goes clean over Matt's head."

The showman pulled off his coat and leaned back in his seat reflectively. He did not seem to have heard McGlory's observation.

"I've got a notion," began Burton, "that----" He paused.

"What's the notion?" urged the cowboy. "It ain't like you to hang fire, Burton."

"Well," pursued Burton, "it's this way: I've got an elephant on my hands that can't be handled by any white trainer in the show. Dhondaram can handle the brute to the queen's taste. What's the answer?"

"You don't mean to say," expostulated Matt, "that you're going to keep Dhondaram with the show just to take charge of Rajah?"

"It's either that or sell the elephant," declared Burton.

"Then, sufferin' cats!" cried McGlory, "sell the brute. You're more kinds of a bungler, Burton, than I know how to lay tongue to. Keep Dhondaram with the show, and he'll do something, before you're through with him, that will hurt."

"I'll sleep on it," muttered Burton. "I've only got four elephants, and I need Rajah."

"Schust a minid, oof you blease," came the voice of Matt's Dutch pard from the aisle of the car.

Matt, McGlory, and Burton turned around and saw not only Carl, but Ping as well.

"What is it, Carl?" asked Matt.

"I vant to know somet'ing," Carl went on, "und dot iss, was I innocend or guildy? Vat you say, Misder Purton?"

"Oh, splash!" exclaimed Burton, "that was settled a long time ago. Andy Carter, the ticket man, admitted that he and the Hindoo were the thieves."

"Den Modor Matt don'd haf to vork four veeks for nodding, schust for me?"

"Of course not."

"Dot's all I vanted to know, oxcept somet'ing else."

"Well, what?"

"Der Hintoo brisoner iss in der blace vere Ping shleeps. Ping vants to go to ped, und I am to haf der ubber bert'. Vat iss to be dit mit der Hintoo?"

"Roll him into the aisle and let him lie there," replied Burton. "Put a blanket under him, if you want to, and give him a pillow."

"T'anks," said Carl, and the boys started away.

"Wait, Carl," called Matt. "There's a little something I want to know. How are you and Ping getting along together?"

"Finer as silk," grinned Carl. "He likes me pedder der more vat he knows me, und it's der same mit me. Shinks iss hardt to ondershtand, but I'm schust gedding ondo Ping's curves. He made a misdake in me, und now he feels pedder aboudt it. How iss dot, bard?" finished Carl, turning to the Chinaman.

"Awri'," answered Ping, although not very enthusiastically.

"That's the talk!" cried Matt heartily.

Two hours later, the second section of the show train was loaded and speeding on its way. All was quiet in the sleeping car, save for the snores of the tired men who occupied the bunks.

Perhaps it was two o'clock in the morning when an uproar filled the sleeper. There were yells, a revolver shot, the slamming of a door, and then a measure of quiet.

Matt thrust his head out of his berth and saw McGlory, equally curious and excited, looking out from the berth overhead. All up and down each side of the car were other heads.

"What's the matter?" asked Matt.

Boss Burton, in his underclothes, was standing in the aisle, a smoking revolver in his hand.

"Confound the luck!" he sputtered. "The Hindoo has made a getaway. I happened to wake up and to think about him, and took a look along the aisle from my berth, just to make sure he was safe. I thought I was dreaming, or had the blind staggers, or something, when I saw him sitting up. His hands were free and he was taking the rope off his feet. I grabbed my revolver from under my pillow and rolled into the aisle. Dhondaram had started for the door. I blazed away, did nothing but smash a window, and the Hindoo jumped from the train."

"Are you going to stop and put back after him?" inquired Archie Le Bon.

"I guess I won't, although losing the fellow is a bit of a backset," observed Burton regretfully.

"The show can stand all the backsets of that kind that come its way, Burton," said Harris.

"What will we do for somebody to manage Rajah?"

"Oh, hang Rajah!" said another of the Le Bon brothers. "I hope the first section runs into the ditch and smashes the brute. He came within one of killin' Archie, back there in Jackson."

It was the general opinion, as the occupants of the various berths drew sleepily back into their beds, that it was a good thing Dhondaram escaped.

"Wonder just how much that bit of a backset means for us, pard?" McGlory inquired of the king of the motor boys before dropping back on his pillow.

"Nothing, I hope," was the response.

"We'll know for sure, I reckon, before we're many days older," muttered the cowboy as he straightened out in his bed and returned to his dreams of cobras and charging elephants.

THE END.

THE NEXT NUMBER (29) WILL CONTAIN

Motor Matt's Make-up;

OR,

PLAYING A NEW RÔLE.

High Jinks in the Side Show--The "Barker" Shows His Teeth--The Man
from Washington--A Clue in Hindustanee--Something Wrong--A Blunder
in the Right Direction--The House with the Green Shutters--The
Pile of Soot--Matt Meets an Old Acquaintance--Rescue!--Bill Wily
Repents--Matt Lays His Plans--Motor Car and Aëroplane--The Oak
Opening Aëroplane Wins--Conclusion.

MOTOR STORIES

THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION

NEW YORK, September 4, 1909.

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ON THE BAHAMA REEFS.

"And so your sister's going to spend the winter at Nassau, for her health, eh? Well, she might do worse, for it's very pleasant there, with its lovely climate, and pineapples, shells, sponges, and curiosities. Yes, I've been to the Bahama Islands. Didn't start for there, and didn't make any entry at the custom house, but I got there, all the same. It was a lively adventure, and no mistake."

It was Captain Joe who made this speech, one day, as we sat on a wooden pier, angling for fish, which, I may add, we didn't catch.

The captain, now that his active sea days were over, lived with his brother near-by, and was never so happy as when fishing with us boys, or spinning yarns to while away the time whenever the inconsiderate fish refused to bite.

"I reckon I may as well tell you about it," he went on, "since that steamboat has stirred up the mud till no fish can see the bait.

"I was eighteen years old then, and the doctors gave me just twelve months to live, for I was very delicate, and so, when we started, one raw November day, from Boston, for a voyage to Rio and back, I was as blue as an indigo bag.

"The wind was fierce and cold, and the sea was lumpy, and we tumbled and rolled about like the mischief for five or six days, when we struck finer weather, and I at once began to feel better.

"But a few days later the weather grew bad rapidly, so that by midnight it was blowing half a gale, with a tremendous sea on that made the good brig _Polly Ann_ tumble about as lively as a Scotchman dancing the Highland fling.

"It was a fearful storm, indeed, almost a regular hurricane, and lasted for two days before it gave any signs of blowing itself out.

"And then, when at last it began to subside, we found that we had sustained considerable damage, both our topmasts being gone, the mainmast sprung, and the rudder so twisted as to be of little service.

"We had taken no observation for sixty hours, and were rather uncertain as to our location, which did not add to our comfort by any means.

"It was well past midnight, and I had dropped off into a doze, when I was awakened by a tremendous shock that made everything tremble.

"As I sat upright in my berth, there was a second shock, lighter than the first, and then the brig began to pound and thump, with a grinding, crushing sound.

"In another moment the mate came running down into the cabin after something, with a scared look on his face, and cried out:

"'We're on the reefs, and the brig's going to pieces!' and then he rushed on deck again.

"I got up and tried to climb the ladder, but a dash of water came through the open hatch and washed me back.

"Somebody jammed the hatch shut, and I was a prisoner below.

"The next moment a big wave lifted the brig up and sent her higher up on the reefs, and she rested quietly with no more pounding or thumping.

"The captain came down after a while, and said we were ashore on the Bahama reefs, and as the ship was easy now, and there was no immediate danger, we could do nothing but wait for daylight.

"As dawn broke, I was on deck with the rest, the excitement of the occasion, or something else, having put new life into me, and I cared nothing for the sheets of spray and foam that, flying over the rails, drenched us all to the skin every minute.

"Before us, half a mile distant, was a low, white coast, covered with sand hills, and a few cocoa palms, their long, slender leaves thrashing about in the wind like a lot of enormous feather dusters.

"The sea about us was churned into a mass of foam as the incoming waves were broken in pieces on the coral reefs, whose sharp, jagged tops of honeycomb rock rose here and there above the surface like the brown teeth of some marine monster.

"Between the coral reefs and the shore there was a stretch of smoother water, in marked contrast with the tumbling sea outside.

"It was a perfect caldron of foaming water close about us, in which no boat could live a second, and so we waited as patiently as we could for the going down of the adjacent sea.

"Half an hour thereafter, to our great relief, we beheld a stanch little schooner rounding a point well inside the reefs, and making for us; and as she drew nearer we saw that her decks were full of men, white and black, clad in such a variety of costumes, with such diversity of loud colors, as at once suggested a piratical band of the seventeenth century.

"But appearances were deceptive, for instead of freebooters bent on plunder, the strangers were good Samaritans coming to our rescue--a lot of Bahamian wreckers--men ever ready to save life and property for a consideration.

"The captain of the little craft, which rejoiced in the highly appropriate name of the _Fearless_, a sturdy, square-built man of fifty, with light hair and bluish eyes, and a salty air about him, balancing himself with the skill of an acrobat on the port rail, and making a trumpet of his hands, began a shouting conversation with us, in which he informed us that he wouldn't give a penny for our lives if we weren't ashore mighty soon, as the wind, backing to the northwest, would blow great guns again in a few hours, when our brig would probably go to pieces.

"As the result of this confab, the wreckers began to make preparations to get us off the brig, which they accomplished in a skillful and courageous manner, running a line from the _Fearless_ to our vessel, over which we were hauled in turn, though we were sorely battered and drenched by the angry sea that leaped up furiously, as if loath to lose its prey.

"It was well they worked so rapidly, for we were scarcely ashore, and the schooner anchored behind a point, when the storm began to rage again with great fury, burying the old brig in mountains of foaming water.

"When at last the storm abated, it was found that the brig had broken in two, the stern part sinking in deep water, and the cargo being scattered for miles along the coast, some of it being picked up, but in a useless condition, so that the wreckers realized substantially nothing in the way of salvage.

"In a few days our company went in the _Fearless_ to Green Turtle Cay village, where they eventually secured a passage home.

"As for myself, I refused to accompany them, having discovered a decided improvement in my health, which I naturally attributed to the climate, which was perfection itself, with a clear, bright sky, soft, genial breezes, and a pure, dry atmosphere that seemed to put new life into me with every breath.

"So I remained to complete the cure so auspiciously begun, lodging with a planter named Bethel, whom, to pay my board, I helped with the lighter work in his pineapple fields by day, giving his children a bit of schooling by night, to the mutual satisfaction, I am certain, of all concerned.

"The half of the hulk of the _Polly Ann_ still clung to the great reefs where she had struck, at low tide being nearly out of water; and every day I looked at it, for it was in plain view from our veranda, with feelings of mingled pity and friendship--for it somehow always suggested to my mind my far-away home and the dear ones there.

"Ever since the wreck, the weather had been perfect--such charming days and nights as can be found only in the Bahamas following each other uninterruptedly, until, as Christmas approached, I conceived the idea that it would be nice to have our holiday luncheon on the deck of the hulk, and in this scheme all acquiesced, thinking it would be novel and delightful.

"But the twenty-third of December ushered in a gale that swept with fury along the coast.

"For twenty-four hours the elements held high carnival, and then, on Christmas Eve, there came a great lull, and the fierce storm, veering to the southward, died away as suddenly as it had arisen, giving us hope that our original plan might yet be carried out.

"We were up early on Christmas morning, and looking seaward, were astonished beyond measure at what we saw.

"The hulk of the _Polly Ann_ had been loosened from the clutch of the coral reef and carried bodily over the ledge by the great waves--had been hurled upon the low inside beach, a huge broken mass, with its stern buried deep in the wet sand, its heavy timbers splintered to pieces, and its rusty iron bolts twisted like corkscrews.

"We rushed to the beach--now as hard and smooth as a floor--and saw, scattered about near the nose of the _Polly Ann_, some circular pieces, which we at first took to be brownish-colored shells, but which we soon discovered were nothing of the kind.

"I picked up a piece and found it to be nearly two inches broad, perfectly flat and smooth, the edge worn almost sharp, with some inscription on one side and figures on the other, which we could scarcely trace, so black and discolored was the entire surface.

"I ran to a bit of honeycomb rock and rubbed the piece briskly over it, until presently the tarnish began to come off, and I shouted to Bethel that it was a piece of silver.

"'My stars!' he cried out, in great excitement, 'if it's not an old Spanish dollar.'

"And then he danced about like mad for a minute.

"Next we fell to work picking up all we could find till both our hats were nearly full of the pieces.

"'Where in the world did they come from?' asked Bethel, after we had gathered in the last coin. 'I didn't suppose your old brig carried such a cargo, did you?'

"'I never thought so, surely,' said I; 'nor do I believe she did.'

"'Where else could these coins have come from?' asked Bethel.

"'I don't know,' said I. 'But as the _Polly Ann_ is only ten years old, and these coins are near two hundred, if they are a day, why, it doesn't stand to reason they were in the brig. However, we will soon see. If they came out of her, there's more inside. Come, we will look.'

"We crept inside the old hull and examined carefully among her shattered timbers and twisted bolts, and spent two hours in prying up the planks inside the bow and along the bottom, but at last, tired and breathless, gave it up as a bad job, and came out as empty-handed as we went in.

"'I told you so,' said I. 'They never sailed the sea in the _Polly Ann_.'

"We spent the afternoon in counting our coins, finding we had between three and four hundred of them, and we grew quite hilarious over our Christmas gift, as we styled it, and speculated in vain as to where the coins could have come from.

"The next morning Bethel said to me:

"'I've been thinking half the night about those coins, and I remember my father used to tell of a Spanish vessel that went ashore somewhere along here when he was a boy, and was gradually washed to pieces; and, do you know, I've an idea these pieces have been cast up by the sea from the old wreck. It's curious, however, that we never found any of them till this brig came plowing up the beach with her nose.'

"While we were talking, two of the children came in with several of the pieces, which they had found at the water's edge, exactly like those we had picked up the day before.

"'I tell you, sir,' cried Bethel excitedly, 'my guess was right. I believe that old Spaniard lies buried in the sand right where the _Polly Ann_ has stuck her bow in the beach. Man alive, there may be millions down there!'

"We rushed to the beach, and with shovels began to dig up the sand vigorously all about the wreck.

"Every now and then we came across another coin, which encouraged us tremendously, and we worked until we had dug a hole big enough to hold an ox cart.

"But no more coins appeared, and we were getting discouraged, when Bethel struck a heavy timber that ran under the forefoot of the brig, and which did not belong to the _Polly Ann_.

"We cleared away the sand alongside this timber, and there lay a box, made of teak wood, split open from end to end, and jammed hard and fast between the decaying timber and the forefoot of the brig.

"The splinters from the box were fresh and clean, showing that it had been crushed to pieces by the stem of the brig when she was driven into the beach by the storm.

"And then we dug out the sand from under the debris of the teak box, and down came a shower of black silver pieces, exactly similar to the others, which we carefully and eagerly secured and piled up on the dry beach near by.

"There was no longer any mystery as to where the coins came from, for we found the rotten timbers of the old Spanish ship underlying the sand in every direction, none being less than ten feet from the surface.

"For days we pursued our hunt for treasure, tunneling all about, but except those in the teak box not another piece did we find, and at last we desisted, satisfied that we had exhausted the deposit.

"We kept the thing a secret, lest the authorities, taking advantage of some old and unjust law, might claim a portion of our treasure trove; and as there were no near neighbors, and as a brisk gale, which blew later on, filled up our excavations in the sand, this was an easy thing to do.

"We divided our find, and my portion was nearly five thousand dollars, which I brought with me to the United States late in the ensuing summer, and disposed of it to a broker in Boston, who was very curious to learn where I got it.

"But he will never know, unless he learns it from this story.

"My Christmas gift was most acceptable, as you can readily believe; out what I valued far more was the fact that my eight months' residence in the lovely climate of the Bahamas made me a well man, and my lungs ever since have been as stout as a blacksmith's bellows.

"It's all right, my boy. Tell your sister she'll have a nice time at Nassau, and if she doesn't come back in the spring as good as new, then Captain Joe'll never prophesy again as long as he lives.

"She'll not find any Spanish dollars, maybe, but there's things worth more--and one is good health."

THE STORY OF A WILD GOOSE.

Two years ago, one evening, while I was returning home from an unsuccessful shooting excursion along the Atlantic shore, I observed a flock of wild geese coming toward me, but sailing high. I stood perfectly still, and when the flock was directly overhead I aimed and fired.

In the twilight I could see the flock scattering at the report, and a bird wheeling downward with one wing limp and useless. He landed on a patch of plowed ground with a thud and lay half stunned. In a moment I had secured my prize.

It was a large gander in prime condition, with a full, deep body, and healthy, lustrous feathers, and I determined to spare his life.

I quickly tied his legs and fastened the uninjured wing. Then, carefully lifting the bird and getting the broken limb into as comfortable a position as possible, I carried him home. Most sportsmen have a crude knowledge of surgery, and I soon had the broken member bandaged with splints and strips of cotton and my captive resting comfortably, unbound, in a warm outhouse.

In the morning, when I went out to feed him, he was walking around lively enough, and, although, of course, very shy and timid, he ate a hearty breakfast of corn as soon as he thought himself unobserved. In a few days he grew tame enough to allow me to stroke him with a bit of stick. It was long before he would suffer himself to be touched by the human hand.

After some months the bird would answer to his name, Michael, would eat out of my hand, and when I let him out into the yard, after clipping his wings, would follow me around like a dog. He invariably fled at the approach of a stranger, but he never "hissed" like a domestic goose. Strange to say, although a flock of domestic geese was kept by a neighbor, he never paid the slightest attention to their cries and calls.

After a time I allowed him to roam the fields at will. At night he returned without fail to his pen. I became much attached to the bird, so much so that goose shooting became distasteful to me and I discontinued the practice.

Last spring I received a letter from a particular friend requesting me to secure a wild goose for him. For various reasons I could not well refuse, so I at once made arrangements for a shooting excursion. In the midst of my preparations it occurred to me that I might employ Michael as a decoy to lure the geese within gunshot. Sometimes a domestic goose is used for this purpose, but seldom with complete success. The wild goose is an intelligent bird, and rarely places implicit confidence in his domesticated relative.

In a secluded bight some miles down the coast I moored a small raft near shore and tethered Michael to it by a stout string fastened to his leg. His wings by this time had grown to the length they possessed before being clipped, and the injured limb was as strong as ever.

Michael seemed well pleased with his situation, stretched his wings a few times as if the salt breath of the ocean stirred half-buried memories, but on finding himself secured settled down comfortably on the raft and calmly preened his gray feathers.

I carefully screened myself behind a clump of scrub spruce and placed some spare cartridges conveniently near. I thought that if a passing flock should approach fairly near I might be able to fire a successful second shot if the first proved a miss.

After a wait of perhaps an hour I heard in the distance a faint "honk" that quickened the heartbeats. Michael also heard it, and ceasing to arrange his feathers, raised his head to listen eagerly. I watched him closely. His neck was proudly arched and his eyes glistened with excitement as he stepped as near the edge of the raft as his tether would allow.

Presently another "honk" dropped from the distant blue, and away to the south I could descry a large V-shaped flock flying fairly low, but altogether too much to the left of my position to render possible a successful shot.

It was now time for Michael to make himself heard, and I was beginning to grow somewhat uneasy at his silence, when all at once--"honk! honk!"--his joyous invitation sped up to the ears of the watchful leader of the air travelers.

"Honk?" queried that wary veteran suspiciously, but at once he slackened his pace somewhat.

"Honk! honk!" called Michael reassuringly; "honk! honk!" he repeated coaxingly.

For a moment the old leader seemed to hesitate, then slowly he turned in my direction, and presently the flock was sailing directly toward me.

My rifle was ready and in position. I was well screened by the bushes. The light was admirable. Everything was favorable to a good shot. In five minutes the flock was within range. Michael had uttered several invitations during this time in reply to short interrogations from the leader, but he had suddenly relapsed into silence. He could see the approaching birds and was gazing at them with intense eagerness. My finger was on the trigger, when all at once, to my amazement, Michael pealed out a strange cry, loud and shrill, utterly unlike any sound that I had ever heard him utter.

It was the note of danger, the alarm signal of the wild goose. The effect on the approaching flock was electrical. The leader instantly turned and sped away with arrow-like swiftness, closely followed by his feathered retinue, leaving me motionless with surprise.

When my captive first heard the calls of his comrades he instinctively answered with notes of invitation. The excitement of hearing and seeing his own kindred made him forget the danger that he was leading them into, but as they approached he seemed all at once to realize the situation. He knew that red death lurked behind the seemingly innocent shrubbery close at hand. Perhaps the memory of his own sharp wound sprang into his mind. At all events, although he knew that to utter the warning cry would debar himself from the companionship of his kind, he unhesitatingly gave that warning with no uncertain sound.

I laid down my rifle and pulled the raft in to the shore. Michael was standing at the limit of his tether, gazing after his retreating friends.

As the raft moved he sprang into the air, only to be jerked back by the restraining cord. I untied the string from the raft and drew the bird toward me. He submitted to my caresses, but I guessed how earnestly he longed to soar away after his kindred. He had saved some of them from death or captivity; they were free to roam the clear air of heaven while he----

I quickly untied the string from Michael's leg and gently pushed the bird from me. Instantly he spread his wings and sprang upward. With eager neck outstretched he swept rapidly after the vanishing flock, uttering hearty "honks" of jubilation.

I felt that he was worthy of liberty.

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691--Dick Merriwell's Dandies; or, A Surprise for the Cowboy Nine.

692--Dick Merriwell's "Skyscooter"; or, Professor Pagan and the
"Princess."

693--Dick Merriwell in the Elk Mountains; or, The Search for "Dead
Injun" Mine.

694--Dick Merriwell in Utah; or, The Road to "Promised Land."

695--Dick Merriwell's Bluff; or, The Boy Who Ran Away.

696--Dick Merriwell in the Saddle; or The Bunch from the Bar--Z.

697--Dick Merriwell's Ranch Friends; or, Sport on the Range.

698--Frank Merriwell at Phantom Lake; or, The Mystery of the Mad
Doctor.

699--Frank Merriwell's Hold-back; or, The Boys of Bristol.

700--Frank Merriwell's Lively Lads; or, The Rival Campers.

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

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

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

________________________ _190_

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

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

TIP TOP WEEKLY, Nos. ________________________________

NICK CARTER WEEKLY, " ________________________________

DIAMOND DICK WEEKLY, " ________________________________

BUFFALO BILL STORIES, " ________________________________

BRAVE AND BOLD WEEKLY, " ________________________________

MOTOR STORIES, " ________________________________

_Name_ ________________ _Street_ ________________

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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.

Inconsistent hyphenation ("getaway" vs. "get-away") retained from original.

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

Page 3, corrected typo "CHAPER" in "CHAPTER II" heading.

Page 4, added missing quote after "I'll go and talk with him. Come on, Matt, you and McGlory."

Page 11, corrected "interposel" to "interposed" after "Don't be too sure of that."

Page 15, corrected typo "aëoplane" in "repaired aëroplane."

Page 16, corrected "fo" to "to" in "Burton rode up to."

Page 17, changed ? to ! in "Don't talk to me!"

Page 19, changed oe ligature to "oe" in "manoeuvred" (ligature retained in HTML version).

Page 24, removed extra quote after "trick or two" and before "Well." Corrected "Burton" to "Carter" in "Carter was thoughtful for a few moments."

Page 25, corrected single to double quote after "You took that for granted, Carter."

Page 28, added missing accent to Aëroplane in contents of next issue (twice).

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