Motor Matt's Make-and-Break; or, Advancing the Spark of Friendship

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  MOTOR STORIES

  THRILLING ADVENTURE

  MOTOR FICTION

  NO. 26 AUG. 21, 1909

  FIVE CENTS

  MOTOR MATT'S MAKE-AND-BREAK

  OR ADVANCING THE SPARK of FRIENDSHIP

  _BY THE AUTHOR OF "MOTOR MATT"_

  _"Catch the rope and hold fast!" cried Motor Matt, as the aeroplane skimmed over the surface of the river._]

  _STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK._

  MOTOR STORIES

  THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION

  _Issued Weekly. By subscription $2.50 per year. Copyright, 1909, by_STREET & SMITH, _79-80 Seventh Avenue, New York, N. Y._

  No. 26. NEW YORK, August 21, 1909. Price Five Cents.

  Motor Matt's "Make and Break"

  OR,

  ADVANCING THE SPARK OF FRIENDSHIP.

  By the author of "MOTOR MATT."

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I. THE SKELETON IN THE CLOSET. CHAPTER II. WHAT NEXT? CHAPTER III. BRINGING THE SKELETON OUT. CHAPTER IV. MARKING OUT A COURSE. CHAPTER V. THE START. CHAPTER VI. A SHOT ACROSS THE BOWS. CHAPTER VII. THE MAN HUNTERS. CHAPTER VIII. FOOLING THE COWBOYS. CHAPTER IX. THE TRAILING ROPE. CHAPTER X. A BOLT FROM THE BLUE. CHAPTER XI. "ADVANCING THE SPARK." CHAPTER XII. THE TRAIL TO THE RIVER. CHAPTER XIII. UNWELCOME CALLERS. CHAPTER XIV. AN UNEXPECTED TURN. CHAPTER XV. A RISKY VENTURE. CHAPTER XVI. CONCLUSION. MOSE HOWARD'S FISH TRAP. PHOTOGRAPHS TAKEN IN DANGEROUS PLACES. COSTLY FISHES.

  CHARACTERS THAT APPEAR IN THIS STORY.

  =Matt King=, otherwise Motor Matt.

  =Joe McGlory=, a young cowboy who proves himself a lad of worth and character, and whose eccentricities are all on the humorous side. A good chum to tie to--a point Motor Matt is quick to perceive.

  =Ping Pong=, a Chinese boy who insists on working for Motor Matt, and who contrives to make himself valuable, perhaps invaluable.

  =Amos Murgatroyd=, the unscrupulous broker whose fight against the Traquairs and Motor Matt finally results in complete disaster to himself.

  =Prebbles=, Murgatroyd's old clerk, who resurrects the skeleton from the family closet, fights a good fight, and, with the help of the king of the motor boys, finally banishes the skeleton altogether.

  =Newt Prebbles=, for whom Motor Matt undertakes to advance the spark of friendship; a youth who has erred, but who comes to a turning point and takes the right path.

  =Lieutenant Cameron=, an officer in the Signal Corps, U. S. A., who proves to be the cousin of an old friend of Matt, and who nearly loses his life when the a?roplane is tested.

  =Jed Spearman=, "=Slim=," "=Hen=," =and three others=, cowboys belonging with the Tin Cup outfit, who make some mistakes and are finally set right by the sheriff.

  =Roscoe=, sheriff of Burleigh County, who plays a small but very important part.

  CHAPTER I.

  THE SKELETON IN THE CLOSET.

  "Where's the old man, Prebbles?"

  "Don't ask me, Jim. I haven't a notion."

  "Well, there's a letter for him."

  The postman dropped a letter on the desk in front of the little oldman on the high stool, and the door slammed. Prebbles picked up theletter and blinked at it. For a while he sat staring like a person in adream, then a gasp escaped his lips, and he slipped from the stool andcarried the letter closer to the window.

  It was almost sunset, and a neighboring building shut off the light,but there, close to the dusty window pane, the light was good enough.The letter dropped from Prebbles' shaking hand, and he fell backagainst the wall.

  "It's from _him_," the old man mumbled; "it's--it's----"

  The words died on his lips, and a choking gurgle arose in his throat.Trembling like a man with the palsy, Prebbles pulled himself togetherand staggered to the water cooler. He drew himself a glass, and thetumbler rattled against his teeth as he drank.

  "This won't do," he said to himself, drawing a hand across his foreheadin a dazed and bewildered way. "I've got to brace up, that's what Ihave. But what's Newt writing to _him_ for? I--I can't understand that."

  Prebbles went back and picked up the letter. He was still greatlyshaken, although he was getting firmer hold of himself by swift degrees.

  It was a very ordinary appearing letter to have aroused such anextraordinary state of mind in the old man. The address, in a peculiarbackhand, was to "Mr. Amos Murgatroyd, Loan Broker, Jamestown, NorthDakota."

  Prebbles was Murgatroyd's clerk, and the only clerk in the loan office.For several weeks Murgatroyd had not been in Jamestown, and the work ofthe office--what little there was--fell to Prebbles.

  During those weeks of absence, the broker had been doing unlawfulthings. Prebbles, knowing his employer well, expected nothing betterof him; but just what Murgatroyd had been doing, the old clerk did notknow.

  Strange men, who might be detectives in disguise, were watching theoffice night and day. Prebbles had been keen enough to discover that.

  It was the peculiar handwriting of the letter that had had such apowerful effect upon the old clerk. Not one man in a thousand, perhapsin ten thousand, used a pen as the writer of that letter to the brokerhad used it. Prebbles felt sure that he could not be mistaken--thatthere was not the least possibility of a mistake. He knew who thewriter of the letter was, and for weeks the old man's dream by day andnight was that he could discover the whereabouts of the man.

  The envelope was postmarked at Steele, N. D. The writer might be there,or he might not be there. After setting hand to the letter, it was morethan possible he had mailed the letter at Steele and then gone to someother place.

  There was one way to make sure--and only one: In order to find outpositively where the writer of the letter was, Prebbles would have toopen it and read it. Although a clerk in the office, his position didnot give him the right to open his employer's personal mail; in fact,Murgatroyd had expressly forbidden this.

  The letters received during Murgatroyd's absence--and they were butfew--had been placed in the office safe. A week before, the collectedletters had mysteriously vanished during the night, and in their placewas left this scribbled line:

  "Dropped in and got my mail. Say nothing to any one about my having been here. A. M."

  That was all, absolutely all, Prebbles had learned of his employersince he had left Jamestown several weeks before. Only two or threeletters had collected in the safe since the others had been taken, andnow this one from Steele must be added to them, unless----

  Prebbles caught up a pair of scissors. Before he could snip off the endof the envelope, he paused. To deliberately open a letter addressedto some one else is a crime which, if brought to the attention of thepostal authorities, is heavily punished. Prebbles was not afraid of thepunishment, for he believed that Murgatroyd himself was a fugitive;still, it was well to be wary.

  Laying down the scissors, he ran the end of a pen-holder under theflap. But again he paused, realizing, with a tremor, that he belongedto the army, the Salvation Army. As a soldier in the ranks, had hethe right to take this advantage of his employer? On the streets,Prebbles, because of his earnestness in the army work, he was known as"Old Hallelujah." Poor business, this, for Old Hallelujah to rifle hisemployer's mail!

  With a groan, Prebbles pushed the letter aside and dropped his facein
his hands. While he was thus humped over his desk, a picture ofdistress and misery, the door opened and a boy came in with a telegram.The message was for Prebbles, and he signed the receipt. As soon as theboy had left, he tore the message open.

  "Forward mail at once to George Hobbes, Bismarck.

  "HOBBES."

  This was from Murgatroyd, and it was not the first time he had used thename of "George Hobbes."

  Was Prebbles to send that letter on without first seeing what wasinside it? Duty to his employer and duty to himself warred in his soul.

  That last letter received for Murgatroyd might have been taken to thepolice. They could secure authority from Washington to open it. But,if the letter came from the person Prebbles suspected, he did not wantthe police to see it.

  The six o'clock whistle blew, but Prebbles paid no attention. He wasfighting with his Salvation Army principles, and the stake was thecontents of that letter to Murgatroyd.

  At seven o'clock, the haggard old man, the battle still going on in hisbreast, pushed the letter into his pocket and left the office, lockingthe door behind him. He did not go to the cheap eating house where heusually took his meals--there was no supper for him that night--but heproceeded directly to the "barracks," got into his dingy blue cap andcoat, and took his cymbals. By eight, a dozen of the "faithful" werein the street, their torches flaring smokily, and the bass drum, thesnare drum, the cymbals, and the tambourine whanging and clashing andrattling a quickstep.

  Back and forth they marched, then rounded up on a corner and sang oneof their army songs.

  Old Hallelujah was particularly earnest, that night. His voice wasloudest in the singing, and his exhorting was done with a fine fervor.His thin, crooked body straightened, and his eyes gleamed, and hestruck the cymbals with unusual vigor.

  "Ole Halleluyer is gittin' young ag'in," ran the comment of more thanone bystander.

  "If he's so pious," observed some one, "it's a wonder he don't breakaway from that ole thief, Murgatroyd."

  It _was_ a wonder, and no mistake. But the wonder was soon to cease.

  At ten o'clock Prebbles and the rest were back in the barracks; and atten-thirty Prebbles was in his five-by-ten little hall bedroom, calmlysteaming open the letter to Murgatroyd. He had finished the fight, andhad nerved himself for his first false step. But was it a false step?He had come to the conclusion that the end justified the means.

  The letter, carefully written, jumped immediately into the business thewriter of it had in mind.

  "I must have more money or I shall tell all I know about you and the accident to Traquair and his a?roplane. I can't live on promises, and I'm not going to make a fugitive out of myself any longer just to shield you. You're a fugitive yourself, now, but I reckon you can dig up enough money for both of us. I have dropped down the line of the Northern Pacific to mail this letter; as soon as it is in the office, I'm going back to my headquarters at the mouth of Burnt Creek, on the Missouri, ten miles above Bismarck. You'd better meet me there at once, as it's the safest place you can find. I suppose you've made arrangements to have your mail forwarded, so I'm sending this to your office. _Bring plenty of money._ NEWT PREBBLES."

  For many a weary hour the old man paced the narrow confines of hisroom, reading the letter again and again and turning the contents overand over in his mind.

  "The boy don't care for me, he's mad at me," muttered Prebbles wearily,"but if I can make up with him, maybe he can be saved. What's thisabout the accident to Traquair? What does Newt know about Murgatroyd?No matter what happens, I've got to get the boy out of Murgatroyd'sclutches. If Newt stays with him, he'll be as bad as he is."

  It was after midnight when Prebbles dropped weakly into a chair.

  "Motor Matt will help me," he muttered.

  The thought had come to him like a flash of inspiration. And anotherinspiration had come to him, as well. He made a copy of the letter,then placed the original in its envelope, carefully resealed it, andwent to the broker's office. To take the collected letters from thesafe, place them and the one from Steele in a large envelope andaddress the envelope to "Mr. George Hobbes, General Delivery, Bismarck,N. D.," consumed only a few minutes.

  "Motor Matt will know how to do the rest of it," thought the old clerk."He's a clever lad, and he helps people. He helped Mrs. Traquair andhe'll help Prebbles. I'm done with this office for good, and I'm gladof it."

  He looked around the room with a grim laugh.

  "I never thought I'd be pulling the pin on myself," he said aloud."Maybe it's the poorhouse for mine, but I'll be glad to starve if I canmake up with Newt and save him from that robber, Murgatroyd."

  He turned off the light and closed and locked the office door. An hourlater he had dropped the long envelope into a letter box and was backin his room. At seven in the morning he had boarded the northboundtrain for Minnewaukon and Devil's Lake. Motor Matt was at Fort Totten,on the south shore of the lake, and Prebbles would be at the fort inthe afternoon.

  The king of the motor boys was the old man's hope. Prebbles knewMatt, and had abundant faith in his ability to accomplish seeminglyimpossible things.

  "He'll help me," murmured Prebbles, leaning back in one corner of theseat; "he helped Mrs. Traquair, and he'll help me."