AN ORDER TO QUIT.

This unexpected attack, coming so suddenly, had taken Matt at a disadvantage. He fought as well as he could, in the circumstances, but there were too many against him.

There were eight of his foes, all told, and Matt was carried into the timber at one side of the road and dropped unceremoniously in a small cleared space. Bounding to his feet, he stood staring about him.

His eight enemies had formed a narrow circle, hemming him in. They were all young fellows, well dressed, and carried themselves with an air of firmness and determination. The face of each was covered with a handkerchief, which left only the eyes visible.

"What are you trying to do?" demanded Matt angrily.

"Don't lose your temper, Motor Matt," answered one of the eight, in a voice that was plainly disguised. "We're not going to hurt you—now. Do what we want you to and we'll remain good friends. All we've stopped you for is to have a little talk."

"Did you have to head me off with a rail in order to have a little talk?" asked Matt sarcastically.

"We wanted to make sure of you for about five minutes, and this was the only way we could think of. We were going over to your boathouse, but saw you coming down the hill from the point, and thought we'd better lay for you."

"Well," said Matt, "here I am. Hurry up with your talk. I'm in a rush, and don't want to stop here long."

"We want to ask you a question: You're a professional motorist, aren't you?"

"I've driven a racing automobile, if that's what you mean."

"They say you know gasoline motors forward, backward, and sideways."

"I've studied them, and I've worked in a shop where they were made."

"Then I guess we've got you dead to rights. Do you want to make a hundred dollars?"

"That depends on how I'm to make it," answered the king of the motor boys, immediately suspicious.

"You won't have much to do. We'll give you the money now if you promise to leave town to-night, and not come back to this section for a month."

"Oh!" exclaimed Matt, a light suddenly dawning upon him. "You're representative members of the Winnequa Club, I take it, and you want to keep me from running Lorry's boat in that race."

"We don't care how you take it," was the sharp retort. "The question is, will you accept that hundred and get out?"

"Certainly not," said Matt promptly.

There was a silence. One lad was doing all the talking, the others remaining silent and watchful.

"Will you leave for two hundred?" went on the spokesman.

"No," was Matt's indignant response, "nor for two thousand! What do you fellows take me for? I'm George Lorry's friend, and I'm going to see him through this racing contest."

"I don't think you will," was the significant answer. "You probably have an idea you will, but you'll change your mind before you're many days older."

"I understand," observed Matt quietly, "that your club is composed of pretty decent fellows. I'm pretty sure the rest of the members don't know what you eight are doing."

"That's nothing to you. You're a professional racer."

"There's nothing in the rules governing the race that bars out a professional driver," said Matt.

"That may be, but it's hardly fair to stack up a professional driver against an amateur."

"Halloran is not an amateur," returned Matt. "He has handled motor boats for two years. I happen to know this. If Halloran is going to drive Merton's boat, I don't think you fellows can complain if I drive Lorry's."

Matt's knowledge regarding Halloran must have staggered the eight masked youths. Silence reigned again for a space, one set of eyes encountering another and the glance traveling around the circle.

The king of the motor boys was studying those around him. One of the eight he believed to be Ollie Merton, although of that he could not be sure. Merton must have made good time from Third Lake, if he had left the Dart, crossed the city, and come around Fourth Lake to that point.

"We're not here to discuss Halloran," went on the young fellow who was doing the talking for the rest of his party. "We don't want you backing up young Lorry. There are going to be some bets made on that race, and we want Merton's boat to have a cinch. If what we've heard of you is true, you're deep, and when you go into a thing you go in to win. If you won't take a couple of hundred and leave town, how much will you ask to throw the race?"

Matt stiffened, and his eyes flashed dangerously. Once before, in the course of his career, an insult of that sort had been offered him. That was in Arizona, and a gambler had approached him and offered him money to "throw" a bicycle race on which the gambler and his friends had been doing some heavy betting.

Matt had principles, hard and fast principles which he knew to be right and on which he would not turn his back. He had never seen any good come of betting, and he was against it.

"I guess," said he sharply, "that if you know me better you wouldn't make such a proposition. I'm a friend of Lorry's, and I'm going to stand by him. Not only that, but if you fellows have been foolish enough to bet on Merton's boat, I'll do my best to see that you lose your money. I guess that finishes our talk. Break away and let me go on."

"Don't be in a rush," growled the spokesman. "If you won't take our money and leave town, and if you won't throw the race for a share of the proceeds, then we'll hand you an order which you'll do well to obey. It's an order to quit. Understand? You're an outsider and we don't want you around here."

"So is Halloran an outsider," said Matt caustically. "He comes from Milwaukee."

"We're talking about you, now, and not about Halloran. Lorry has got to stand on his own pins. He's got money enough to see him through this race without any of your help."

"You're a one-sided lot, you fellows," went on Matt. "All you say about Lorry applies equally well to Merton. Why don't Merton 'stand on his own pins,' as you call it? And why do you ask more of Lorry than you do of Merton?"

"That's our business," snapped the other.

Matt laughed.

"The trouble with you fellows," said he, "is that you're scared. You think the Wyandotte has got a little more than she can take care of in the Sprite. What kind of sportsmen are you, anyhow, when you try to load your dice before you go into this game?"

Matt's mention of the Wyandotte was made with the deliberate intention of hoodwinking the eight. By speaking as he did the masked youths would infer that Matt and Lorry knew nothing, as yet, about the Dart.

That Matt's remark had gone home was evident from the quick looks that passed around the circle over the tops of the handkerchiefs.

"We've got you down pretty fine, Motor Matt," pursued the spokesman, who could not bring himself to give up the attempt to influence Matt. "If it hadn't been for you, George Lorry would be in San Francisco now. You brought him back here, and you advised him to get back into the Yahara Club and go on with the programme the Yaharas had laid down for him. That was all your doing, and you know it."

"I'm glad to think," said Matt, with spirit, "that I had something to do with that. But you're mistaken if you think I had everything to do with it."

"I suppose this McGlory helped a little."

"He did; but the biggest help came from Lorry himself. Lorry has the right kind of stuff in him, and he'll show you, before long, that he's worth a dozen Mertons."

This goaded one of the others into speech—and it was the one whom Matt suspected of being Ollie Merton.

"Oh, splash! Lorry's a sissy and he always was."

It was Merton's voice, Matt felt sure of that. But the king of the motor boys wanted to make assurance doubly sure.

"Now are you done?" he asked.

"You refuse to meet us half way in an amicable arrangement?"

"Your amicable arrangement," said Matt ironically, "is an insult to a fellow who tries to be square. I'll have nothing to do with it, and that's the last word."

"We're going to have the last word, my gay motorist, and from now on up to the hour of the race you and Lorry are going to have your hands full of trouble. The Sprite will never enter the contest, and you'll save yourself something, Motor Matt, if you obey our orders to quit. There——"

Motor Matt, watching his opportunity, had made a sudden leap forward. It was toward the side of the circle opposite the place where the chap whom he believed to be Merton was standing.

Instantly the eight made a concerted move in that direction, leaving a gap in the cordon behind Matt. Like lightning, the king of the motor boys whirled about and darted through the gap.

As he raced past the fellow he supposed to be Merton he snatched the handkerchief from his face. The evidence, then, was plain enough.

"Merton!" shouted Matt as he bounded toward the road.

An angry yell went up behind him, followed by a crashing among the bushes as the eight began pursuit. But Matt had the lead, and he was fortunate enough to find the motor cycle leaning against the tree near the place where it had been halted.

To mount, start the gasoline, switch on the spark and pedal off took but a few seconds. By the time Merton and his companions reached the road Matt was sliding around a wooded bend like a shot from a gun.

Around the turn Matt was compelled to sheer off to avoid a big touring car which, deserted and at a standstill, filled the road.

He noted, as he passed, that it was the Merton touring car. Matt had seen the car before, and in circumstances almost as dramatic.