MOTOR MATT'S FOES.

Motor Matt was in his room at the Clifton House. Late that afternoon he and Carl had arrived in Denver in the Red Flier, having brought Mr. Tomlinson, the owner of the car, and Gregory, Mr. Tomlinson's driver, from Santa FÉ. Matt had been in charge of the touring-car for several weeks, having taken it in hand at Ash Fork, Arizona.[A] He and Carl had brought it alone as far as Santa FÉ, where they had been joined by Mr. Tomlinson and Gregory.

The boys had had numerous adventures on the long trail, and not only they, but the car as well, had been placed in considerable peril. Now, however, the dangers were past, the car—owing to Matt's careful handling—had been placed in the garage in as good condition as when it had come into the young motorist's hands, and everybody was pleased—Mr. Tomlinson exceedingly so.

The extra luggage belonging to the boys had been checked to Denver from Santa FÉ, and directly after supper Matt had sent Carl to the railroad station with the checks.

Matt, lounging in his room and waiting for Carl to return, thought his chum was taking a long time to do his errand. The expressman brought the grips, but no Carl came with them.

It was half-past ten before Carl came in. There was a bruise on the side of his face, his clothes were covered with dust and dirt, and he was puffed up like an angry robin.

"Great Scott, Carl!" exclaimed Matt, taking the Dutch boy's sizing with a quick glance; "did you have to have a fight with the baggage-smasher in order to get the grips? You look like you'd had a scrap!"

"Den," growled Carl, "I look like vat it iss." He threw off his coat and cap, pulled down his red vest, and flung himself into a chair. "I haf hat more shcraps as vone, Matt, und dot's all aboudt it. Py shiminy, I peen so madt I don'd can see srtraight," and he went on to rehearse his experiences to the wondering Matt.

"Sounds like a pipe-dream," commented Matt, when his chum had finished. "Instead of being in peaceful, law-abiding Denver, you'd think we had struck a mining-camp. Who was the fellow who met you at the station?"

"He say dot his name vas Higgins, aber I bed you dot don'd vas it, any more as my name vas Dunder. 'You peen Modor Matt's bard,' he say, like dot, making some friendliness mit me, 'und I got somet'ing to tell vat Modor Matt shouldt hear. You valk mit me,' he say, 'und I tell you, und you tell Matt.' Vell, I pelieve vat I hear, und he shteers me py der alley. Ach, it vas some put-oop chobs all der vay t'roo, you bed my life."

"You didn't recognize Higgins as being any one else?"

"I reckognize him as being some plackguards, all righdt!"

"I mean, you'd have known him for Ralph Sercomb, Balt Finn, Joe Mings, or Harry Packard if he had been one of them?"

"Sure; aber he don'd vas dot. He vas some odder fellers."

"All those chaps were mixed up in the trouble we had down near Lamy, in New Mexico, while we were helping Dick Ferral. They're the only Denver motor-racers I know who would have it in for me."[B]

"Meppy dose vas der fellers, Matt," said Carl, "aber dey vore vite caps ofer der faces und I don'd vas aple to see oof dey vas."

"Sercomb and his pals were all motorists," mused Matt. "But what good will it do for them to try to keep me out of the Borden cup-race? I've got a chance to make a record by going into that race, and I'm going to get into it, if I can."

"Sure you vas going indo der race, bard, und dose sore-headts von't be aple to keep you oudt."

"I'm not going to back-water for them."

"Dot's you," chuckled Carl. "You vill be dwice as keen to ged in der race now as you vas pefore. Dot's der vay Modor Matt iss pud oop! Py shinks, you vas der pest all-orundt modor feller vat efer habbened——"

"Oh, splash!" laughed Matt. "Use the soft pedal, Carl."

"Py chimineddy, I mean vat I say!" persisted Carl. "You know more aboudt modors in a year as some odder fellers know in a minid, und——"

"I guess that's right."

"Misder Domlinson say dot you peen a crack racer, und dot you ged oudt oof a car all der speed vat vas in it."

"Well, hang onto your bouquets for a while and let's see that letter the white-caps gave you to deliver to me."

"Vouldn't dot gif you some grimps?" cried Carl, reaching for his coat. "I vas forgeddng all aboudt dot ledder."

He extracted a sealed envelope from his pocket and tossed it to Matt. Matt pulled his chair closer to the light and examined the envelope.

He smiled grimly as he read, "'To Buttinsky, otherwise Matt King, otherwise Motor Matt. Kindness of Wienerwurst.' They're complimentary, that gang. Eh, Carl?"

Carl had been lifted out of his chair.

"Be jeerful, eferypody!" he muttered. "Is dot vat iss saidt on der enfellop, Matt? Iss it me dey mean by dot 'Wienerwurst' pitzness?"

"Of course! Who else?"

"Ach, ven I ged dime you bed you I go looking for dot cellar blace some more, und ven I findt it, I rip dot society oop der pack like some cyclones! 'Wienerwurst!' Pringle call me dot, vonce, und I gif him Hail Golumpy in forty-'lefen keys. Readt der ledder oudt loud, Matt. Oof it say anyt'ing more aboudt 'Wienerwurst,' meppy I go hunt for dot cellar blace do-night!"

"Barking dogs are not always the ones that bite, Carl," returned Matt, opening the envelope and extracting the enclosed sheet. "I haven't a very high opinion of those friends of Sercomb's, and I guess they'll be careful not to do anything very desperate."

"Vell, dey tied Verral in der Ret Flier und shtart him for der cliffs. Dot vas tesperade enough, ain'd it?"

"They did that out in the wilds; but we're in Denver now, and there's a policeman on every block."

Thereupon Motor Matt began to read.

"If Matt King thinks he can come to Denver and butt into the racing game, he's some shy of the situation. The motor-drivers of this town are a little particular who they associate with. Nearly all our members will be represented in the race for the Borden cup, and King is warned to stay out of it. He is also ordered to leave Denver inside of twenty-four hours, and to make no deal with Colonel Plympton, of the Stark-Frisbie Company. Unless King follows instructions, something will happen to him. A word to the wise is sufficient."

"Ach, iss dot so!" whooped Carl. "'A vort to der vise,' hey? Say, dot makes me madt as some horneds! I vonder oof dot punch oof plackguards t'ink dey boss der goundry? Donnervetter! I vould like to gif der hull oudfidt a punch in der slads!"

Matt was thoughtful.

"It's Sercomb and his gang all right," he averred finally. "When I saw Sercomb last, he swore he'd be even with me. He sent that letter, not because he doesn't want me in the racing game, but because he knows I won't pay any attention to his orders, and that it will give him an excuse to try some underhand work."

"I vould like to knock dot Sercomb's face indo his pack hair," fumed Carl. "He vas a lopsder, a rekular rank-a-tang! Und I bed you dot pefore he iss tone mit us he vill know dot he has peen mixed oop mit a gouple oof life vones. 'Wienerwurst!' He mighdt as vell haf called me a sissage. I'll show him I don'd vas anyt'ing like dot. Mings iss as pad as Sercomb, und so iss Packard, aber I ditn't t'ink Finn vouldt shtand for any sooch vork. Dere iss more as Mings, Packard, und Finn mit dem, too."

"Sercomb has told his own story to the rest of the members of that club," said Matt. "He has rubbed it into my character in pretty strong style, I suppose, and in order to get even with me, and have all the others on his side, he uses the race for the Borden cup as a pretext."

"Vell, be jeerful, Matt. It dakes t'ings like dose to keep a feller chinchered oop."

"Right you are, Carl," laughed Matt. "I'll get into that race, now, if it takes a leg."

"Sure!" cooed Carl. "You vill be in it mit bot' feets efen oof vone leg iss gone. How iss dot for a choke?"

"It may not be so easy to break into the game, after all."

"Eferyt'ing iss easy for Modor Matt," gloried Carl. "You vill ged indo der game schust like falling off some logs. For vy nod?"

"Well, for one thing, I haven't any racing record behind me."

"Ach, hear dot! Ditn't you beat oudt a Limidet Egspress Drain mit a modorcycle? Und hain't you peen racing pubbles efer since ve left Ash Fork?"

"All that hasn't given me a racing record. When a manufacturer puts a twenty-thousand-dollar racing-car in the field, he wants to be more than sure that his driver has plenty of nerve and skill. About the only way he can be sure of that is by looking back over his record and seeing what he has done."

"Vell, let dem look pack so far as dey blease ofer your recordt. Dey vill findt some surbrises, you bed you."

"The race for the Borden cup is only two weeks off, Carl. The Automobile Club decided it was to be run over a Kansas course, and limited to western machines. Why, some of the contestants have already been on the scene of the race for a week!"

"I don'd care for dot," averred Carl stoutly. "You vill make goot schust der same. Mindt vat I say."

Just then there came a rap on the door. Matt answered the summons and found the bell-boy with a card. "Colonel Jasper Plympton," ran the legend on the bit of pasteboard.

Matt caught his breath. Colonel Plympton was coming to see him!

"Ask him to come right up," said Matt, turning away.

"Who it vas?" queried Carl curiously.

"Plympton!" exclaimed Matt exultantly. "He is hunting me instead of letting me go looking for him."

Carl wore a grin you could have tied behind his ears.

"Now vat vouldt dot Sercomb gang say oof dey knowed dot!" he chuckled.