NO. 13.

Nothing will rack the nerves of a superstitious man like the number "13." Taking a car out on Friday was as nothing compared to driving a car with such a hoodoo number. Glick had balked, but he did not entertain any hard feelings toward Matt for engaging to drive the car in his stead.

When Matt left the hotel next morning and started for the garage to meet Mr. Trueman, Glick met him and walked part of the distance at his side.

"Maybe you'll think I'm a fool," said he, lighting a cigarette, "and I know Trueman does, but I've seen too much of this Number Thirteen business to have anything to do with a car that's marked up for a dozen and one. That car of Trueman's hasn't a ghost of a show to finish the course, say nothing of making a win. It'll go to smash, and if you're in it you'll go to smash, too. Take my advice and keep away from it."

"The number doesn't bother me," laughed Matt, "and I'm only too glad to get the chance to drive in the race."

"Well," sighed Glick, "I'm sorry for you, King. You won't have any hard feelings toward me if the car puts you in the hospital?"

"Well, I should say not!" exclaimed Matt. "I was afraid you might have it in for me for taking the car."

"Not at all," said Glick heartily. "I admire your nerve, but I think your judgment is mighty poor. I wouldn't get into that car in this race for five thousand dollars."

When Glick left Matt the latter hurried on. Trueman was waiting at the garage, and he caught the lad's hand in a cordial grip.

"Glick went back on me sooner than I had expected," said he. "When he quit, yesterday afternoon, he told me that if the drawing hadn't been on Friday I wouldn't have got Number Thirteen. What an idiot! There are twenty-one cars in the race and some one had to have that number. My hopes are all wrapped up in you, King. If you want a start in the racing business, win the cup for the Jarrot folks."

"If the car has the speed, and no accident happens to the motor, we'll win," declared Matt. "I'll watch the other twenty cars and find out just which ones we have to fear. Now we'll go over the course and begin a practical study of it."

"Where's your Dutch friend?" inquired Trueman as they left the garage.

"He's keeping track of some other friends of mine," laughed Matt, "who would like to sidetrack me and put me out of the running."

Then, as they rode through town, across the bridge and to the park, Matt told of his troubles with Sercomb and his friends, and how trickery had prevented him from getting in the race for the Stark-Frisbie people. Matt felt that Trueman should know all about that phase of the matter, and he went into it in detail. To his surprise Trueman reached over and grabbed his hand.

"You're just the fellow to make a showing in this race, King," said he earnestly, "and, speaking from a selfish point of view, I wouldn't have your personal relations any different. Sercomb is the fellow you'll have to beat, for he's Stark-Frisbie's crack man, and Stark-Frisbie have a car in this race that's going to walk away from all three of Bly-Lambert's. The surest way for you to down Sercomb, and give him his due, is by beating him; it's the only way, too, for you to prove to Colonel Plympton that the deal Sercomb says you made with the Bly-Lambert people is all moonshine. Sercomb has run losing races for the last three years, but this year Plympton has given him a car that's the fastest thing on wheels—excepting our own Number Thirteen."

"If it's in this car, Mr. Trueman," answered Matt with a flash of resolution, "I'll be the first man over the tape at the end of the last round."

Reaching the park and the race track, Matt drove the car to the position from which the start was to be made. Halfway around the track they went to a place where a section of the high board fence had been removed. Here the course led out of the park grounds and struck into a level sweep of road that led toward the river. Where the road turned to follow the river bank a sharp curve had to be negotiated. After that, for some four or five miles, the road wound easily through the trees.

"You may have trouble here, King," said Trueman. "When the dust is thick and racing-cars are ahead and behind you, it would be the easiest thing in the world to swerve a shade too far and butt into a tree."

"We'll have to look out for that," replied Matt, his keen eyes watching every part of the way as they went along.

There was another hard turn where the course left the river road, but from that on there were twenty miles of level prairie, with packed earth like asphalt under the wheels. The car reeled off sixty miles an hour on this stretch, and would hardly have overturned a glass of water placed on the flat top of the hood.

The end of the twenty miles brought them to a village called Le Loup. Here the road bent to the north and east and climbed a long low hill, gradually changing its course to the south. Just over the hill was a collection of shanties near a coal mine, and known locally by the name of Coal Run.

From Coal Run back to the break in the park fence, the course was south and west, splendid going all the way. When the track was reached Matt let the car out on the way to the starting point. At that place the first accident happened, and the left-hand chain flew off, hurtling through the air for fifty feet and landing in the paddock.

Matt brought the car to a halt without accident, found the chain, brought it back and adjusted it with a fresh link.

We'll have to get on a new set of chains," frowned Trueman. An accident like that during the race might put us out of it."

"Accidents are always liable to happen," said Matt. "If they come we'll have to make the best of them."

They went over the course a second time, Matt forcing the car and bringing it in in sixty-five minutes from the start.

"You'll do!" declared Trueman. "I feel a whole lot easier with you in the car than I ever felt with Glick. Now let's go back to the garage. We've done enough for one morning."

"How many men are there at the garage in charge of the car?" asked Matt.

"Two—the best we have in the St. Louis works."

"You can depend on them?"

"Every time and all the time. Why?"

"The car must be watched night and day, Mr. Trueman," said Matt earnestly, "for there's no telling what Sercomb and his gang might try to do."

"They're not afraid of the Jarrot cars, King," returned Trueman. "We haven't cut much of a figure in these Western races so far."

"Well, you're going to cut a big figure in this race, Mr. Trueman, for it's my opinion you have the car to do it."

For a week after that Matt went over the circuit every morning, studying it thoroughly. Having a retentive memory, he came to know every part of it as he knew his two hands. Sometimes Mr. Trueman went with him, and once Carl went along. But one trip was enough for Carl. The way Matt hurled the car through the air gave the Dutch boy an experience that he never forgot. Carl made up his mind that he'd rather hear the racing talk than take part in the race itself.

In one respect, the Number Thirteen bore out its unlucky significance, for Matt did not make a trial ride around the circuit that something did not go wrong, and several times he averted a bad accident only by his quickness and presence of mind.

On one ride the feed-pipe between the gasoline-tank and the carburetor became clogged, and he had to disconnect it and clean it; another time a tire blew up; and again, it was the chain, once more flying off and missing his head by an uncomfortably narrow margin. The car certainly seemed to be working through a very severe case of "hoodoo."

Mr. Trueman was vastly exercised over these mishaps. He was beginning to feel as though there was something radically wrong about the car's construction, and that its chance of running well in the race, say nothing of winning, was decreasing to the vanishing point.

But Matt was not greatly disturbed.

"We're having all our troubles during the trials, Mr. Trueman," he explained, "and when the race comes we'll go over the course the six times without a hitch. Stage people say that when the last dress rehearsal goes badly the first performance is always sure to go smoothly."

Although Trueman admired Matt's spirit, for his own part he still continued dubious.

During Matt's week of hard, gruelling work, fortune was kind to him in one respect, for Sercomb and his friends left him severely alone. For one thing, every driver in the race had his hands full and found no time to give attention to anything else.

Sercomb, Mings, and Packard, driving Stark-Frisbie machines, had a friendly rivalry among themselves. Each wanted to drive his car to victory for the bonus which the victor was to receive, and they were attending strictly to business and learning all the ins and outs of the course. Their dislike of Matt and their desire to get the better of him seemed to be thrust aside by the weightier affairs connected with the race.

Several times, while he was going around the course, Matt either passed or was passed by one or the other of his enemies, but each and all of them ignored him completely.

Matt was well content to let the matter rest in that way.

Nearly every time Sercomb, Mings or Packard passed him, Matt was tinkering with the Jarrot car. The Stark-Frisbie drivers wrapped him in their dust and must have chuckled over the difficulties in which he found himself.

The day of the race was set for Tuesday. Saturday night Matt came in wearily from the garage, washed the grime of dust and oil from his face and hands, talked a few moments with Carl, and went up to bed.

Half an hour later he rang for a pitcher of water. Carl was lounging around the office when the bellboy carried the pitcher upstairs. Had Carl dreamed what was to happen to Matt because of that innocent little supply of drinking-water, he would have taken the pitcher from the boy and carried it up himself.

Motor Matt's enemies were not ignoring him entirely. They were staying at the same hotel, and, as Carl sized the situation up afterward, they were staying there for the purpose which they finally accomplished. That their evil designs did not keep Matt out of the race was because they overreached themselves by hastening the nefarious plot. Had they waited just a few hours longer, the great race for the Borden cup would have had an altogether different termination.

Nevertheless, the blow, when it fell, came with amazing suddenness; and it seemed so completely successful, and the hand dealing it was so cunningly hidden, that Carl was as deeply bewildered as he was filled with despair.