MATT INTERVIEWS TRUEMAN.

Ottawa is as pretty a little town as there is in all Kansas. The streets are wide, and level, and shaded, and through the town runs the historic Marais des Cygnes, the "river of swans"—so named by the ancient French explorers.

At this time the eyes of the Western automobile world were turned upon that part of Kansas, and representatives of more than a dozen alert motor-car manufacturers were located in Ottawa, all busily preparing for the great race.

Long, lean racing-cars darted through the streets, passing back and forth between the town and Forest Park. From in front of the grand stand in the park the race was to start, describe a fifty-two mile circuit out across the prairie country and return to the race track.

The race was to be six times around the circuit, comprising a total distance of three hundred and twelve miles.

Were the Bly-Lambert people to keep the Borden cup, or would Stark-Frisbie take it away from them?

This was the all-important topic, and was under discussion everywhere. None of the other contestants seemed to be considered. Everybody, from past performances on the Western racing field, seemed to think that no one else had a chance.

Matt and Carl reached Ottawa in the early morning. As soon as they had washed the stains of travel from their faces and eaten their breakfast they sallied forth to take in the situation at close quarters.

Each contestant had a garage of his own. In these garages the racing machines were jealously guarded, and about the cars the mechanics were constantly tinkering, making changes here and there as the experience of the drivers continued to suggest.

Only actual trials over the course could show what was needed and what was superfluous, and since the weight of each car must be limited, great care had to be exercised in making changes.

By inquiring of people they met, the boys learned that the Stark-Frisbie people had their garage across the river, in North Ottawa, while the Bly-Lambert folks were as far away in the other part of town as they could get.

The racing talk was in evidence everywhere, the merits and demerits of the various machines giving cause for many warm arguments. There was something about the talk, the sight of the darting cars, and the general air of suppressed excitement that got into the blood. Carl was bubbling over with enthusiasm, and Matt, stirred as he had never been before, was more than ever determined that he would be in the race.

Twenty-one cars had been entered. Among them were several touring cars, their owners being willing to pay the entrance fee just to gratify their sporting instinct—for no touring car could ever win against those high-powered racers, stripped for action and ready to hurl themselves over the course with every ounce of power in their cylinders.

"Py chimineddy!" expanded Carl, "I vish dot I knowed der carburettor from der shpark-plug. Oof I dit, I bed you I vould be in der racings meinseluf."

Matt's particular desire was to locate Trueman, of the Jarrot Automobile Company. He found him at last in a little private garage belonging to one of the wealthy residents of the place. The door of the garage was wide open, and the nose of a red racer could be seen inside. Excited voices could be heard coming from within the garage.

"Confound your superstitions!" cried an angry voice. "If you happen to walk under a ladder on the day of the race, Glick, I suppose you wouldn't drive for me, eh?"

"I'll be careful about doing that when the race is pulled off, Trueman," returned another voice. "Luck plays the biggest kind of a part in a game like this, and I don't intend to hoodoo myself by taking the car out on Friday. We've already been over the course four times, and what's the use of going over it again to-day?"

"Every time the course is gone over it helps you just that much. Taking the race from Stark-Frisbie and Bly-Lambert is no cinch. We have only one car in the race and they have three each. But this red racer of ours can win, providing you learn the course well enough. Will you go out?"

"I'll go out of the garage and back to the hotel," and a slim, lightly built young fellow came through the doorway, paused to light a cigarette, and then moved off toward the main street.

A stout man of about forty, in automobile cap and coat, stepped to the door and glared after the retreating driver. He was greatly wrought up, and started to say something but bit the words off short. When the driver reached the sidewalk and vanished nonchalantly around a building, the man in the garage door turned his eyes on Matt and Carl.

"Of all the superstitious fools that ever lived," he cried wrathfully, "I think that man Glick takes the bun. He can handle a car better than any man I ever saw, but here he hangs up our day's work simply because this happens to be Friday!"

"Are you Mr. Trueman, of the Jarrot Company?" asked Matt.

"My name, yes, sir," and Trueman gave Matt a more careful sizing.

"Well, I'm a driver. Why not let me take you over the course?"

Trueman shook his head.

"We were going over it for Glick's benefit," said he, "not mine. Who are you, young man, and where do you come from?"

Matt introduced himself, and presented Carl.

"Have you ever driven a racing-car?" asked Trueman, the boy's bearing and talk impressing him more and more.

"No," replied Matt, "but I'm confident I could do it. I've had a lot to do with gasoline-motors, and I've driven a good many cars."

"Come in here and look at this one," said Trueman. "Properly driven, I'll bet money we have a car that can walk away from anything Stark-Frisbie or Bly-Lambert have in the race."

Matt walked into the garage and looked over the red racer. It was a chain-driven, ninety-horse-power machine, and had the savage "get-there" look of a car that, run to the limit, could be made to win.

"Glick knows how I depend on him," remarked Trueman, "so he does about as he pleases. We're giving him a thousand dollars to make the race, and a bonus of two thousand if he wins. If he doesn't spill the salt, or meet a cross-eyed man, or run into a post, he'll stand up under the strain and acquit himself in good shape."

"I don't want to take any man's job away from him, Mr. Trueman," said Matt, "but if anything happens that Glick doesn't make the race, I'd like a chance to show you what I can do."

But still Trueman shook his head.

"You've never been in a race, King," said he, "and while you may know a car from A to Izzard, yet driving fifteen hundred pounds of machinery to win is an altogether different proposition. However, you might take me out in the racer and let me see what you can do. We won't go over the course, but will ride out south of town. Just a half-hour's spin, that's all."

Matt twisted the crank and was pleased with the quickness with which the cylinders caught the explosion. Trueman had already got into the mechanic's seat, and Matt lost no time in climbing in beside him.

"Wait for me here, Carl," said he, as the racer glided out of the garage.

Unless there is a certain sympathy between the driver and the machine he controls, it is impossible to get out of a car all that is in it. In most cases this bond between driver and car has to be acquired by long and patient practise with the same machine; but, in rare instances, a driver, the instant he places himself at the steering wheel, is able to get completely en rapport with the complicated engine under his control. Drivers of this sort are born, not made—and Matt King was one of them.

During that half-hour's spin over the flat country south of Ottawa, Motor Matt aroused Trueman's outspoken admiration. There were stretches where Matt drove at the highest rate of speed, where he rounded dangerous corners with the skill of a master-hand, and the clutch went in and gears were changed so swiftly and smoothly that no jarring note broke the steady humming of the cylinders.

"You're a crack-a-jack!" averred Trueman when they were once more headed through town for the garage; "but going out on a little junket like this is vastly different from racing."

"I don't believe I'd get rattled if there were racing-cars all around me," returned Matt with a quiet laugh.

While the car was being put back in the garage Trueman was silent and thoughtful. When the throb of the machinery was finally stilled, and the two got out of the car, Trueman turned to clap Matt on the shoulder.

"I'm going to keep you in reserve," said he. "If Glick kicks over the traces, and throws up his hands, I may fall back on you as a last resort."

"Meanwhile," returned Matt, "I'm going to be on the look-out for a car. I'm going to be in that race, and if I have a chance you can't blame me for taking it."

"Not at all, not at all. I like your driving, though, and if I was sure you wouldn't lose your head with cars all around you and dust so thick you can't see the bonnet, I don't know but I——" He broke off reflectively. "Well," he finished, "we'll see what happens."

Matt and Carl drifted back through the town. Several cars were just coming in from the circuit, their drivers and mechanics begrimed with dust and oil.

"It vas a gredt game, I bed you!" breathed Carl. "I hope dot der suberstitious feller meeds oop mit a plack cat or somet'ing, so dot you ged his chob, Matt."

"I'm going to race for somebody," answered Matt, "even if I have to go over the course in a touring car. I never had the fever like I've got it now."

"Me, neider," grinned Carl. "Led's go pack to der hodel und hunt for some tinner."

That afternoon the two chums passed quietly on the hotel porch, listening to the racing talk that was going on all around them. It was about five o'clock when a boy came hurriedly to the hotel and disappeared inside the office. A few moments later the clerk came out of the office and gave Matt a letter.

"That's for you, Mr. King," said the clerk. "The boy says he's waiting for your answer."

Matt tore open the letter and read as follows:

"King: Places were drawn for the start this afternoon, and, as luck (or ill-luck) would have it, I got Number Thirteen. That's the number that goes on the car. Glick refuses to race. Can I depend on you, same terms Glick was to receive? Answer yes or no, quick.

"Trueman."

Motor Matt's heart gave a bound, and a thrill ran through his nerves. Turning to the boy who was standing beside his chair, he cried, "Tell Mr. Trueman he can depend on me, and that my answer is yes!"

At just that moment a party with their grips in their hands were ascending the steps to the porch.

They were Sercomb, and the others, who had been left in the tool-house in Dodge City. Each of them gave Matt and Carl a sour look as he tramped on into the hotel.