FORTY-EIGHT HOURS OF DARKNESS.

Motor Matt had never felt in better spirits, worn and weary though he was, than when he had climbed the stairs to his room that Saturday evening. He had gone over the course three times that day, and the cylinders of the Number Thirteen had pulled nobly. There had been a little tire trouble during the first two rounds, but nothing had gone wrong on the last circuit, and Trueman had held the watch on him. He had done the fifty-two miles in less than an hour.

"You'll improve on that," Trueman had said, "when you've got a man in front of you to overhaul. There'll be twelve ahead of you at the start, and among the twelve will be two of the fast Stark-Frisbie cars and one of the Bly-Lambert machines as pacemakers."

Matt was well pleased with the prospect. Every car entered for the race had passed under his scrutiny, and he felt positive the chance for the Number Thirteen to win was excellent.

Sitting in a comfortable chair in his room, he rang for his ice-water and fell to going over the course of the race in his mind. Every foot of the road was plainly mapped before him.

The water came and he took a long drink. Perhaps the very chill of it served to disguise the slightly astringent taste caused by the drug. At any rate, he did not notice that anything was wrong.

Carl came by, rapped on the door and said good-night. While Matt listened, Carl's feet seemed to go on and on along the hall interminably. It was a queer delusion, and Matt shook back his shoulders and laughed softly.

"I mustn't let this race get on my nerves so much," he said to himself. "Nerves are bad things for a racing-driver. I'm tired out, and I guess I'll turn in."

He started toward the bed, and that was the last thing he remembered for some time.

When he came to himself he saw glittering little lights above him. At first he thought he was dreaming, and sat up, rubbing his eyes.

Even then he thought he was dreaming, his surroundings were so different from what they should have been—from what he had every reason to expect them to be.

The lights far over his head were stars—or seemed to be stars. He was out-doors, and had been lying on a heap of straw at the bottom of a stack. On his right was a large barn, and beyond the barn were the shadowy outlines of a house.

These odd discoveries confused and bewildered Matt. What sort of witchcraft was here? A moment before, as he reckoned the time, he had started for bed in his room at the hotel. Now he woke up in a heap of straw, out of doors and apparently on somebody's farm.

Staggering to his feet, he leaned heavily against the side of the straw-stack and drummed his knuckles against his forehead. A horrible illusion gradually took hold of him. Had he been in an accident with the racing-car? Was he just recovering from the effects of a bad smash?

His brain seemed a bit hazy, but otherwise he appeared to be as well as ever. Stepping away from the stack, with the view of making further investigations, he stumbled over something. Picking up the object, he found it to be his satchel.

This added a further mystery to his situation. He had evidently left the hotel with the intention of going somewhere to stay for a while.

In the dim light his satchel looked frayed and worn, as though it had seen hard usage. His clothes, too, from what he could see of them, offered the same evidence of wear and tear.

"Well, great guns!" he muttered. "I wish somebody would kindly explain how I came to be here! And while the explaining is going on, I wish somebody would let me know whether I am really Matt King or another fellow. This would read like a page out of the 'Thousand and One Nights.' I'll just go up to the house and ask where I am."

The next moment he changed his mind about going to that particular house. A vicious bulldog rushed out at him, and he got over a near-by fence with more haste than grace. Picking up a stone, he drove the dog back, then stepped off toward another house which he could see in the dim distance.

All the while he was moving about, his mind was grappling with the situation—and carrying him nowhere. Had his mind been unbalanced? Had he lost his reason in some strange manner and only just recovered it?

This was a terrible thought, but it was the only explanation that occurred to Matt.

There was no dog at the next house, and he walked up to the front door and rapped loudly. A long time elapsed, and then a window was thrown open in the second story and a head was poked out.

"Who in the name o' goodness is bangin' at my front door at this time o' night?" demanded a fretful voice.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," answered Matt, "but I've lost my way and would like you to tell me how far I am from Ottawa."

"Ottawa?" returned the voice. "Well, you're twenty miles from Ottawa, an' four miles from Lawrence."

"Twenty—miles!" gasped Matt.

"That's it. Lawrence is right ahead over that hill yonder. It's purty dark, but I guess that hill's plain enough. Anythin' else I can tell you? Now I'm up I might as well tell you all you want to know."

"What time is it?" asked Matt in a subdued voice.

"Goin' on four o'clock in the mornin'."

"What morning? Sunday?"

"Say, but you're dumb! Tuesday morning—the day of the race at Ottawa. My boy Joe went down yesterday to see it—all dumb foolishness, too, as I told him. Them automobiles'll go by so tarnation fast he won't be able to see 'em. Jest a-buzzin' like a swarm o' bees, a whiff of gasoline, an' that's all."

Matt was so astounded that he heard little of what the farmer had been saying. He had gone to bed in Ottawa on Saturday night, and here it was four o'clock Tuesday morning and he was four miles from Lawrence. He had been plunged in oblivion for forty-eight hours—but how, and why?

"Hey, down there!" shouted the farmer. "You gone to sleep?"

"No," called back Matt, recovering himself with a start; "do you want to make ten dollars, friend?"

"How?" asked the man suspiciously.

"By hitching up and driving me to Ottawa."

"Sho! That's a heap o' money to spend for a ride. Why, you can walk to Lawrence and ketch a train. Then t'll only cost you fifty cents to get to Ottawa."

"Can I get a train between now and seven o'clock?"

"I head one whistlin' every mornin' about six-thirty or seven, but whether it's goin' or comin' from Ottawa I don't know. Anyhow, I couldn't leave. My boy's away an' I got to stay home an' do the work."

"All right," said Matt; "much obliged."

"Sure you ain't from the Ossawatomie Insane Asylum? You talk kinder queer, seems like."

"I don't know but I ought to be in Ossawatomie," answered Matt as he started off down the road.

The window closed with a bang.

"Well," murmured Matt, striding along the road toward the hill, "what do you think of that! I've lost two whole days—haven't a notion what I've been doing in all that time. Wonder what's been going on in Ottawa? I was to meet Trueman Sunday morning for a talk. What'll he think? And Carl! Great Scott! I wonder if they'll get the idea I've run away? The race starts at eight o'clock, and I'll have less than four hours to get to Ottawa! What if I can't catch a train?"

The possibility of missing the race bothered him more than the cause of his predicament.

As he strode along the quiet country highway the cool night air beat against his face and freshened his wits. He began wondering if Sercomb and his gang hadn't had something to do with his mysterious departure from Ottawa? That was the only way he could account for what had happened.

A steely resolution arose in his breast. He would get to Ottawa, and he would get there in time to drive the Jarrot car. If Sercomb had plotted against him, then he would beat the scoundrel at his own game.

It was nearly five o'clock when Matt reached the Lawrence railroad station. There was no train to Ottawa, the nightman told him, until half-past nine in the morning—neither passenger nor freight.

Matt was dumfounded.

"I was told that there was a train at six-thirty, or seven," said he.

"Sure," answered the nightman, "but it goes the other way."

"This is tough luck!" exclaimed Matt. "You see," he explained, "I'm to drive a car in that race this morning, and the first car starts off at eight. My car is Number Thirteen. There's a two-minute interval between each car, and that starts me about twenty-four minutes after eight. How far is Ottawa from here?"

"Twenty-four miles."

"Any way I can get there in time for the race?"

"You couldn't get there with a horse an' buggy, that's sure. There's a gasoline speeder in the shed, and the track-inspector sleeps on t'other side the yards in Hooligan's boarding house. You might get the inspector to take you down."

Here was a ray of hope. Matt inquired hastily how to find Hooligan's place, and set out to get the inspector. He was an hour getting the man, and another half-hour getting him to agree to run the speeder to Ottawa. Matt had to promise the inspector twenty-five dollars for making the trip. Another half-hour was lost filling the speeder's tank and getting the machine ready for the road, and the sun was rising before they chugged off along the glimmering rails.

The motor had a chronic habit of misfiring, and there were numberless stops ranging in length from one minute to ten while the machinery was tinkered with.

The entrance to Forest Park was not more than a stone's throw from the railroad track, and as the speeder came close to the town Matt saw the first car leap through the gap in the fence and bear away in the direction of the river road.

It was Number One, a Stark-Frisbie car, with Joe Mings at the steering-wheel!

Matt had twenty minutes, perhaps, left him for getting to the track.

Throwing himself from the speeder at the point nearest the entrance to the park, he flung wildly away through the press of vehicles and pedestrians.