CONCLUSION.

"Nobly done, King!" roared Trueman, grabbing Matt out of the car and giving him a rapturous hug. "Oh, it was a grand race, a splendid race, and you have done wonderful things for the Jarrot people! They'll not forget this in a hurry. Make no contract with any one," he whispered, "until you hear from me! I've got to wire St. Louis!"

"Matt!" whooped Carl, pawing through the excited crowd to reach his chum's side. "I knowed dot you vould do it, yah, py shinks! Und I knowed dot Sercomb vouldt dry to do you, too. Dot's der vay mit him."

Carl hugged Matt ecstatically, then turned to grab the oil-caked hands of Chub.

"You safed Matt, Chub," said he, "dot's vat you dit. Eferypody saw dot! Eferypody knows, now, schust vat kindt oof a feller dot Sercomb iss. Efen Plympton can'd ged aroundt vat he saw mit his own eyes, nix, py shiminy!"

Off to the left of the grandstand Colonel Plympton was having an interview with Sercomb.

"Why didn't you stop where King halted his car?" he demanded wrathfully.

"I wanted to get away from the crowd," was Sercomb's sullen response.

"Well, I don't blame you for that," said Plympton sarcastically. "The people probably would have done anything but congratulate you. Sercomb, what did you mean by making that attempt on King?"

"I meant to knock him out of the car, if I could!" was the savage response.

"Is that the kind of sportsman you are?" queried Plympton, a gleam rising in his eyes.

He was just beginning to understand what kind of a driver Sercomb was. He was getting an insight into his character which he had never had before. The revelation was disagreeable, to say the least. Plympton himself was a man of high principle, and had no patience with trickery or deceit.

"I've put up with all I'm going to from King," growled Sercomb. "He's dogged me about and is doing everything he can to ruin me."

"I've learned something about that, too," went on Plympton, his voice hard and keen. "Tomlinson told me of that affair down in New Mexico, but I took your side. I couldn't believe it possible that you would act in the way you were said to have done. Now, however, I have had proof that you are a contemptible cur, and that King is a gentleman."

"Oh, yes," sneered Sercomb, "King has a way of making everybody think he's all to the good. I don't wonder that he's pulled the wool over your eyes."

"Look here," went on the colonel impatiently, "if it hadn't been for King, you'd be in jail this minute. An officer was waiting at the track-side to arrest you and take you out of the race. When King got here, he told Trueman to have the officer keep his hands off. That's the kind of work that makes me take stock in a young man. For King's magnanimity in letting you into the race he came near to being seriously wounded, perhaps killed. What do you say to that?"

Sercomb had nothing to say. He heard everything but preserved a sullen silence.

"What's more," pursued the colonel, "I know that you tricked King, through Slocum, into signing a paper he never would have signed if he had known what he was doing; and through that same paper you tricked me."

"You've been listening to King's side of the story," growled Sercomb.

"More than that," went on the colonel relentlessly, "by your vile tactics, again using Slocum as your tool, you drugged King and sent him away——"

"That's false!" stormed Sercomb.

"Don't lie," answered Plympton sternly. "Have strength of character enough to face the music. You've brought this on yourself and you'll have to bear it. Slocum is in jail, and he has made a confession."

Sercomb gasped and his face turned gray.

"Then—then I suppose you're—you're done with me?" he faltered.

"Yes, you've guessed right, Sercomb. Stark-Frisbie are done with you, but the law is not."

As he finished, Plympton stepped back and motioned to a man who was standing near. The latter pushed forward and laid a hand on Sercomb's shoulder.

"You're my prisoner, Sercomb," said he.

At that moment a touring-car came slowly past the place where the little group was standing. The car contained Trueman, Matt, Carl, and Chub, with one of the Jarrot mechanics at the steering-wheel.

They were all smiling and happy, but a puzzled look crossed Matt's face as his gaze rested on the officer and Sercomb.

"Stop a minute!" called Plympton, stepping toward the car. "King," he went on, reaching up to take Matt's hand, "I have done you an injustice, and I ask your pardon. You have acted like a gentleman and a true sportsman and you drove a race that will go down into automobile history as one of the pluckiest ever pulled off. Your car bothered you a good deal, but you hung on and won."

"We won on three speeds," replied Matt. "We had trouble and stripped one of the gears."

"Dree speeds aheadt," bubbled Carl. "Vell, dot vas enough."

"Certainly it has proved so," said the colonel. "The Jarrot people have first claim on your services, King, but if they don't offer you enough, I wish you'd give us a chance."

"Here, here," laughed Trueman. "I don't think the Jarrot people will let you steal from them the driver that won the cup."

"What are you doing with Sercomb, colonel?" queried Matt, still with his eyes on the beaten driver.

"He is under arrest," was the grim reply.

"For what he did last Saturday night?"

"Yes."

"As a favor to me," said Matt earnestly, "I want you to let him go."

"Oh, here," demurred Trueman, "that's carrying the thing too far, King. Don't waste any sentiment on that young scoundrel."

"He deserves all that will come to him," averred Plympton.

"He has been beaten," persisted Matt, "and that is punishment enough. I want him released. Can't you arrange it, colonel?"

"By gad," muttered Plympton, "I can't understand you, King. If that's really what you wish, though, I'll see what can be done."

"This is a day of victory to me," smiled Matt, "and I'd like to celebrate it in that way."

"Your desire does you credit," said the colonel bluffly, "but I think you display poor judgment."

"That's the way with Pard Matt," spoke up Chub. "But I don't think it's such a bad way, either. Anyhow, it don't keep him from making good in whatever he undertakes."

"Sure nod," put in Carl, "aber I don'd like dot. I vouldt radder punch Sercomb's headt as led him go. Dot's me—so savage all der time as some grizzly pears."

"Well, drive on, Patterson," said Trueman impatiently. "Settle the business as Matt wants it, Plympton, if you can."

Patterson drove the car to the hotel, Matt receiving congratulations all the way into town.

He and Chub were both extremely tired, but a bath and fresh clothes made them feel a hundred per cent. better.

While the two boys were looking after their own comfort, mutual explanations were indulged in.

Matt learned how Chub and his father had started for Chicago to make a sale of the mine, how Chub had learned Matt was to take part in the cup race, and had stopped off at Ottawa to be with his chum in his hour of victory—or defeat.

Matt then explained how he had come to himself, early Tuesday morning, camping down on a straw pile four miles from Lawrence.

"It's a queer thing," said he, "coming to your senses and finding yourself somewhere and never knowing the least thing about how you got there!"

"Well, I should smile!" grinned Chub. "You don't know a whole lot about it yet, do you? We haven't had much time for talk since you got back."

"I know I was drugged in some way," returned Matt, "and that I had just time to get from Lawrence to Ottawa in a gasoline speeder so as to enter the race. If Trueman had drawn first place, I guess I'd have been on the bleachers instead of in the car."

Chub told about the miserable hours he and Carl had passed while waiting for Matt to be found, or else to find himself.

"That Dutchman," said Chub, "was as near daffy as a fellow can be and yet have a few lucid intervals. He wanted to fight. He didn't seem at all particular who he licked, but he wanted to be using his fists."

"The little runt!" laughed Matt. "He's a fine fellow, that Carl. His head-work isn't very brilliant, at times, but he's true blue; and when it comes to fist-work, I don't know where you can find his equal for one of his size."

"I've cottoned to him in great shape. How much do you pull down for the winning, Matt?"

"Three thousand."

"That's making money hand over fist!" exclaimed Chub, "and there'll be more coming. A crack driver like you can command his own price."

"You're in for something, too, you know. I never could have won if you hadn't helped me like you did."

"Splash! What's that bell I hear?"

"Supper!"

"Let's run. I'll bet I can eat twice as much as Carl, to-night."

"You'll have to be going some, if you do."

"Well," laughed Chub, "we've been going some for five hours, steady, so we've got our hand in. Three speeds forward, old chap, and hit 'er up!"

THE END.

THE NEXT NUMBER (9) WILL CONTAIN

MOTOR MATT'S AIR-SHIP;

OR,

The Rival Inventors.

Capturing an Air-ship—A Queer "Find"—The Balloon House—The Kettle Continues to Boil—Carl Investigates—Jerrold, Brady's Rival—Jerrold's Gratitude—Aboard the Hawk—Willoughby's Swamp—A Foe in the Air—Brady Changes His Plans—Into the Swamp—A Desperate Chance—A Daring Escape—The End of the Mid-air Trail.

NEW YORK, April 17, 1909.

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