MATT SHOWS HIS COLORS.

Looking down on Matt and Chub from one of the walls were four lines carefully printed on a big white card. It was Matt's work, the printing; and the four lines had been in his room at Uncle Jonas King's in the old house in the Berkshires.

From Chub's triumphant face, Matt's eyes wandered to the lines on the card and dwelt there for a time.

"I guess you can't get around that rabbit's foot, Matt," said Chub, "and I guess Major Woolford can't, either. Clip has been settled on for the mile race with Prescott this year same as he was last, but you take it from me the major won't have anything to do with him when I show him that rabbit's foot and tell him where I found it. And maybe," finished Chub, "he'll scratch Dace Perry's entry, too, for it's a dead open-and-shut they were both in this. Perry, though, didn't figure on having your wheel jump across in front of his and cause a smash-up."

Matt, with that rabbit's-foot charm as an eye-opener, saw through the whole dastardly proceeding. Crafty Dace Perry was egging Clipperton on, thus "playing even" with Matt at little cost to himself.

"What did Perry hope to gain by having Clip shoot a bullet into my tire?" queried Matt musingly.

"If you'd taken a header from the bicycle, and broken a leg or an arm, that would have put you out of the running. Perry would have been cock of the walk in the bike event, and Clip could have soothed himself with the reflection that he'd squared up for that rocky deal he thought you gave him this morning. But we can fix 'em! Let's go and have a talk with the major, Matt."

In his eagerness Chub reached for his hat.

"I guess we won't," said Matt.

"Shucks!" gasped Chub; "you're not going to show up that pair and make 'em take their medicine?"

"I'm not going to give Tom Clipperton a black eye when Perry is the one most to blame, and when the whole thing is the result of a misunderstanding. We can't say anything about Perry without bringing Clip into it. And I'm not sure," Matt added, "that it's advisable to air the thing, anyway. All Prescott would be tickled to hear of the bickering, and every person in Phoenix who loves clean sport would be disgusted. I'll take care of the rabbit's foot, and we'll let the whole matter rest and not tell any one anything about it. You've kept quiet so far, haven't you, Chub?"

"Yes, mum as a church mouse; why, I didn't even tell Susie or Perk. I had a mind to bat it up to Clip, Perry and the rest when I tackled 'em on the way from the track, but thought I hadn't better. The whole gang might have jumped me and taken the rabbit's foot away. But, look here. You don't mean this, do you?"

"You bet I do mean it, Chub. If you're a chum of mine you'll do as I tell you."

Chub heaved a sigh like a boiler-explosion. "Another spoke in little Chub's wheel," he muttered. "There's never any telling which way you're going to jump, Matt, or how. You know what Perry is. Professor Todd don't know he's mixing with Dirk Hawley, the gambler, and fellows of that sort; but he is, and he's going wrong."

Matt recalled what the major had said concerning Perry, and about the little confidence he had in him. Was this because Perry associated with blacklegs, and particularly with Dirk Hawley?

"What Perry is doing doesn't make any difference with what we're to do, Chub," said Matt. "Clip is only a tool of Perry's, and some day he's going to find out how he's being made a catspaw. When that time comes, Perry will have a little trouble on his own hands."

"All right, Matt," said Chub, getting up, "have it your own way. It's pretty near supper-time, and I've got to hike. Will you be over this evening? Maybe I'll get into communication with Delray, up at the Bluebell."

"If I get time I may run over," answered Matt, "but don't look for me."

Just as Chub was about to lay his hand on the door-knob a knock fell on the panel. He opened the door and found Mrs. Spooner, the landlady, outside. There was an odd look on Mrs. Spooner's face.

"There's a man down-stairs as wants to see Matt," said she. "He come in one of them gasoline wagons, an' Matt may be as surprised to hear as I am to tell him that it's—Hawley, the gambler!"

Mrs. Spooner's voice sank to a frightened whisper.

"Dirk Hawley!" muttered Chub, staring at Matt. "Sugar, what in tunket can the blackleg want with you?"

Matt was as much surprised as were Mrs. Spooner and Chub. He did not even know the man, although he had seen him many times, and had heard a good deal about him that was not to his credit.

"I'm puzzled to know why he's coming to see me," muttered Matt, taking a look at the motor-car through the window. "Have him walk up, Mrs. Spooner, and I'll find out what he wants."

Chub hesitated a moment as though he would like to stay for the interview, but finally he left, passing Hawley on the stairs.

Dirk Hawley owned one of the largest gambling-dens in Phoenix, and was reputed to be worth a mint of money. He wore fierce diamonds, had a racing-stable and cut a wide swath among the gambling fraternity. He stepped blandly into Matt's room, and took his sizing for a moment with keen, shifty eyes.

"You don't know me, I reckon," said he loudly, "but it's dollars to doughnuts I ain't a stranger to you for all that. Ask anybody and they'll tell you Dirk Hawley's a good sport to tie to. Rise to that? Dirk Hawley never goes back on his friends. I've come here to get acquainted with you, King, and to make a friend of you." He put out his hand. "Shake," he added.

"I don't care to shake," answered Matt. "We're not traveling the same way, Mr. Hawley, and I don't know what good it would do for us to get acquainted."

Hawley drew down the lid of his right eye and chuckled.

"No? Well, there's nothing flatterin' about that, but I like your frankness, hang me if I don't. Now, I'm going to drop down in one of these nice easy chairs and tell you just how much more I can do for you in a day than Woolford could in a month."

Picking out the biggest chair, he sank into it; then, extracting a gold-mounted cigar-case from his pocket, he extended it toward Matt. Matt shook his head. Hawley chuckled again, extracted a fat cigar and slowly lighted it.

"I'm no hand for beating about the bush, King," he proceeded, studying the lad as he talked; "when I know what I want, I go right ahead and make my play, straight from the shoulder. Ain't that right? Sure. Now, I reckon you know I ain't one of these goody-goody sports. Woolford plays the racing-game for the game itself, but I play it for that—and for somethin' else. If it was only the game that made a hit with me, I wouldn't be ridin' around in a ten-thousand-dollar motor-car, or makin' a pleasure out o' business, same as I do. Understand? Who was it started Paddy Lee, the fastest hundred-an'-twenty-yard man that ever come down the cinder-path? Why, me. I discovered Paddy, and he's over in England now, taking money away from the Britishers hand over fist. Candy, just candy. Now, say, mebby you ain't next, but I've been watchin' you ever since you hit Phoenix. That's right. I've got an eye for a likely youngster, and if you want a friend to push you, for a part of the stakes you can pull down, why not try me out? This is the first time I ever went at a man like this—mostly, they come to me, an' are tickled to death if I take any notice of 'em. But here I am, flat-footed, askin' you to let me take your athletic future in my hands and make you a world-beater. What do you say?"

Matt was not expecting anything like this. For a moment it took his breath. Misinterpreting the boy's silence, Hawley fairly radiated genial confidence.

"Catchin' on, first clatter out of the box!" he murmured admiringly. "Always knew you had a head on you. And what good's a runner or a bicycle-racer without a head? Tush! From the minute a chap is on his mark till he comes in a winner, he has to use his brains as well as his heels. Now, King, if you and I hook up, it's a professional I'm going to make you; see? You'll go in for big things and shake the biggest plum-tree. My idees o' what's right and proper, though, have got to govern. You're a young hand, while I cut my teeth on a hand-book at the Sheepshead races. I become your manager, right from the snap of the pistol, and I begin by keepin' you out of small-fry contests. You can't race in the Phoenix-Prescott meet. I'll just send you to a friend o' mine up in Denver to put you in trainin' for a big bicycle-race at the Coliseum in Chicago; an' jest to ease up your feelin's for scratchin' your entry in the Phoenix-Prescott side-show, I tucks five hundred of the long green in your little hand and sends you north to-morrow. What say?"

Matt was "stumped." The longer Hawley talked the more astounded Matt became. Just what Hawley wanted to do with him the boy did not know, but he gleaned enough to understand that he'd have to turn his back on a whole bunch of cherished "principles" if he fell in with the gambler's desires.

"I guess you've got into the wrong pew, Mr. Hawley," remarked Matt. "I haven't any desire to help you shake plum-trees, and if I ever went into racing for a business you're the last man I'd pick out to see me through."

"Ain't my money as good as anybody else's?" flared Hawley, losing some of his amiability.

"I'm not talking about money. What I want to say is that you and I can't hitch up worth a cent."

"That's how you stack up, is it?" returned Hawley. "Well, look here"—he drew a roll of bills out of his pocket—"there's five hundred in that roll and it's all yours if you go to Denver to-morrow and stay there for a month."

Matt had a thought just then that touched him like a live wire.

"You're trying to keep me out of that Phoenix-Prescott contest, Mr. Hawley," said he, with a square look into the gambler's eyes. "What sort of an ax have you got to grind, anyhow?"

Dirk Hawley got up, shoved the roll of bills into his pocket, and moved to the door.

"You're too wise for your own good, my bantam," he sneered. "Perry pretty near hits it off in what he tells me about you. If you think you're going to ride in that bicycle-race you've got another guess coming. Just paste that in your little hat and keep your eye on it."

Then, with an angry splutter, Dirk Hawley let himself out of the room and slammed the door. A few moments later Matt heard his big motor-car puffing away from the curb.