THE FLIGHT OF THE "COMET."

Matt King was on his mettle. Phoenix was sixteen miles away, and he had, as he figured it, forty minutes to get there and make his way to the park. Could he do it? He could and would!

The presence of Hawley in his crack machine added an element of danger, but Matt knew in his soul he could slide away from the motor-car as a jack-rabbit slips clear of a bounding greyhound.

He saw the dust-fog of the coming car as he whirled past the forks of the road. It was jumping at him with terrific speed, and he saw the chauffeur and the cowboy in front of the big machine and Hawley in the tonneau, standing and leaning over their heads in his excitement and determination.

If Matt got clear, Dirk Hawley stood to lose a lot of money; and to touch the gambler in his pocketbook was to touch him in his tenderest spot.

Matt laughed as he rushed onward. He felt that the race was his, barring accidents; and the Comet was brand-new, and careful handling made accidents a remote possibility.

Seven horses were purring in the cylinders, whirling the racing tires, and showing heels such as seven horses never showed before. The steady murmur of the machine filled Matt's heart with exultation. He was flying, and the tires seemed scarcely to touch the ground they covered. Cactus, rock, greasewood brush shot toward him and were lost behind.

At the start he was four miles from the bridge over the Arizona Canal; now the bridge lay before him at the foot of a long slope with a slight curve at the end. In two minutes he would be there!

As the dust was left behind, he saw a dim figure standing by the bridge. Then he remembered what Penny had said about Hawley dropping one of his passengers at that point, and a sudden fear shot through Matt's nerves. The man waved his hand, ducked downward and disappeared under the canal. In the space of a breath, almost, he reappeared and dashed back toward the roadside. Then on Matt's startled ears there burst the dull boom of an explosion. Under his eyes the bridge seemed to rise up and drop back into the canal.

Matt slowed down, his heart in his throat and his nerves in rags. Hawley had left that man behind to blow up the bridge, well knowing that Matt could not pass the chasm on his motor-cycle, and that the nearest bridge he could reach was miles away.

The whirr of the car behind him grew loud and louder in his ears, and above it came yells of triumph. Dazed and feeling himself all but beaten, Matt nevertheless continued on toward the wrecked bridge.

The next moment he saw something that aroused his hopes. One stringer was left, spanning the gulf from bank to bank—a square timber that offered possibilities, albeit dangerous ones. A nail in the stringer would mean a bursted tire! Even a sliver might cause damage that would stop the Comet's flight. Gritting his teeth Matt speeded up the machine, tore down the slope and took the end of the timber at a bound.

The motor-car was close and he dared not look behind him. Every faculty had to be centered upon that narrow, dangerous path over which he was rushing at perilous speed. He could not see what the cowboy was doing, nor know how a scant forty feet of rope fell short, for the cowboy, past master at throwing the lariat, had leaned forward over the long bonnet and made a cast.

"A thousand dollars if you stop that boy!" Motor Matt heard this yelled fiercely in Hawley's voice, and behind him the noose fell short!

If there were nails or slivers in that square timber, the rubber tires missed them. Matt gained the opposite side of the canal and sped up the bridge approach. The man who had set off the explosion leaped into the road, swinging his arms and shouting; then very suddenly he leaped out again, for the hundred-and-fifty-pound motor-cycle was coming toward him at deadly speed. Matt was abreast of the man and beyond him in the space of a heart-beat, and he stole a quick look behind.

Dirk Hawley had overreached himself. His evil machinations had resulted in destroying the bridge, but he had foiled himself and not the daring youngster who had taken a bold risk and crossed the gap. The motor-car was at a dead stop on the other side of the canal, and a baffled group of three surrounded it and called wild words to the man on the other side.

A loud laugh escaped Matt's lips and dwindled behind him in a mere wisp of sound. He was safe! Now his race was against time alone.

Fortunately there were few travelers on the Black CaÑon road. The traveling for that part of the day had mostly been done, and people from all the ranches were at the park. He had to slow down and turn out for a Mexican wood-hauler, and the few other people he passed gave him a wide berth and watched wonderingly as he whizzed by.

Alfalfa-fields sped past him, and the cottonwood-trees lining the roadside ditches trooped behind so quickly that they became a mere blur. The road was like asphalt and rubber tires never had better going.

Like a dart Matt hurled onward, minute after minute, ranch-houses doing strange dances as he met and left them. Before he fairly realized it he was turning into Grand Avenue and plunging along beside the street-car track. Into the Five Points he whirled, striking pavement that appreciably increased his gait. The stores seemed deserted, and only here and there could a man be seen on the streets. A yellow cur pranced yipping out at him, then whirled with his tail between his legs and ran howling from the monster that devoured distance with the combined speed of a dozen dogs.

Turning into Washington Street, Matt found himself with a straight-away stretch clear to the park. There was more travel here, for this was the main thoroughfare of the town. Every store and shop was dressed in bunting. Matt must have been recognized as he raced, for everything got out of his way, and more than one cheer went up as he flickered by.

In passing the Court House Plaza he caught the time from the face of the big clock. Six minutes of four! He opened her out a little more, and the Comet ate up the miles as she had not yet done. Mile-a-minute Matt! He was true to the name, now, and Phoenix had never been traversed from end to end as he was doing it.

Presently he was in the outskirts of the city, another minute and he was close to the park fence, another and he had slowed down for the wagon-gate. The man on duty there recognized him and leaped aside.

"Hoop-a-la!" roared the man, waving his hat. "In with you! Not a minute to spare."

Toward the race-course he guided the Comet. Everywhere the edge of the great oval was black with people. Like wild-fire the word traveled, "King is coming! Here comes King! Bully for King!"

Close to the dressing-rooms Matt pulled up. The major was there, Chub was there, Susie was there—and Perk. They knew he would arrive, and they had everything ready.

"Oh, you!" howled the delighted Chub, throwing his arms about Matt and pulling him out of the saddle. "King of the Motor Boys, that's what you are."

Susie grabbed him and, in her excitement, landed an ecstatic kiss on his dusty face.

"Motor Matt!" she cried, waving the high-school colors. "Now will Prescott High be good?"

"Shade o' Gallopin' Dick!" yelled Welcome, doing an odd war-dance on his wooden pin. "He's my pard, he is! Watch me soothe my turbulent soul with a grip o' his honest pa'm."

Matt was torn from the selfsame grip by Major Woolford.

"You're the boy!" said the major. "No time to lose, for the starter is calling the men for the race. Here's your wheel. No time to change your clothes, but you can peel off your coat. McReady, help with his shoes."

Matt threw off his cap and coat. Chub had unlaced one shoe and Susie the other. Matt kicked out of them and into lighter foot-gear. Then, with time for hardly a word, he grabbed the racing-wheel that was waiting for him, and made his way to the track.

"Matt King is entered to race for Phoenix in the one-heat one-mile bicycle contest," the starter was yelling through a megaphone. "As King is not here, and as, according to the rules, the race starts at four sharp, Phoenix substitutes her second choice, Dace——"

"King is here!"

It was the booming voice of Major Woolford, just crossing the track to take his place in the judges' stand.

Simultaneously with the words, Matt, in his nondescript racing-attire, made his way along the track toward the tape.

There followed a breathless pause. Although the word had gone around that King was coming, the Prescott rooters tried to treat it as a canard. They didn't want King.

Dace Perry, as Matt walked toward him, reeled back from his machine. His face went white as death, and a hopeless look arose in his eyes. Without a word he caught his machine by the handle-bars and made for the paddock. His thunderstruck adherents, Spangler, Drake and the others, were waiting to offer what consolation they could give.

Following the breathless pause, a veritable roar went up from the grand stand and all around the track. It was a Phoenix roar, of course, and it was Phoenix people who stood on their seats, threw up hats and shook canes and handkerchiefs. The high-school boys, clustered together, let loose with their triumphant yell. Colors were waved—Phoenix colors—and the flags of Prescott High were temporarily retired.

"King, King, King-King-King!" chanted Phoenix High, in unison.

"Oh, he ain't so much!" came a feeble wail through a megaphone. "Hold your shouting until after the race!"

"Drown him!" whooped Phoenix. "Send him to the asylum! Back, back to the padded cell!"

O'Day took Matt's sizing with a troubled eye, then clenched his teeth. He would do his best—but he had doubts. A half-confidence is worse than no confidence at all.

"Buck up, O'Day!" implored the Prescott rooters. "You can do the trick! Don't let him throw a scare into you. He's ridden twenty miles and he must be about all in!"

That last was the key-note. When O'Day heard it he brightened. Matt was in from a trying trip, just in, and he had to go the round on a pound of crackers and cheese! But Prescott didn't know him.

The two racers took their places, hugged by a couple of men at the saddles.

"All ready?" Bang!

Matt was hurled down the track. For the first time since he had left Clip and Penny his feet were busy, more than busy.