  MOTOR MATT, KING OF THE WHEEL! There have been walkaways and walkaways, but never before such a walkaway as King had over O'Day, the crack cyclist from Prescott. For Matt all that had gone before seemed only to have paved the way for the best that was in him. He was "on his toes" every second, and left O'Day at the quarter; at the half O'Day was twice the length of his wheel behind and pedaling like mad; at the three-quarters O'Day was hopelessly in the rear and working his feet in a mechanical way, merely as a matter of duty. Matt crossed the tape a winner by fifteen feet and Prescott put its head in its hands and groaned. Phoenix swarmed down from the grand stand and tumbled over fences all around the oval. The Phoenix high-school boys charged down upon the victor, yanked him off his machine, took him on their shoulders and galloped up and down the track. Prescott made up its mind it had better go home. The special train left at six, anyway, and the bicycle-race closed the list of events. Phoenix was a winner on points, although losing the one-mile sprint on account of the absence of Clipperton, one of the shorter dashes and the hammer-throw. Poor old Welcome, howling for joy, tried in vain to tear his way through the high-school crowd and get at Matt. Susie, her face glowing with happiness, watched the conquering hero as he was bounced and slammed about on the shoulders of Splinters and a few more of the seniors. The governor, forcing his way through the throng, reached up to grasp Matt's hand. "Well done!" cried the governor. "You're a marvel, King—not merely because you got the best of O'Day but on account of the way you got here from the Bluebell to do it." Matt flushed. His honors, falling thick upon him, were embarrassing, and he would rather have taken himself off to some quiet spot and clasped just a few friendly hands. "This is yours, King," called Major Woolford blithely, pointing to the Comet, now well groomed after her dusty trip, and sparkling like a brand-new dollar. "Will you ride it home or shall we send it?" "Send it, major!" cried Chub, "he's going home with us!" A little later Matt, finally tearing himself away from his adoring friends—and nearly every one seemed to be his friend now—got into a carryall with Chub, Susie and Welcome Perkins and was driven to the McReady home. While Susie was getting the meal ready, Matt sat in the place of honor and recounted all that had happened to him since he had left his friends on the preceding evening. Just as he finished, Tom Clipperton showed himself in the doorway. "Heard you were here, King," said he hesitatingly. "Penny and I rode in with a freighter. It was all over but the yelling by then. I'm mighty glad you won out." Clip would have turned away from the open door had Chub not jumped for him and dragged him inside. "No, you don't, Clip," said Chub. "We're going to have a feast here, and you're invited. Besides, I've got something to say to you. In the eyes of the McReady outfit, and of old Perk, the ex-heathen, you stand as high as Bunker Hill monument. Now, listen. I threw that rock down by the canal, and I threw it at Perry——" "I know," answered Clip. "Got it out of Drake." "Are we pards? If I've ever said anything you don't like, I ask your pardon. How's that? Shucks! I'm so Chub extended his hand, and Clipperton, with a slow, quiet smile rarely seen on his face, caught the same heartily. "I've been foolish," said Clip, shaking hands all around. "It takes experience to show us some things. I've had a heap of experience since last night. But I don't want to butt in. It's your supper-party——" "Get away if you can!" snorted Chub, "I——" The sounder in the corner began to click. Chub broke off abruptly and leaped for the machine. "Dry up, all of you!" he cried. "Delray's telling me something." "He must have fixed the machine, then," said Matt. "It went wrong a little just after we had got through with it at the Bluebell." "She's all right now, anyway. Listen to this: Delray wants to know if Matt got here in time for the race. Watch me knock the tar out of the ether in sending him the news!" Chub grabbed the key and rattled away at it until the spark-gap was fairly blue. "I reckon that will put him next," laughed Chub; "hear what he's sending now—it's just one word—'Hooray!'" A few minutes later a jolly party sat around the dining-table. Matt interrupted the flow of conversation to do a little justice to one who had not, as yet, been prominently mentioned. "I want to propose a toast," said he, "and we'll drink it in Adam's ale—standing, if you please." The party arose and picked up their water-glasses. "I give you Miss Susie McReady," said Matt, "without whose efficient aid I should never have been able to get here from the Bluebell or to meet O'Day!" "Hear, hear!" yelped Welcome Perkins, pounding with his wooden leg. Susie blushed crimson and sank into her chair. "Just a minute, before you sit down," said Chub. "Allow me to give you Tom Clipperton, who was jointly responsible with Miss McReady for the success of Motor Matt. Tom Clipperton, the fastest boy on the mile and the twenty miles in Phoenix High or any other school!" This was greeted with cheers and it could be seen that Clip was mightily pleased. A warm glow smoldered in his dark eyes. "Jest one more," piped Welcome, "an' keep on yer feet. I'm givin' ye ole Lucretia Borgia, who's more dangerous than what she looks—I mean, looks more dangerous than what she is. Lucretia Borgia, notches an' all, pards!" A roar of laughter greeted this toast. "Now, it's my turn," said Clip. "Take this one from me. I give you Matt King. A firm friend and a generous foe. Mile-a-minute Matt, King of the Motor Boys! Motor Matt, the best ever!" Bedlam was at once let loose, and Welcome Perkins made a noise like a menagerie at feeding-time. Matt, raising his hand, kept his friends on their feet. "I want to give you just one more, pards," said he, "and what Clip said about a 'generous foe' reminds me of the duty. I give you O'Day, Dace Perry, Ratty Spangler and Tubbits Drake. What's the use of holding any sort of a grouch at this joyous time? If they can't be friends of ours, let's treat them honestly as foes. Will you take them?" A scowl had leaped to Clipperton's face. The toast was intended for him, for his was a nature that rarely forgave an injury. Perry had gained his enmity and Matt was seeking to bridge the gulf to the extent of keeping Clip from taking the offensive and doing something he might be sorry for. "They say that Perry lost a pile of money backing O'Day," said Chub, breaking an embarrassing silence, "and that he's head over heels in debt to Hawley. This has been a rough day for Perry." "He brought it on himself," growled Clipperton. "He made a fool out of me. I owe him something. Man to man I want to pay the debt." "Will you drink the toast, Clip?" asked Matt, fixing his eyes on the shining orbs of the quarter-blood. "I—I wish I was more like you, King," faltered Clip. "O'Day, Perry, Spangler and Drake," went on Matt. "Will you take them, pards?" Every glass was lifted but Clipperton's. He continued to look at Matt, then slowly raised his glass to his lips. It was a trifling thing, perhaps, but for Tom Clipperton it meant much. THE END. The next number (2) will contain another rousing motor story, in which Matchless Matt and some of his friends figure, and a stirring drama is unfolded in a fashion to delight the reader. It will be entitled: MOTOR MATT'S DARING;
NEW YORK, February 27, 1909. TERMS TO MOTOR STORIES MAIL SUBSCRIBERS. (Postage Free.) Single Copies or Back Numbers, 5c. Each.
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