Motor Matt on the Wing; or, Flying for Fame and Fortune

by Stanley R. Matthews

  CHAPTER II.

  FOILING A SCOUNDREL.

  Near Jamestown the "Jim" River forms a loop, encircling a generousstretch of timber. Wherever there is timber, in any prairie country,there is an invitation for men to make a park; so the groundencompassed by this loop of the river was beautified and obtained thename of "City Park."

  After leaving the broker's office, Matt started for the park. In theoutskirts of town he met a youngster walking in the direction of theriver, with a fishpole over his shoulder.

  "Hello," said Matt.

  "Hello yourself," answered the boy.

  "Do you know where Mr. Traquair lost his life in that flying machine?"

  "I guess yuh don't live in Jimtown, do yuh?" returned the boy."Everybody around here knows where _that_ happened."

  "No," said Matt, "I only reached Jamestown last night."

  "Well, the' was a hull crowd o' us seen Traquair when his flyin'machine flopped over. He come down like a piece o' lead, all mixed upwith ropes, an' canvas, an' things. Gee, but that was a smash. I wasone o' the kids that went to tell Mrs. Traquair. She was allers afearedTraquair 'u'd git a drop, so she never went to see him do his flyin',an' she never let any o' the kids go, nuther. I wisht I hadn't gone.Say, I dream about that there accident 'most ev'ry night, an' it skeersme stiff."

  "I'll give you half a dollar," went on Matt, "if you'll take me to thescene of the accident. Will you?"

  "You've bought somethin', mister," grinned the boy. "I was goin'fishin', but I'd pass up a circus if some un offered me half a dollar."

  They pushed on toward the park.

  "Fellers that try to fly ain't got as much sense as the law allows, Iguess," remarked the boy. "Ever'body said Traquair 'u'd break his neck,an' that's what happened."

  "What kind of a machine did he have?" queried Matt.

  "Doggone if I know. It had wings, an' machinery, an' a thing thatwhirled behind, an' three bicycle wheels, an' rudders, an' I dunnowhat-all."

  "What were the bicycle wheels for?" asked Matt, interested.

  "Traquair had to take a runnin' start afore he got wind enough underhis wings to lift him. When the wheels begun to leave ground, he turnedthe power onto the whirlin' thing behind, an' that made him scoot upinto the air; then, somehow, he folded the bicycle wheels up under themachine."

  "Did Traquair ever do much flying?"

  "Did he? Well, I guess! The day before he got killed he was in the airas much as two hours, twistin' an' turnin' an' floppin' ev'ry whichway, jest like a big chicken hawk. The' wasn't much wind, that time,an' people say that's how he was able to keep right side up. The day hedropped, the wind was purty middlin' strong from the west."

  "How did the accident happen?"

  "That's more'n anybody knows. Traquair was skimmin' over the tops o'the trees, an' a big crowd was down on the ground lookin' at him; then,all to oncet the' was a snap, like somethin' had busted. The windgrabbed holt o' them canvas wings an' slammed it plumb over, the hullbizness droppin' so quick we hadn't much more'n time to git out o' theway."

  By this time Matt and the boy had reached a cleared space among thetrees. In the middle of it was a level, grassless stretch, almost ashard as a board floor.

  "There, mister," said the boy, pointing, "is where Traquair used tostart. He'd git his bicycle wheels to whirlin' at one end o' thattennis ground, an' when he reached t'other end o' it he was in the air.He was comin' back to the startin' place when he dropped. Here's theplace."

  The boy stepped off to the left and pointed to a spot where the earthwas grewsomely gouged and torn.

  "Traquair was crazy," observed the boy, as Matt stepped toward thebruised turf, and stood there reflectively. "Ev'rybody says his flyin'machine was a fool killer."

  "Traquair was a great man, my lad," answered Matt, "and a martyr toscience. He gave up his life trying to help the human race conquer theair. Don't call him crazy."

  "Gee, mister," scoffed the boy, "he'd better have helped his folks'stead o' givin' so much time to the human race. Mrs. Traquair had totake in washin' to keep the fambly in grub."

  Matt kicked up a twisted bolt.

  "That's a momentum," said the boy.

  "I guess you mean memento," laughed Matt, tossing the bolt away.

  "Mebby it's that where you come from," persisted the boy doggedly, "butit's momentum out here in Dakoty. Things is diff'rent in the Northwestto what they is in the East."

  "Where does Mrs. Traquair live?" asked Matt.

  "What hotel yuh stoppin' to, mister?"

  "Gladstone House."

  "Then you can pass Mrs. Traquair's shack right on the way back to thehotel," and the boy proceeded to give Matt minute instructions as tothe way he should go in order to reach the house.

  Matt flipped a silver coin to the youngster, and turned and startedback toward the town. The boy pushed the coin into his pocket and wentwhistling in the direction of the river.

  Several things were drawing Motor Matt in the direction of the Traquairhome. Mainly, he distrusted Murgatroyd, and thought that perhaps Mrs.Traquair might be able to tell him something about the man. Then, too,Matt was anxious to learn what he could about the Traquair a?roplane,and felt sure there were papers containing drawings or descriptions atthe house which would give a tolerably clear idea of the machine.

  The Traquair home was in a squalid neighborhood. Most of the houseswere tumbledown structures with windows ornamented with old garmentswherever a pane of glass happened to be missing. But, despite itsunpainted walls and sagging roof, the Traquair house had about it anair of neatness that distinguished it from its neighbors. There was norubbish in the front yard, and two pieces of broken sewer pipe, set onend near the gate, had been filled with earth and were blooming withflowers.

  In the rear were two long lines of drying clothes. A pang of pity wentto Matt's heart. No matter how heavily the hand of grief had fallen onMrs. Traquair, she could not neglect the toil necessary to supply theneeds of herself and of her fatherless children.

  Three youngsters--a boy and two girls, the boy being the oldest andnot over six--stood in a frightened huddle on the front walk, near thegate. The smaller of the two girls was crying.

  "What's the matter?" asked Matt, halting beside the forlorn littlegroup.

  "We're 'fraid to go in the house," answered the boy, looking up at Matt.

  "Do you live there?"

  "Yes'r, but we're 'fraid. He's in there with mom, an' he's talkin' likehe was mad."

  "Who are you?"

  "Teddy Traquair. I'm six, an' sis, here, is risin' five. Mary Jane'sonly three."

  "Who's talking with your mother, Ted?"

  "Murg. I hate him, he's so mean to mom. He was mean to pap, too. Butpap's dead--he got kilt when the flyin' machine dropped."

  There was a pathetic side to this for a lad with a heart as soft asMatt's, but just then he had no time for that phase of the matter.The windows of the front room of the house were open, and coveredwith mosquito net. Voices could be heard coming from the front room--awoman's voice, tearful and full of entreaty, and a man's sharp,clean-cut, and almost brutal.

  Quietly Matt passed through the gate and took up his post near one ofthe windows.

  "You sign this paper," Murgatroyd was saying, "and I'll give you areceipt for two years' interest. What more do you expect?"

  "I can't sign away all my rights to my husband's invention, Mr.Murgatroyd!" a woman's voice answered. "The interest for two yearsis only three hundred dollars, and that machine he sent to FortTotten cost nearly a thousand dollars to build. It isn't right, Mr.Murgatroyd, for you to take the machine the government is thinking ofbuying, and all my interest in poor Harry's invention, for just threehundred dollars."

  "Oh, you know a heap about business, you do, don't you?" snarledMurgatroyd. "What good's the flying machine, anyway? It killed yourhusband, and it's likely to kill anybody else that tries to run it.By taking over the invention, I feel as though I was loading up witha white elephant, but I've got a chanc
e to get a young fellow to tryand fly in that a?roplane at Fort Totten. I'll have to pay him a lotof money to do it, and before I make an arrangement with him I've gotto have your name down in black and white to this paper. Do you thinkfor a minute I'm going to spend my good money, paying this young fellowtwo or three thousand dollars to risk his neck in that machine, whenI haven't got any writing from you to protect me? Sign this paper. Ifyou don't, I'll come here and take everything you've got in the houseto pay that hundred and fifty, interest. Don't whine around about it,because it won't do any good. If you want to keep a roof over yourhead, you do what I say--and do it quick."

  It would be impossible to describe the harsh brutality of the loanbroker's words. The ruffianly bullyragging was apparent to Matt, eventhough he could not see what was taking place in the room, and hisblood began to boil.

  "I can't do what you ask, Mr. Murgatroyd," said the woman brokenly."When the two years had passed, you'd have the homestead, and theinvention, and everything I've got. My duty to my children----"

  A savage exclamation came to Matt's ears, followed by a cry from thewoman and the clatter of an overturned chair. Prebbles had said thatMurgatroyd was a robber. Matt, of course, could not understand all theins and outs of the present situation, but he understood enough to knowthat the broker was seeking to browbeat a defenseless woman, and tointimidate her into signing away rights which meant much to her and herchildren.

  Without a moment's hesitation, the king of the motor boys leapedthrough the window--with more or less damage to the mosquito netting.