Originally published: Aug. 7, 1909
Genres: Adventure, Children's
Goodreads link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/200518717-motor-matt-on-the-wing-or-flying-for-fame-and-fortune
Gutenberg link: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/51127
Chapters: 16
Warning: This may include outdated and derogatory language and attitudes.
CHAPTER I
WANTED: A MAN OF NERVE
"Mr. Amos Murgatroyd?"
"My name."
Amos Murgatroyd whirled around in his office chair and measured his caller with a pair of little, gimlet eyes. The caller, at the same time, was measuring Murgatroyd.
The young man who had entered the musty office of the loan broker and was now undergoing his scrutiny stood straight as a plumb line, his shoulders squared, his lithe, well-set-up form "at attention." He wore a cap, and his clothes were of dark blue and of a semi-military cut.
He was prepossessing in appearance, which, most decidedly, the loan broker was not.
Murgatroyd's face was too lean and hard, his eyes too sharp and shifty, to give one a very exalted idea of his character.
The caller drew a folded newspaper from the breast pocket of his coat and laid it on the broker's desk.
"Are you the man who put that 'ad' in the paper?" inquired the youth.
Murgatroyd picked a pair of nose glasses off his vest, carefully adjusted them, and lifted the paper. The following marked paragraph riveted his attention:
Wanted: A man of nerve, one who has had some experience with flying machines and can handle a gasoline motor. To such a person a chance is offered to fly for fame and fortune in a new aëroplane. Sand and sagacity absolutely essential. Call on or address, A. Murgatroyd, Brown Block, Jamestown, North Dakota.
The broker dropped the paper, leaned back in his chair, and swept the glasses off his nose. Tapping the glasses against the knuckles of his left hand, he continued to regard the youth.
"Well?" he growled. "It's my 'ad.' What of it?"
"I've come several hundred miles to answer it in person."
"You? Why, I advertised for a man, not a boy."
"What difference does that make, so long as I can do the work?"
Amos Murgatroyd had no answer for this, and his remarks took another tack.
"Had any experience with aëroplanes?"
"No, but I have had a good deal to do with dirigible balloons. If you're hunting for a man who is experienced with aëroplanes, Mr. Murgatroyd, I guess you'll have to hunt for a long time. Heavier-than-air machines are only just beginning to come to the front, and the supply of experienced drivers is limited. It was the chance to familiarize myself with flying of that kind that brought me here."
Murgatroyd continued to tap reflectively with his glasses.
"Do you know that the man who invented the aëroplane fell with one of the machines and was killed?" he inquired.
"I heard that there had been an accident here, recently," was the answer.
"That was ten days ago, over in the park. The aëroplane turned turtle, dropped fifty feet, and Traquair was badly smashed. He lived about fifteen minutes and wasn't able to speak a word. The machine may be wrong in principle, I don't know that, but I've got to get some reliable person, who's not too much afraid of risking his neck, to learn the machine and then give an exhibition for the government, up at Fort Totten. The trial is set for two weeks from today. There's not much time, you see, to learn the ropes."
"I believe I could learn the ropes," said the other confidently. "I seem to have a knack for picking up such things."
"If anything happens to you, your relatives may come at me for damages."
"So far as I know, Mr. Murgatroyd, I haven't any relatives."
The beady, gimlet eyes gleamed with undisguised satisfaction.
"You will have to sign a paper," went on Murgatroyd, "releasing me from all responsibility, financial or otherwise, in case any accident happens."
"I'm willing," was the cool response. "It can't be that you have very much confidence in your aëroplane, Mr. Murgatroyd."
"Solid ground is good enough for me. If man was intended to fly he would have been born with wings. That's where I stand in this aëronautical game. Besides, Traquair invented the machine—I didn't, and the fact that Traquair was killed by his own invention doesn't give me superlative confidence in it."
The youth wondered why Murgatroyd was taking such an interest in a machine that did not command his confidence. The next moment the broker explained this point.
"Traquair owed me money, and the machine was the only thing belonging to him that I could get hold of. If the test at Fort Totten is satisfactory, the war department will buy the aëroplane at a good figure. This is the only way I can get back the loan, you see?"
"What are you willing to pay for the work you want done?"
The youth's tone was chilling and business-like. He was anything but favorably impressed with Murgatroyd.
"I won't pay a red cent," declared the broker. "I'll furnish the aëroplane, and you can use it for practice. If you please the war department, and they pay fifteen thousand for the machine, we'll split the amount even. That's fair enough. I won't be throwing good money after bad, and success or failure is put up to you."
"Is the machine you have the one that killed Traquair?"
Murgatroyd gave a choppy laugh.
"I should say not! There was nothing but kindling wood left of that machine. Traquair was intending to fly for the government, and he had a machine constructed especially for the purpose. It's in storage at Fort Totten now. The machine he was using here was the first one he built. By the way, young man, what's your name?"
"King, Matt King."
Murgatroyd gave a grunt of surprise, jammed his glasses on his nose, and stared at his caller with renewed interest; then, suddenly, he pressed a push button at the side of his desk.
A clerk appeared, a wizened, dried-up little man, who came in with a cringing air.
"Yes, Mr. Murgatroyd?"
"File 'K,' Prebbles. And dust it off. Why don't you go around this place with a duster, once in a while? The older you get, Prebbles, the less you seem to know."
The clerk winced. With a deferential bow, he turned and slunk out of the room. He returned in a few minutes, a duster in one hand and a battered letter file in the other. Murgatroyd took the file on his desk and sent Prebbles away with a curt gesture.
After a brief search through the file, the broker developed a number of newspaper clippings.
"That your picture?" he asked, holding up a clipping with an electrotype reproduction of the king of the motor boys at the top of it.
"It's supposed to be," smiled Matt, wondering why this close-fisted broker had gone to so much trouble to collect the clippings.
"You had a flying machine called the Hawk, quite a while ago, didn't you?" pursued Murgatroyd, studying the clippings.
"It was a dirigible balloon," explained Matt. "Correctly speaking, a flying machine is not a motor suspended from a gas bag."
"Quite right. I got these clippings from a clipping bureau in the East, and ever since I found this aëroplane on my hands I've been trying to locate you. Finally, I had to give up, and then it was that I put that 'ad' in the paper. And now, here you come answering the 'ad'! Looks like fate had something to do with this, eh?"
"Just a coincidence," answered Matt, "and not such a remarkable coincidence, either. If you knew me better, Mr. Murgatroyd, you'd understand how anxious I am to become familiar with every sort of machine propelled by a gasoline motor. It's the coming power"—Matt's gray eyes brightened enthusiastically—"and as motors are improved, and their weight reduced in direct ratio with the increase in the horsepower, the explosive engine will be used in ways as yet—"
"That's all right," cut in Murgatroyd, who was coldly commercial and as far removed from anything like enthusiasm as night is from day. "A gasoline engine is a noisy, dirty machine and smells to high heaven. But that's neither here nor there. Will you take hold of this aëroplane matter, learn how to run the Traquair invention, and then test it out at Fort Totten, two weeks from today?"
"I'll think it over," said Motor Matt.
He would not have taken a minute to consider the matter if he had been more favorably impressed with Murgatroyd.
"I can't wait very long for you to make up your mind," went the broker, visibly disappointed. "There's only two weeks between now and the Fort Totten trials."
"I'll give you an answer by tomorrow morning," and Matt turned toward the door.
"Fame and fortune are in your grasp," urged Murgatroyd. "Don't let 'em slide through your fingers."
Without answering, but nodding a good day to the broker, Matt stepped into the outer room.
As he passed through this other office, he saw Prebbles on a high stool, humped over a ledger. The clerk's eye shade and little bald head, and his thin, crooked body, gave him the grotesque appearance of a frog, roosting on a stone, and getting ready to jump.
Matt passed on into the hall. Before he could descend the stairs he heard a hissing sound behind him. Turning, he saw the clerk standing in the open door, touching his lips with a finger in token of silence.
Matt paused with his hand on the stair rail, and the clerk came gliding toward him.
"Don't have anythin' to do with him," said Prebbles, in a tremulous whisper; "he's a robber."
"Who's a robber?" returned Matt.
"Murgatroyd. He's a skinflint and hasn't any more heart than a stone. He's a robber, I tell you; and, anyhow, if you try to run that machine you'll get killed. Traquair got killed, and he invented it and knew more about it than you can ever learn. If—"
A buzzer began to sound its call in the outer office. Prebbles whirled and shuffled away. Pausing at the door, he turned to repeat, in a stage whisper:
"Leave him alone, I tell you. He's a robber, and you'll get killed."
Then Prebbles vanished, and Matt went thoughtfully down the stairs.
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