Originally published: Aug. 21, 1909
Genres: Adventure, Children's
Goodreads link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/200518540-motor-matt-s-make-and-break-or-advancing-the-spark-of-friendship
Gutenberg link: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/52025
Chapters: 16
Warning: This may include outdated and derogatory language and attitudes.
CHAPTER I
THE SKELETON IN THE CLOSET
"Where's the old man, Prebbles?"
"Don't ask me, Jim. I haven't a notion."
"Well, there's a letter for him."
The postman dropped a letter on the desk in front of the little old man on the high stool, and the door slammed. Prebbles picked up the letter and blinked at it. For a while he sat staring like a person in a dream, then a gasp escaped his lips, and he slipped from the stool and carried the letter closer to the window.
It was almost sunset, and a neighboring building shut off the light, but there, close to the dusty window pane, the light was good enough. The letter dropped from Prebbles' shaking hand, and he fell back against the wall.
"It's from him," the old man mumbled; "it's—it's—"
The words died on his lips, and a choking gurgle arose in his throat. Trembling like a man with the palsy, Prebbles pulled himself together and staggered to the water cooler. He drew himself a glass, and the tumbler rattled against his teeth as he drank.
"This won't do," he said to himself, drawing a hand across his forehead in a dazed and bewildered way. "I've got to brace up, that's what I have. But what's Newt writing to him for? I—I can't understand that."
Prebbles went back and picked up the letter. He was still greatly shaken, although he was getting firmer hold of himself by swift degrees.
It was a very ordinary appearing letter to have aroused such an extraordinary state of mind in the old man. The address, in a peculiar backhand, was to "Mr. Amos Murgatroyd, Loan Broker, Jamestown, North Dakota."
Prebbles was Murgatroyd's clerk, and the only clerk in the loan office. For several weeks Murgatroyd had not been in Jamestown, and the work of the office—what little there was—fell to Prebbles.
During those weeks of absence, the broker had been doing unlawful things. Prebbles, knowing his employer well, expected nothing better of him; but just what Murgatroyd had been doing, the old clerk did not know.
Strange men, who might be detectives in disguise, were watching the office night and day. Prebbles had been keen enough to discover that.
It was the peculiar handwriting of the letter that had had such a powerful effect upon the old clerk. Not one man in a thousand, perhaps in ten thousand, used a pen as the writer of that letter to the broker had used it. Prebbles felt sure that he could not be mistaken—that there was not the least possibility of a mistake. He knew who the writer of the letter was, and for weeks the old man's dream by day and night was that he could discover the whereabouts of the man.
The envelope was postmarked at Steele, N. D. The writer might be there, or he might not be there. After setting hand to the letter, it was more than possible he had mailed the letter at Steele and then gone to some other place.
There was one way to make sure—and only one: In order to find out positively where the writer of the letter was, Prebbles would have to open it and read it. Although a clerk in the office, his position did not give him the right to open his employer's personal mail; in fact, Murgatroyd had expressly forbidden this.
The letters received during Murgatroyd's absence—and they were but few—had been placed in the office safe. A week before, the collected letters had mysteriously vanished during the night, and in their place was left this scribbled line:
"Dropped in and got my mail. Say nothing to any one about my having been here. A. M."
That was all, absolutely all, Prebbles had learned of his employer since he had left Jamestown several weeks before. Only two or three letters had collected in the safe since the others had been taken, and now this one from Steele must be added to them, unless—
Prebbles caught up a pair of scissors. Before he could snip off the end of the envelope, he paused. To deliberately open a letter addressed to someone else is a crime which, if brought to the attention of the postal authorities, is heavily punished. Prebbles was not afraid of the punishment, for he believed that Murgatroyd himself was a fugitive; still, it was well to be wary.
Laying down the scissors, he ran the end of a pen holder under the flap. But again he paused, realizing, with a tremor, that he belonged to the army, the Salvation Army. As a soldier in the ranks, had he the right to take advantage of his employer? On the streets, Prebbles, because of his earnestness in the army work, was known as "Old Hallelujah." Poor business, this, for Old Hallelujah to rifle his employer's mail!
With a groan, Prebbles pushed the letter aside and dropped his face in his hands. While he was thus humped over his desk, a picture of distress and misery, the door opened and a boy came in with a telegram. The message was for Prebbles, and he signed the receipt. As soon as the boy had left, he tore the message open.
"Forward mail at once to George Hobbes, Bismarck. "Hobbes."
This was from Murgatroyd, and it was not the first time he had used the name of "George Hobbes."
Was Prebbles to send that letter on without first seeing what was inside it? Duty to his employer and duty to himself warred in his soul.
That last letter received for Murgatroyd might have been taken to the police. They could secure authority from Washington to open it. But, if the letter came from the person Prebbles suspected, he did not want the police to see it.
The six o'clock whistle blew, but Prebbles paid no attention. He was fighting with his Salvation Army principles, and the stake was the contents of that letter to Murgatroyd.
At seven o'clock, the haggard old man, the battle still going on in his breast, pushed the letter into his pocket and left the office, locking the door behind him. He did not go to the cheap eating house where he usually took his meals—there was no supper for him that night—but he proceeded directly to the "barracks," got into his dingy blue cap and coat, and took his cymbals. By eight, a dozen of the "faithful" were in the street, their torches flaring smokily, and the bass drum, the snare drum, the cymbals, and the tambourine whanging and clashing and rattling a quickstep.
Back and forth they marched, then rounded up on a corner and sang one of their army songs.
Old Hallelujah was particularly earnest, that night. His voice was loudest in the singing, and his exhorting was done with a fine fervor. His thin, crooked body straightened, and his eyes gleamed, and he struck the cymbals with unusual vigor.
"Ole Halleluyer is gittin' young ag'in," ran the comment of more than one bystander.
"If he's so pious," observed someone, "it's a wonder he don't break away from that ole thief, Murgatroyd."
It was a wonder and no mistake. But the wonder was soon to cease.
At ten o'clock Prebbles and the rest were back in the barracks; and at ten-thirty Prebbles was in his five-by-ten little hall bedroom, calmly steaming open the letter to Murgatroyd. He had finished the fight and had nerved himself for his first false step. But was it a false step? He had come to the conclusion that the end justified the means.
The letter, carefully written, jumped immediately into the business the writer of it had in mind.
"I must have more money or I shall tell all I know about you and the accident to Traquair and his aëroplane. I can't live on promises, and I'm not going to make a fugitive out of myself any longer just to shield you. You're a fugitive yourself, now, but I reckon you can dig up enough money for both of us. I have dropped down the line of the Northern Pacific to mail this letter; as soon as it is in the office, I'm going back to my headquarters at the mouth of Burnt Creek, on the Missouri, ten miles above Bismarck. You'd better meet me there at once, as it's the safest place you can find. I suppose you've made arrangements to have your mail forwarded, so I'm sending this to your office. Bring plenty of money. Newt Prebbles."
For many a weary hour, the old man paced the narrow confines of his room, reading the letter again and again and turning the contents over and over in his mind.
"The boy don't care for me, he's mad at me," muttered Prebbles wearily, "but if I can make up with him, maybe he can be saved. What's this about the accident with Traquair? What does Newt know about Murgatroyd? No matter what happens, I've got to get the boy out of Murgatroyd's clutches. If Newt stays with him, he'll be as bad as he is."
It was after midnight when Prebbles dropped weakly into a chair.
"Motor Matt will help me," he muttered.
The thought had come to him like a flash of inspiration. And another inspiration had come to him, as well. He made a copy of the letter, then placed the original in its envelope, carefully resealed it, and went to the broker's office. To take the collected letters from the safe, place them and the one from Steele in a large envelope, and address the envelope to "Mr. George Hobbes, General Delivery, Bismarck, N. D.," consumed only a few minutes.
"Motor Matt will know how to do the rest of it," thought the old clerk. "He's a clever lad, and he helps people. He helped Mrs. Traquair and he'll help Prebbles. I'm done with this office for good, and I'm glad of it."
He looked around the room with a grim laugh.
"I never thought I'd be pulling the pin on myself," he said aloud. "Maybe it's the poorhouse for mine, but I'll be glad to starve if I can make up with Newt and save him from that robber, Murgatroyd."
He turned off the light and closed and locked the office door. An hour later he had dropped the long envelope into a letter box and was back in his room. At seven in the morning, he had boarded the northbound train for Minnewaukon and Devil's Lake. Motor Matt was at Fort Totten, on the south shore of the lake, and Prebbles would be at the fort in the afternoon.
The king of the motor boys was the old man's hope. Prebbles knew Matt and had abundant faith in his ability to accomplish seemingly impossible things.
"He'll help me," murmured Prebbles, leaning back in one corner of the seat; "he helped Mrs. Traquair, and he'll help me."
Comentários