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  MOTOR STORIES

  THRILLING
  ADVENTURE

  MOTOR
  FICTION

  NO. 10
  MAY 1, 1909

  FIVE
  CENTS

  MOTOR MATT'S
  HARD LUCK
  OR THE BALLOON
  HOUSE PLOT

  [Illustration: "This way, Dick" yelled Motor Matt
  as he struck down one of the
  ruffians.]

  STREET & SMITH
  PUBLISHERS
  NEW YORK




MOTOR STORIES

THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION

_Issued Weekly. By subscription $2.50 per year. Entered according to
Act of Congress in the year 1909, in the Office of the Librarian of
Congress, Washington, D. C., by_ STREET & SMITH, _79-89 Seventh Avenue,
New York, N. Y._

  No. 10.      NEW YORK, May 1, 1909.      Price Five Cents.


Motor Matt's Hard Luck

OR,

THE BALLOON-HOUSE PLOT.

By the author of "MOTOR MATT."




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER I. AN OLD FRIEND.
  CHAPTER II. A TRAP.
  CHAPTER III. OVERBOARD.
  CHAPTER IV. RESCUED.
  CHAPTER V. BUYING THE "HAWK."
  CHAPTER VI. MATT SCORES AGAINST JAMESON.
  CHAPTER VII. AT THE BALLOON HOUSE.
  CHAPTER VIII. THE PLOT OF THE BRADY GANG.
  CHAPTER IX. CARL IS SURPRISED.
  CHAPTER X. HELEN BRADY'S CLUE.
  CHAPTER XI. JERROLD GIVES HIS AID.
  CHAPTER XII. GRAND HAVEN.
  CHAPTER XIII. THE LINE ON BRADY.
  CHAPTER XIV. THE WOODS BY THE RIVER.
  CHAPTER XV. BRADY A PRISONER.
  CHAPTER XVI. BACK IN SOUTH CHICAGO.
  THE RED SPIDER.
  PIGEON-WHISTLE CONCERTS.




CHARACTERS THAT APPEAR IN THIS STORY.


  =Matt King=, concerning whom there has always been a mystery--a lad
  of splendid athletic abilities, and never-failing nerve, who has won
  for himself, among the boys of the Western town, the popular name of
  "Mile-a-minute Matt."

  =Carl Pretzel=, a cheerful and rollicking German lad, who is led by a
  fortunate accident to hook up with Motor Matt in double harness.

  =Dick Ferral=, a Canadian boy and a favorite of Uncle Jack; has
  served his time in the King's navy, and bobs up in New Mexico where
  he falls into plots and counter-plots, and comes near losing his life.

  =Helen Brady=, Hector Brady's daughter, who helps Motor Matt.

  =Hector Brady=, a rival inventor who has stolen his ideas from
  Hamilton Jerrold. His air ship is called the Hawk and is used for
  criminal purposes. Brady's attempt to secure Motor Matt's services as
  driver of the Hawk brings about the undoing of the criminal gang.

  =Hamilton Jerrold=, an honest inventor who has devoted his life to
  aëronautics, and who has built a successful air ship called the Eagle.

  =Jameson=, a rich member of the Aëro Club, who thinks of buying the
  Hawk.

  =Whipple=, =Pete=, =Grove=, =Harper=, members of Brady's gang who
  carried out the "balloon-house plot," which nearly resulted in a
  tragedy, and finally proved the complete undoing of Hector Brady.

  =Ochiltree=, an ex-convict whose past record nearly got him into
  trouble.

  =Harris=, a policeman of South Chicago who aids Motor Matt in his
  work against the Bradys.

  =Dennison and Twitchell=, police officers of Grand Haven, Michigan,
  who take a part in the final capture of Brady.




CHAPTER I.

AN OLD FRIEND.


"Py chimineddy!" muttered Carl Pretzel to himself, starting up on the
couch, where he had been snatching forty winks by way of passing the
time. "Vat's dot? Der voice has some familiar sounds mit me. Lisden
vonce."

A loud, jovial voice floated in through the open window, a voice with a
swing to it that set Carl's nerves in a flutter.

        "'In Cawsand bay lying,
        And a Blue Peter flying,
    All hands were turned up the anchor to weigh,
        There came a young lady,
        As fair as a May-day,
    And modestly hailing, the damsel did say:

        "'"I've got a young man there,
        D'ye hear? Bear a hand there
    To hoist me aboard or to bring him to me:
        Which his name's Henry Grady,
        And I am a lady,
    Just come down to purwent his a-going to sea."'"

The roaring song had come closer and closer. By then it was almost
under the open window. Jumping from the couch, Carl ran across the room
and looked out.

A youth of seventeen or eighteen, wearing a sailor rig and with his hat
cocked over one eye, was lurching along with both hands in his pockets.
Behind him trailed four or five hoodlums, bunched close together and
talking among themselves.

"Here's where I quit you, you lubbers," said the young sailor, halting
at the steps leading up to the boarding-house door, and turning to the
hoodlums. "A messmate of mine berths here, and I'm going to drop in on
him and have a bit of a chat over old times. 'Bout ship, the lot of
you, and make a good offing. I don't like the cut of your jibs any too
well, anyhow. Slant away, slant away."

The sailor backed up against a post at the bottom of the steps.

"Say, yous ole webfoot," said one of the hoodlums, "loosen up, can't
yous, an' fork over the price o' a drink, all around?"

The fellow shambled closer to the sailor and held out one hand with an
expectant grin.

"Not a bob will I give you for a tot of drink," answered the sailor,
"for I'll be keelhauled if you don't look as though you'd already been
topping the boom too much for your own good, but I'll loosen up, as you
call it, for a good meal all around."

His hand went into the pocket of his trousers and he drew out a big
roll of bills. A greedy gleam darted into the hoodlum's eyes as he
glimpsed the bundle of money, and those at his back pushed closer
together, nudging each other in the ribs and pointing while the
sailor's head was bent.

Suddenly the rascal who had acted as spokesman for the rest made a leap
and a grab.

"Avast there, you loafing longshore scuttler!" yelled the young tar.
"What sort of a beachcomber's trick do you call that?"

The hoodlum had whirled, the roll in his hands, and was making off as
fast as his legs could carry him. The sailor sprang after him, but
the rest of the thieving pack jumped in his way and began using their
fists, hoping to give their pal the necessary time to get clear with
the money.

Carl Pretzel, with an angry shout, withdrew from the open window,
dashed from the room, down the stairs and out at the front door.
Without paying any attention to the sailor and those with whom he was
tussling, the Dutch boy rushed past the struggling group and made a bee
line after the thief.

Carl was too fat for a swift sprinter, but the thieving hoodlum was
handicapped by a game leg, and Carl was able to overhaul him slowly.

Looking over his shoulder in order to take in the situation behind,
the thief saw the Dutch boy, and redoubled his efforts to get away. An
alley lay just ahead, and the thief turned into it. Carl plunged after
him, but when he got into the alley, the fellow with the money had
mysteriously vanished.

"Dot's a funny t'ing!" panted Carl, coming to a halt and peering
around. "Vere dit he go mit himseluf?"

Garbage barrels and boxes lined the alley on both sides. Carl started
onward again, peering sharply behind each garbage receptacle as he
advanced. Suddenly he discovered the man he was looking for, crouching
behind a big box.

Carl was a little way beyond the box before he caught sight of the
thief.

"Dere you vas!" he yelled, as he faced about. "Now I ged you, und I
dake avay vat you got--yah, so helup me!"

He rushed at the thief, and the latter got up, squirmed around the end
of the box, and leaped for the side of a shed whose wall stood flush
with the alley.

The shed had a square opening, about four feet from the ground, for
convenience in unloading wood. The thief had his eye on the opening. If
he could get into the shed, he probably reasoned, he could run through
into the back yard of the house, gain the street in front, and so,
undoubtedly, evade his fat pursuer.

But he didn't make it. By the time he was half through the opening,
Carl was close enough to grab his thrashing feet, and he hung onto them
like grim death.

"How you like dot, hey?" jubilated the Dutch boy. "You findt oudt, py
shimmy, dot it don'd vas so easy to ged avay mit money dot don'd pelong
mit you. Oof you shkin oudt, you leaf your feet pehind, und oof you
don't come pack indo der alley, den I pull you in two. How vas dot for
some fixes?"

"Wot's de matter wit' yous?" came the angry, muffled voice from inside
the shed. "Le'go 'r I'll kick a hole in your face!"

"You vill I don'd t'ink," puffed Carl, still hanging to the feet. "Gif
oop der money, you dinhorn, oder I turn you ofer py der bolice und you
go to der lockoop."

The hoodlum made no move to return the money, but continued to struggle
wildly. With a firm hold on each ankle, Carl laid back and pulled for
all he was worth; but the thief had caught hold of something inside and
all Carl's pulling didn't get him an inch toward the alley.

While the whole matter was at a deadlock, the thief half in half out of
the shed, and Carl tugging fruitlessly, the young sailor appeared at
the end of the alley. Taking quick note of the situation at the shed,
he gave a yell and bore down in that direction.

"Well, strike me lucky, old ship," cried the young tar, "this is my
busy day and no mistake. Is that the duffing son of a flounder that got
away with my wad?"

"He iss der feller, Verral," panted Carl. "He don'd vant to come out
oof der vood shet."

"Hang onto his pins, matey," was the answer, "and I'll fix him."

The sailor pushed his hands through the hole, grabbed the hoodlum by
the throat, and exerted a steady pressure.

This manoeuvre was successful. Half strangled, the thief's clutching
fingers relaxed their hold, and the sailor and Carl, between them,
managed to drag him back into the alley.

"Now, you pirate," cried the sailor, dropping down on the captive,
"where's that money? That was a raw play you made and you might have
pulled it off if it hadn't been for my mate, here. D'you want to go
below, in irons? Where's the roll?"

"Look in his bocket