Motor Matt's Race; or, The Last Flight of the Comet

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.
MOTOR MATT'S RACE
OR,
THE LAST FLIGHT OF THE COMET .
By the author of MOTOR MATT.
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. Chub McReady , sometimes called plain Reddy, for short, on account of his fiery thatch —a chum of Matt, with a streak of genius for inventing things that often land the bold experimenter in trouble. Welcome Perkins , a one-legged wanderer who lives with Chub and his sister while their father prospects for gold—Welcome is really a man of peace, yet he delights to imagine himself a terror, and is forever boasting about being a reformed road-agent. Tom Clipperton , known generally as Clip, a quarter-blood, who is very sensitive about his Indian ancestry. McKibben , the sheriff who has both nerve and intelligence. Fresnay , a cowboy who performs some mighty queer stunts. Pima Pete , an Indian to whom Clip is related. Hogan , Leffingwell , } two deputy sheriffs. Short , a lawyer. Burke , sheriff of an adjoining county. Jack Moody , an engineer friend of Chub.
TROUBLE ON THE ROAD.
Ye're afeared! Yah, that's what ye are! Motor Matt's scared, an' I never thought ye was afeared o' nothin'. Go ahead! I dare ye!
An automobile—a high-powered roadster—was nosing along through the hills a dozen miles out of the city of Phœnix. The vehicle had the usual two seats in front and a rumble-seat behind—places for three, but there were four piled aboard.
Matt King was in the driver's seat, of course, and equally, of course, he had to have the whole seat to himself. On his left were Chub McReady and Tom Clipperton, sitting sideways and wedged into their places like sardines in a can. In the rumble behind was the gentleman with the wooden leg—Welcome Perkins, the reformed road-agent.