CHAPTER XVI. A CLOSE SHAVE.

Motor Matt and Joe McGlory reached Fall River in the afternoon. They had planned to catch one of the night boats for New York, and there was an hour or two at their disposal. They put in the time to good advantage buying clothes. Mr. Jacobs, the man from Leeville, was familiar with the town and, before going to his daughter’s, was glad to show the boys around and give them all the aid he could.

When he left Matt and McGlory, the lads were completely equipped in new “hand-me-downs,” and feeling more like themselves.

There was a little fear, on their part, that Bill Hawkins might have used the telegraph lines and that they would have trouble in Fall River. But the trouble did not materialize.

“We’re jail-breakers, all right,” laughed McGlory, when they were safely in their stateroom aboard the sound steamer, “but Constable Bill, I reckon, has found out something about Miles and Barney that keeps him from running out our trail.”

“Hawkins and his friend Hiram,” said Matt, “have discovered that they’ve made a mistake. I don’t see how they could have learned this from Miles or Barney, though, and I’m rather inclined to think that the justice of the peace got back from his fishing trip and said a few words in our behalf.”

“What’s the difference, pard, so long as we’re at large? We’ve lost two suits of clothes and collided with a lot of hard knocks, but we got that telegram off.”

“Also,” laughed Matt, “we’ve spoiled a pair of nice iron gates, destroyed some Higbee china, and played hob with one of the finest motor cars I ever handled. I guess the damage isn’t all on one side.”

“I’ll be ‘completely satisfied,’ as Tibbits remarked, when I learn that the bullion has been saved.”

“We’ll discover that to-morrow.”

The motor boys slept their way down the sound, and reached New York early enough to go to their hotel and have breakfast before the bank opened. Immediately after breakfast they took an elevated train for downtown.

“I’ve connected with a good lesson, pard, during this taxicab tangle,” remarked McGlory.

The cowboy was constantly thinking of various matters connected with recent experiences, and entering them on the profit side of his personal account.

“What’s this one, Joe?” asked Matt.

“Never to read an important letter aloud in a public place. That’s the thing that got us into this mix with Tibbits. He happened to be in this hotel, and he happened to hear the letter. After that--well, I reckon the memory of what happened is still pretty green.”

It was with some trepidation that the boys entered the Merchants’ & Miners’ Bank and made their way to the cashier’s desk.

“What can I do for you?”

It was the same brusque query which the cashier put so many times a day that its use had become a habit.

“You can do a whole lot for me, _amigo_,” said McGlory. “Principally, though, I’m pining to learn whether two gold bars from Tucson, Arizona, are still in your strong box.”

The cashier was interested at once.

“Why do you ask?” he inquired, leaning back in his chair and studying the faces of the boys.

He was a proficient reader of character; as a matter of fact, he had to be. The ability to take a man’s sizing at a glance had saved him from many a pitfall.

“Now you’re hitting me right at home,” said the cowboy. “If that gold is here, I’m the happiest maverick that ever strayed from the Southwest; if it’s not here, I’m due to get unpleasant tidings from the colonel. You see, _amigo_, I’m the easy mark they call Joe McGlory.”

A slow smile was working its way over the cashier’s face. There was something open and free about Joe McGlory--too free, at times, those who did not know him might have been tempted to think.

“You don’t look much like the Joe McGlory who came here yesterday,” remarked the cashier casually.

The cowboy lopped down on the railing.

“I’m going to ask for a hot flat and a cup of ginger tea in a minute,” he murmured dejectedly. “Friend, was there a yellow-haired stranger here yesterday, in my clothes?”

“Such a person called. Whether he wore your clothes, or not, of course I can’t say.”

“Woosh! Johnny Hardluck is getting ready to hand me one. Stand close, Matt. I’m going to need you, I reckon. Yes, _amigo_, they were my clothes. Did she give you an order from the colonel for the bullion?”

“She?” echoed the cashier, lifting his brows.

“Of course you couldn’t know that,” said McGlory, “but the fellow who claimed to be me was a _moharrie_. She gave you the colonel’s order and you handed her the gold?”

“No. I had her sign a receipt and was just about to send for the gold when a telegram arrived. I had----”

“Then--then----”

“Just a minute, please. I had the young woman step into my private room, and instead of sending for the gold I sent for the bank policeman. When he went into the room to arrest the girl, she had vanished. Something, I suppose, had aroused her suspicions. At any rate, she slipped from a window and made good her escape. I’m very sorry it happened. It is a blow at law and order for such a would-be criminal to get away.”

The cowboy stared; then a glow overspread his face, and he grabbed for the cashier’s hand.

“Sorry!” he exclaimed. “Why, pard, this isn’t a time to be sorry about anything! You’ve still got the colonel’s gold in your safe, and I’m the happiest stray in all New York! You hear that, Matt?” and he whirled and caught his chum by both hands. “It was a close shave, but that message of ours did the trick! The gold’s here, and Tibbits has been done--done to a turn! If there weren’t so many people around, I’d yell.”

“You say you’re Joe McGlory?” said the cashier casually, “but I’m from Missouri--after what happened yesterday. You haven’t the colonel’s order, and even that isn’t a safe means of identification. How are you going to prove you’re Joe McGlory?”

“My pard, Motor Matt, will go on record. Matt, am I McGlory, Joseph Easy-mark McGlory?”

“You’re Joe McGlory, all right,” laughed Matt.

“That’s good, as far as it goes,” said the cashier, “but who’s to vouch for Motor Matt?”

“That’s me, pard,” bubbled McGlory. “We vouch for each other.”

The cashier joined in the merriment of the motor boys.

“You’re a team,” said the cashier.

“A whole team and something to spare,” chuckled the cowboy. “Honest, I’m feeling so good over that bullion that I’m nearly locoed.”

“This will help to identify us,” said Matt.

He took from his pocket the letter McGlory had received from the colonel. The conductor, when sending the telegram from Stoughton, had had the message copied on a telegraph blank and had returned the letter to Matt.

The cashier read the letter carefully.

“This also is good--as far as it goes,” he remarked. “The order for the bullion came with this?”

“Yes.”

“And you lads sent me a telegram yesterday?”

“You can bet your roll-top desk against a copper cent we did. If you knew how we had to work to get that telegram off to you, you’d rather think we sent it.”

This, of course, was from the cowboy.

“Where was the message sent from?”

“From Stoughton, Massachusetts. Turn that letter over, neighbor, and you’ll find a copy of the message on the back of it.”

The cashier read the copy.

“That’s good circumstantial evidence, Mr. McGlory,” said he, handing the letter to the cowboy, “and you can have the colonel’s gold whenever you come after it. Will you take it now?”

“The meeting of the syndicate is called for to-night, at the office of Random & Griggs,” said McGlory, “and I don’t want those two bars until the last thing before the bank closes at three o’clock. That bullion has caused trouble enough, and I’m putting up my fences against any more.”

“Very well; come at three and you’ll get the gold.”

The boys turned and slowly left the bank.

“Somehow,” said the cowboy, “I’m glad that girl got away.”

“So am I,” answered Motor Matt.

THE END.

The next number (363) will contain “A Hoodoo Machine; or The Motor Boys’ Runabout No. 1313,” by Stanley R. Matthews.

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FACE TO FACE WITH A MAD DOG.

“I can’t say that I object very much to the muzzling order,” remarked Captain Peyton. “I have had too many experiences with mad dogs, and my voyage with one of them I am never likely to forget.”

“How was that?” we inquired eagerly; and after a little pressing the captain spun us the following yarn:

The thing happened, he began, on board the ship _Globe_, when I was a young man before the mast, coming home in her from Denmark.

Our captain had procured the animal for a friend of his, who lived somewhere in the country, and wanted such a dog to keep off tramps and other trespassers.

I have seldom seen a larger or more vicious-looking dog. He was of the breed called the Great Dane, a kind noted for size and fierceness; and though only a year old, he did honor to both these characteristics.

He would make friends with no one forward, and sometimes would even show his large white teeth upon a too familiar caress from the captain, his master pro tem.

You may be sure that not a single one of us ever kicked that dog out of the way or took any other liberty with him.

“That animal will be a treasure to Captain Gale’s friend,” the second mate remarked one day. “Why, if I had him I should expect to come home some afternoon to find my wife in half a dozen pieces, and my children lying about in little strips. What can a man be thinking of to want such a creature as that about the place?”

We used to think that he had more teeth than other dogs--at least, his mouth appeared absolutely full of them--two great, white shining rows that it made one shudder to see.

Once he snapped at little Roy Drew, the ship’s “boy,” and took a piece out of his duck trousers, but without tearing his flesh.

Fortunately Captain Gale was at hand, and a loud, quick shout from him prevented any further demonstration. He accused Roy of carelessness, and said the dog would not have attempted to hurt him if he had been minding his business.

Roy was dreadfully frightened, though, for it was a narrow escape.

“That dog ought to be chained up,” said the first mate.

“Nonsense!” retorted Captain Gale obstinately, “the animal will not hurt any one if left alone, and the men must not meddle with him if they do not wish to be bitten.”

After a time the brute began to lose his appetite. He slept more than usual, and at last refused his food altogether. There was evidently something the matter with him.

“It would be an awkward matter for us if he had hydrophobia,” said the first mate.

“He might easily do so,” replied the second mate. “They say dogs generally behave like that before going mad.”

We sailors also felt rather uneasy; but the captain, as usual, treated the matter very lightly.

“He may die, of course,” he said, as the mate suggested some precaution, “but I won’t have him killed; and as to tying him up just because he won’t eat, I shan’t do that either. He may be all right again in a day or two.”

Although the animal slept much, he would often get up and turn around as if he were not easy in any position. His eyes, too, had a very strange, glassy stare.

He remained in this state for a week, sometimes moving a few feet, but generally asleep.

He growled at every one who came near him, and I believe that even the captain, although too obstinate to acknowledge it, would at last have been glad to see him knocked on the head.

When the crisis finally came, it came suddenly. Most of the foremast hands were aloft in the rigging, I myself being in the maintop. The mate was busy somewhere about the deck, and the captain was leaning over the quarter rail, watching his opportunity to strike a porpoise which had come under the ship’s counter.

Presently we heard him shout to the mate:

“I’ve got him, Mr. Gibson! Come and lend a hand.”

The officer hurried to assist him; but at that moment another cry came from the man at the wheel:

“Look out, Captain Gale! Look out, Mr. Gibson! The dog is raving mad!”

As he spoke he let go of the wheel and sprang for the mizzen rigging. The captain and mate, looking hastily round, saw the mad brute close behind them, leaping up aimlessly and snapping at the air. I need not tell you that they went into the shrouds probably more quickly than they had ever done before.

Every one not already aloft got there without loss of time, so that the deck was soon entirely deserted.

Meanwhile the dog was traversing the deck at a brisk trot, snapping at everything in his way.

Sometimes he would come to a full stop and spring straight up; at others he would tear away at some large rope, as if trying to devour it. Occasionally he uttered a wild, dismal howl.

What was to be done? Had he been a small dog we might have attacked and killed him with handspikes; but with so large and powerful a creature the case was different.

The captain had a revolver in the cabin, but while we were becalmed off the Orkney Islands he had shot away all his cartridges at sea birds that came near the ship, so that now the firearm was useless.

All this while the ship was left to herself, the topsails backing and filling, and the spanker moving from side to side.

“Why not try to lasso the brute?” called out the mate at last.

The captain thought the suggestion worth acting upon, and a number of us going down to the foot of the shrouds, attempted to take off some coils of the running rigging from the pins.

But the dog was there before us, and, leaping up, he fixed his teeth in the shrouds in a way that showed what would be our fate if we did not keep out of his reach.

However, as some of us were on one side of the ship and some on the other, we finally succeeded in getting at the slack of some of the ropes, and then, standing well up in the shrouds, we did our best at lasso-throwing. But we were no cowboys, and all our efforts resulted in failure.

Our attempts served only to irritate the rabid animal, so that he was now perfectly frantic, leaping, howling, and rushing about in a terrible manner.

Just as we had begun to despair of effecting anything in this way we heard a shout from forward. It was little Roy Drew.

“Hello, there!” he said; “I’m on the bowsprit. I’ve just come down the forestay. I see how he can be got overboard.”

As we stood in the shrouds, the ship’s fore and main courses, which were set, prevented us from seeing the boy, but we could easily judge of his position and intention also.

“Look out for yourself, Roy!” was the cry from more than one voice, as all realized the fearful risk that he ran.

But the little fellow had his plan. He made a great stamping and shouting, and the dog, which happened just then to be forward, leaped upon the forecastle.

We, who were in the rigging, hurried down to the deck, no longer thinking of any danger to ourselves, and then the whole scene was before us.

Roy had run out along the bowsprit and jib-boom, and the dog was trying to follow him.

The upper side of the bowsprit being flat, the mad animal could easily traverse it, but we did not believe that he would be able to walk on the jib-boom. To our great alarm, however, we saw him dash out upon it without falling.

“Roy! Roy!” we called, “take care of yourself--quick! quick! Don’t let him get hold of you!”

But the lad was prepared even for this. Away out on the end of the boom he stood, with his hand on the flying jibstay, and when the dog was within a few feet of him, he grasped the hoops of the sail which were around it and went up the log rope like a squirrel.

The mad dog made a sort of half leap, as if to reach him, staggered, lost his balance, and fell with a splash under the ship’s bows.

Probably the sudden immersion threw him into one of those convulsive fits so common in the rabies, for, after a few minutes of violent tumbling, he sank outright, and we saw no more of him.

“Now,” said Captain Gale, after all was over and the ship had been put upon her course, “I’ll finish catching my porpoise.”

And, sure enough, upon going to his line, he found the iron still fast to it.

During the remainder of the voyage, concluded Captain Peyton, little Roy Drew was the hero of the ship. He had performed what all the rest of us combined had been unable to accomplish, and even the captain gave him full credit for his gallant act.

THE BOOMERANG.

Since the memorable time when Captain Cook sailed into Botany Bay in 1769 and saw the naked native Australian poising erect to hurl his peculiar weapon, the boomerang has continued to excite the curiosity and amazement of the civilized world; and truly the finding of such a scientific weapon in the hands of this so-called lowest order of mankind is an astonishing fact, to be simply accepted as another oddity of this odd, topsy-turvy corner of the world.

This novel weapon became an intensely interesting object to me very soon after arriving in Australia; and for the purpose of studying it, I went persistently among the black fellows, whose friendship I cultivated in different ways, and so succeeded eventually in learning how to make and throw the boomerang. So far, well and good; but of its history I could learn nothing. Of the origin of the crooked stick there is no knowledge; one can only conjecture. It is possible it may have been born with the race itself from the accidental throwing of a flat stick; for from childhood the black fellow shows a natural bent for throwing things, as you can see by watching him use his only other weapons, the spear and club. The bow and arrow, so common in other lands, is not used, except in the extreme northern portion of the great island continent, where there is a mixture of the race with the Papuan of New Guinea.

There are the war boomerang, hunting boomerang, and amusement boomerang. This last is used for light hunting, such as killing ducks, cockatoos, and parrots, and is the one that is referred to when speaking of the boomerang. These sticks measure from a foot and a half to three feet and a half in length, the fighting and hunting ones being the largest and heaviest. The hardest and toughest wood is selected, and the form of the weapon follows the grain of the wood; thus, if the crook of the root or limb is little or much, so is the form of the boomerang. You will find that nearly every one is of a different shape. In my collection I have them varying from almost straight to a shape like that of the letter V, nearly straight, curved, plain, ornamented, some with strange carvings, and all varying according to different sections of the country and individual tribes, each having its own make or style, showing respectively rough crudeness or considerable finish, and being especially characteristic in the ends or points--all of which a boomerang connoisseur will distinguish at once, and locate as to tribe and section.

In the black fellow’s humpy, where he keeps his collection thrown down in a corner with a pile of spears, clubs, rags, bark, and skins of kangaroo and wallaby, I have seen very rare and curious specimens.

The nomad black fellow makes his primitive humpy, or hut, in a location chosen temporarily, according to his necessities for hunting, fishing, and the like, by cutting a young sapling half through about four feet from the ground, and bending it over to a horizontal position, thus forming a ridge pole, against which boughs and strips of bark are laid. The covered side is always against the wind, and before the open front a fire is always burning or smouldering. He does not like the wind, and if it changes, presto! the humpy, too, is changed in a twinkling.

Down in this humpy corner, underneath the pile of bark and skins, he will burrow like a rabbit when he goes to sleep, and from the same place he will provide himself with a weapon when starting off for a hunt.

I have been with him at various times and in sundry places, but remember particularly one tramp with a tall, bushy-headed fellow, whom somebody had appropriately named Long Green.

Starting from the humpy, we crossed a little stretch of scrubby country, and struck into the sun-fretted gum-tree forest, locally known as “the bush.” The black fellow is always on the alert for crooked boughs or roots, and as we trudged on Long Green in his quiet way kept his keen eyes on duty. Nothing escaped the observation of this child of the bush--bird or animal, crooked stick, stripping bark, or foot track, all were so many letters on the familiar page of his only book, the book of Nature. However, finding nothing near, he led the way in and out to a spot where he was sure of getting crooked roots. When a suitable one was found and cut away by Long Green’s hatchet, we turned our faces humpyward.

Arrived at the camp, fresh fuel was put on the smouldering fire, the embers were blown into a lively flame, and then the black fellow began operations by splitting the crook into slabs, cutting them thinner and thinner until of the required thickness. This was the first step in the making of a boomerang. The next was to put the slabs on the fire, where we watched them roasting and sizzling, for they were green and full of sap. In this state the wood is very pliable, and from time to time he took a crook off, held it between his toes, knees, and teeth, and twisted out all its inequalities. I have noticed that these people use their teeth with great dexterity.

More chipping, then more roasting, and the growing boomerang was now and again tossed carelessly on the ground just to see how it would act, while he glanced at it sideways, gave it a poke with his foot, and reminded me of a sedate old tom cat playing with a mouse. At last he gave it a gentle shy along the ground; then a stronger motion. It was buoyant, satisfactory. For the finishing off, it was scraped with a piece of broken bottle, the edges sharpened all around, and it was done--the boomerang was made! “White fellow, boss, chuck!” he said, handing it to me. It weighed about half a pound; the under side was rather flat, yet not entirely so, and the upper side slightly rounded, with the ends a little thinner than the centre. It was about half an inch thick and two and a half inches broad. After having amused myself while he was making another, I handed it back to him and told him to “chuck.” It proved to be a very good one, and he entertained me with it for a long time. It is held with the flat side down and the concave edge forward, and is thrown from over the shoulder. At the moment when it leaves the hand it must be in an upright or perpendicular position.

The black fellow, with a short run and a grunt, sent the thing with a sudden jerk at an angle of some twenty-five degrees. After whirling through the air for nearly two hundred feet it began to rise, and its flight curved toward the left, taking in a circle of a hundred yards or more in diameter, and fell close to our feet, while throughout its whole course of nearly a thousand feet it kept up a harsh, whirring sound, like the wings of a partridge in full flight, the rotary motion giving it the appearance of a ring or wheel moving through space. He caused it to form in its course the figure eight a hundred yards in length, then again he sent it off in a horizontal direction for a hundred feet or more, when it quite suddenly turned and flew upward to a great height. It would wheel along the ground in a straight course and also in a circle, apparently possessed of some power in itself, and the black fellow would jump up and down, talking and ejaculating to it as though it understood him. He was an excellent thrower, and made it perform two and even three circles before falling to the ground. At his will it went from right to left, and from left to right. Most all boomerangs go but one way, being made for that purpose only.

Now, all this seems contrary to the laws of nature and mathematics; but it is all right, and all the eccentric movements of the boomerang can be accounted for on scientific principles. Projectile force, rotary motion, and gravitation do it all, and though these are big words they mean something. You must not expect to throw it successfully without long practice. It is dangerous, too, in the hands of a beginner, for it is then that it “shows off,” and is liable to run wild and chase some bystander in a most vigorous manner. It is all very amusing to see a man running to escape, but he invariably runs the wrong way; and, if hit, it might be a serious matter for him.

There were several other humpies near by in the bush, and whenever my black fellow threw the boomerang the other fellows would shout “kout kout!” meaning “look out!” and the women would seize the little naked blacks, and cuff them, and tumble them into the humpies in a most unceremonious manner; notwithstanding, their little black heads were soon peeping out again. The larger boys, of some six or eight years, were not interfered with, and they would run about and bring the boomerangs which fell at a distance, for before we got through there were several black fellows with their boomerangs in the game. It was great fun. They stood in a row, I among them, and we sent the boomerangs chasing through the air. Some were thrown in one direction, some the opposite, passing each other in their flight; and as they began to return I had to hop about in a lively way. The black fellows ditto.

The boomerang has a favorite trick of hiding itself in the grass or bushes, and I have looked for one in vain in an open field, and given it up as lost, when, on returning the next day, it was found at once. But they cannot hide from these little black fellows. They have most wonderful eyes, deep set in their heads, and their sight is perhaps keener than that of any other member of the human race. When a boomerang fell at a distance they would run as fast as they could until near the place, then stand perfectly still for a moment, like a hunting dog, make a dive into the bushes, and reappear with the boomerang in the hand. One little fellow was hit in the calf of his leg while standing thus. It was a bad cut and bled freely. He disappeared among the humpies without a whimper, soon coming out again with a bandage of rags around the wounded leg.

It was now late afternoon. I knew the blacks liked to get in under cover before dark, so, with a half-crown to Long Green, some cakes for the little bushy heads, and good-bys, I walked off like a veritable savage, grasping firmly my newly made aboriginal boomerang.

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BRAVE AND BOLD WEEKLY

ISSUED EVERY WEDNESDAY BEAUTIFUL COLORED COVERS

If the boys of ten or fifteen years ago could have secured such thoroughly good adventure stories, of such great length, at five cents per copy, the =Brave and Bold Weekly=, had it been published then, would have had ten times its present large circulation. You see, in those days, stories of the quality of those now published in the =Brave and Bold Weekly= were bound in cloth covers or else published little by little in boys’ serial papers, under which circumstances each story was paid for at the rate of one dollar or more.

Now we give the boys of America the opportunity of getting the same stories and better ones for five cents. Do you not think it is a rare bargain? Just buy any one of the titles listed below and read it; you will not be without =Brave and Bold= afterward. Each story is complete in itself and has no connection whatever with any story that was published either before or after it.

We give herewith a list of all of the back numbers in print. You can have your newsdealer order them or they will be sent direct by the publishers to any address upon receipt of the price in money or postage stamps.

50--Labor’s Young Champion.

53--The Crimson Cross.

56--The Boat Club.

62--All Aboard.

65--Slow and Sure.

66--Little by Little.

67--Beyond the Frozen Seas.

69--Saved from the Gallows.

70--Checkmated by a Cadet.

73--Seared With Iron.

74--The Deuce and the King of Diamonds.

75--Now or Never.

76--Blue-Blooded Ben.

77--Checkered Trails.

78--Figures and Faith.

79--The Trevalyn Bank Puzzle.

80--The Athlete of Rossville.

81--Try Again.

82--The Mysteries of Asia.

83--The Frozen Head.

84--Dick Danforth’s Death Charm.

85--Burt Allen’s Trial.

89--The Key to the Cipher.

90--Through Thick and Thin.

91--In Russia’s Power.

92--Jonah Mudd, the Mascot of Hoodooville.

96--The Fortunes of a Foundling.

97--The Hunt for the Talisman.

98--Mystic Island.

99--Capt. Startle.

100--Julius, the Street Boy.

101--Shanghaied.

102--Luke Jepson’s Treachery.

103--Tangled Trails.

106--Fred Desmond’s Mission.

107--Tom Pinkney’s Fortune.

108--Detective Clinket’s Investigations.

109--In the Depths of the Dark Continent.

110--Barr, the Detective.

111--A Bandit of Costa Rica.

112--Dacy Dearborn’s Difficulties.

113--Ben Folsom’s Courage.

114--Daring Dick Goodloe’s Apprenticeship.

115--Bowery Bill, the Wharf Rat.

117--Col. Mysteria.

118--Electric Bob’s Sea Cat.

119--The Great Water Mystery.

120--The Electric Train in the Enchanted Valley.

122--Lester Orton’s Legacy.

123--The Luck of a Four-Leaf Clover.

124--Dandy Rex.

125--The Mad Hermit of the Swamps.

126--Fred Morden’s Rich Reward.

127--In the Wonderful Land of Hez.

128--Stonia Stedman’s Triumph.

129--The Gypsy’s Legacy.

130--The Rival Nines of Bayport.

131--The Sword Hunters.

132--Nimble Dick, the Circus Prince.

134--Dick Darrel’s Vow.

135--The Rival Reporters.

136--Nick o’ the Night.

137--The Tiger Tamer.

138--Jack Kenneth at Oxford.

139--The Young Fire Laddie.

140--Dick Oakley’s Adventures.

141--The Boy Athlete.

142--Lance and Lasso.

143--New England Nick.

144--Air-Line Luke.

145--Marmaduke, the Mustanger.

146--The Young Desert Rovers.

147--At Trigger Bar.

148--Teddy, from Taos.

149--Jigger and Ralph.

150--Milo, the Animal King.

151--Over Many Seas.

152--Messenger Max, Detective.

153--Limerick Larry.

154--Happy Hans.

155--Colorado, the Half-Breed.

156--The Black Rider.

157--Two Chums.

158--Bantam Bob.

159--“That Boy, Checkers.”

160--Bound Boy Frank.

161--The Brazos Boy.

162--Battery Bob.

163--Business Bob.

164--An Army Post Mystery.

165--The Lost Captain.

166--Never Say Die.

167--Nature’s Gentleman.

168--The African Trail.

169--The Border Scouts.

170--Secret Service Sam.

171--Double-bar Ranch.

172--Under Many Suns.

173--Moonlight Morgan.

174--The Girl Rancher.

175--The Panther Tamer.

176--On Terror Island.

177--At the Double X Ranch.

179--Warbling William.

180--Engine No. 13.

181--The Lost Chief.

182--South-paw Steve.

183--The Man of Fire.

184--On Sampan and Junk.

185--Dick Hardy’s School Scrapes.

186--Cowboy Steve.

187--Chip Conway’s White Clue.

188--Tracked Across Europe.

189--Cool Colorado.

190--Captain Mystery.

191--Silver Sallie.

192--The Ranch Raiders.

193--A Baptism of Fire.

194--The Border Nomad.

195--Mark Mallory’s Struggle.

196--A Strange Clue.

197--Ranch Rob.

198--The Electric Wizard.

199--Bob, the Shadow.

200--Young Giants of the Gridiron.

201--Dick Ellis, the Nighthawk Reporter.

202--Pete, the Breaker Boy.

203--Young Maverick, the Boy from Nowhere.

204--Tom, the Mystery Boy.

205--Footlight Phil.

206--The Sky Smugglers.

207--Bart Benner’s Mine.

208--The Young Ranchman.

209--Bart Benner’s Cowboy Days.

210--Gordon Keith in Java.

211--Ned Hawley’s Fortune.

212--Under False Colors.

213--Bags, the Boy Detective.

214--On the Pampas.

215--The Crimson Clue.

216--At the Red Horse.

217--Rifle and Rod.

218--Pards.

219--Afloat with a Circus.

220--Wide Awake.

221--The Boy Caribou Hunters.

222--Westward Ho.

223--Mark Graham.

225--“O. K.”

226--Marooned in the Ice.

227--The Young Filibuster.

228--Jack Leonard, Catcher.

229--Cadet Clyde Connor.

230--The Mark of a Thumb.

231--Set Adrift.

232--In the Land of the Slave Hunters.

233--The Boy in Black.

234--A Wonder Worker.

235--The Boys of the Mountain Inn.

236--To Unknown Lands.

237--Jocko, the Talking Monkey.

238--The Rival Nines.

239--Engineer Bob.

240--Among the Witch-doctors.

241--Dashing Tom Bexar.

242--Lion-hearted Jack.

243--In Montana’s Wilds.

244--Rivals of the Pines.

245--Roving Dick, the Chauffeur.

246--Cast Away in the Jungle.

247--The Sky Pilots.

248--A Toss-up for Luck.

249--A Madman’s Secret.

250--Lionel’s Pluck.

251--The Red Wafer.

252--The Rivals of Riverwood.

253--Jolly Jack Jolly.

254--A Jay from Maine.

255--Hank, the Hustler.

256--At War with Mars.

257--Railroad Ralph.

258--Gordon Keith, Magician.

259--Lucky-stone Dick.

260--“Git Up and Git.”

261--Up-to-date.

262--Gordon Keith’s Double.

263--The Golden Harpoon.

264--Barred Out.

265--Bob Porter’s Schooldays.

266--Gordon Keith, Whaler.

267--Chums at Grandcourt.

268--Partners Three.

269--Dick Derby’s Double.

270--Gordon Keith, Lumber-jack.

271--Money to Spend.

272--Always on Duty.

273--Walt, the Wonder-Worker.

274--Far Below the Equator.

275--Pranks and Perils.

276--Lost in the Ice.

277--Simple Simon.

278--Among the Arab Slave Raiders.

279--The Phantom Boy.

280--Round-the-World Boys.

281--Nimble Jerry, the Young Athlete.

282--Gordon Keith, Diver Detective.

283--In the Woods.

284--Track and Trestle.

285--The Prince of Grit.

286--The Road to Fez.

287--Engineer Tom.

288--Winning His Way.

289--Life-line Larry.

290--Dick Warren’s Rise.

292--Two Tattered Heroes.

293--A Slave for a Year.

294--The Gilded Boy.

295--Bicycle and Gun.

296--Ahead of the Show.

297--On the Wing.

298--The Thumb-print Clue.

299--Bootblack Bob.

300--A Mascot of Hoodooville.

301--Slam, Bang & Co.

302--Frank Bolton’s Chase.

303--In Unknown Worlds.

304--Held for Ransom.

305--Wilde & Woolley.

306--The Young Horseman.

307--Through the Air to Fame.

308--The Double-faced Mystery.

309--A Young West Pointer.

310--Merle Merton’s Schooldays.

311--Double-quick Dan.

312--Louis Stanhope’s Success.

313--Down-East Dave.

314--The Young Marooners.

315--Runaway and Rover.

316--The House of Fear.

317--Bert Chipley On Deck.

318--Compound Interest.

319--On His Mettle.

320--The Tattooed Boy.

321--Madcap Max, the Boy Adventurer.

322--Always to the Front.

323--Caught in a Trap.

324--For Big Money.

325--Muscles of Steel.

326--Gordon Keith in Zululand.

327--The Boys’ Revolt.

328--The Mystic Isle.

329--A Million a Minute.

330--Gordon Keith Under African Skies.

331--Two Chums Afloat.

332--In the Path of Duty.

333--A Bid for Fortune.

334--A Battle with Fate.

335--Three Brave Boys.

336--Archie Atwood, Champion.

337--Dick Stanhope Afloat.

338--Working His Way Upward.

339--The Fourteenth Boy.

340--Among the Nomads.

341--Bob, the Acrobat.

342--Through the Earth.

343--The Boy Chief.

344--Smart Alec.

345--Climbing Up.

346--Comrades Three.

347--A Young Snake-Charmer.

348--Checked Through to Mars.

349--Fighting the Cowards.

350--The Mud-River Boys.

351--Grit and Wit.

352--Right on Top.

353--A Clue from Nowhere.

354--Never Give Up.

355--Comrades Under Castro.

356--The Silent City.

357--Gypsy Joe.

358--From Rocks to Riches.

359--Diplomat Dave.

360--Yankee Grit.

361--The Tiger’s Claws.

362--A Taxicab Tangle.

363--A Hoodoo Machine.

364--Pluck Beats Luck.

365--Two Young Adventurers.

366--The Roustabout Boys.

=Price, Five Cents per Copy.= If you want any back numbers of our weeklies and cannot procure them from your newsdealer, they can be obtained direct from this office. Postage stamps taken the same as money.

STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS, 79-89 SEVENTH AVE., NEW YORK CITY

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Transcriber’s Notes:

Punctuation has been made consistent.

Variations in spelling and hyphenation were retained as they appear in the original publication, except that obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

The following change was made:

p. 5: want to added (if you want to find)