[Illustration: Several early airplanes in flight. Courtesy of Scientific
American]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE BOY AVIATORS
IN RECORD FLIGHT
OR
THE RIVAL AEROPLANE
BY
CAPTAIN WILBUR LAWTON
AUTHOR OF “THE BOY AVIATORS IN NICARAGUA,” “THE BOY
AVIATORS ON SECRET SERVICE,” “THE BOY AVIATORS IN AFRICA,”
“THE BOY AVIATORS’ TREASURE QUEST,” ETC.
NEW YORK
HURST AND COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
------------------------------------------------------------------------
BOY AVIATORS’ SERIES
BY CAPTAIN WILBUR LAWTON
Six Titles. Cloth Bound. Price 50c
UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME
1 THE BOY AVIATORS IN NICARAGUA;
or, In League with the Insurgents.
2 THE BOY AVIATORS ON SECRET SERVICE;
or, Working with Wireless.
3 THE BOY AVIATORS IN AFRICA;
or, An Aerial Ivory Trail
4 THE BOY AVIATORS’ TREASURE QUEST;
or, the Golden Galleon.
5 THE BOY AVIATORS IN RECORD FLIGHT;
or, The Rival Aeroplane.
6 THE BOY AVIATORS’ POLAR DASH;
or, Facing Death in the Antarctic.
_Your orders solicited._
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS—NEW YORK
Copyright, 1910, by HURST & CO.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
I The Big Prize
II Billy as a Diplomat
III Under a Cloud
IV Thieves in the Night
V The Boys Decide
VI Off for San Francisco
VII Above the Earth
VIII Boy Aviators to the Rescue
IX Luther Barr Forms an Alliance
X A Night Voyage
XI The First Leg
XII Attacked by Cowboys
XIII Indians
XIV The Auto in Difficulties
XV Thirst—and a Plot
XVI The Auto Gone
XVII The Wrong Man
XVIII Wireless
XIX Arrested by Aeroplane
XX Caught in a Stampede
XXI Bart and the B’ar
XXII An Auto Leap for Life
XXIII A Mystery
XXIV The Golden Hermit
XXV A Fight for Fortune
XXVI The Sand Storm
XXVII Winning the Prize—Conclusion
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THE BOY AVIATORS IN RECORD FLIGHT
Or,
THE RIVAL AEROPLANE.
CHAPTER I.
THE BIG PRIZE.
“Phew!” exclaimed Billy Barnes as he reported for work on the New York
_Planet_ one broiling afternoon in late August, “this is a scorcher and
no mistake.”
“I should think after all your marvelous adventures with the Boy
Aviators that you would be so used to heat and cold and hardship that
you wouldn’t kick at a little thing like a warm day.”
The remark came from a young fellow about twenty-one years old who
occupied a desk beside that of the stout spectacled youth of eighteen
whom our readers have already met as Billy Barnes.
“Why, hullo, Fred Reade!” said Billy, looking up with a good-natured
grin from the operation of opening his typewriter desk, “I thought you
were off covering aviation.”
“I was,” rejoined the other, with a near approach to a sneer, “but since
we printed your story about the recovery of the treasure on the Spanish
galleon I guess they think I’m not good enough to cover the subject.”
If the good-natured Billy Barnes noticed the close approach to outspoken
enmity with which these words were spoken he gave no sign of it. Any
reply he might have made was in fact cut short at that minute by an
office boy who approached him.
“Mr. Stowe wants to see you, Mr. Barnes, at once, please,” said the lad.
“There you go, the managing editor sending for you as soon as you get
back. I wish I was a pet,” sneered Reade as Billy hastened after the boy
and the next minute entered a room screened off from the editorial
department by a glass door bearing the words “Managing Editor.”
At a desk above which hung “This is my busy day,” and other signs not
calculated to urge visitors to become conversational, sat a heavy-set,
clean-shaven man with a big pair of spectacles astride his nose. He had
a fat cigar in his mouth which he regarded as he spoke with far more
intensity than he did Billy.
“Afternoon, Barnes,” was his greeting.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Stowe,” returned the young reporter, “you sent for
me——”
“Sit down,” said the other brusquely, indicating a chair.
Billy sat down and waited for the next words of his managing editor.
“The _Planet_, as you know, has made a specialty of featuring aviation,”
continued Mr. Stowe, gazing fixedly at his cigar.
Billy nodded, the remark did not seem to call for a more definite reply.
“We have offered prizes for flights from time to time, and in this way
have obtained a reputation as an authority on aviation and a patron of
what is bound to be the vehicle of the coming ages.”
Again Billy nodded at the managing editor’s rather florid way of putting
it.
“For instance, the $10,000 Albany-New York flight and the $30,000 New
York-St. Louis flight. The $100,000 offer for a transatlantic flight as
yet remains unchallenged for, but I have no doubt that in time some
daring aviator will make the attempt.”
“It should be possible,” once more agreed Billy, wondering what was
coming next.
“In the meantime,” Mr. Stowe continued, “the _Despatch_ has declared
itself our rival in this field by also devoting great attention to the
subject, and offering prizes for flights in opposition to our original
idea. The owner of the _Planet_ has therefore decided to eclipse all
previous offers and be the first in the field with a prize of $50,000
for a flight from New York to San Francisco, or as far in that direction
as possible. The air craft that travels furthest will get the prize.”
“Across the continent?” gasped Billy.
“Exactly. We are going to publish the conditions and date of starting in
our to-morrow morning’s issue. And the offer incidentally means a great
chance for you.”
Billy gave a questioning glance.
“I intend to have you follow the racers in an automobile and send
dispatches from the various points along the route concerning the
progress of the cross-country aerial racers.”
The young reporter’s face beamed.
“That’s mighty good of you, sir,” he said earnestly.
“Not at all. It’s simply the selection of the best man for the job;
that’s all. You have far more knowledge of aviation than Reade—or at
least you ought to have after your long association with the Boy
Aviators—and therefore we have selected you.”
“As to the conditions of the race, Mr. Stowe—how about stops, gasolene
and water stations, and so on?”
“Each contestant will be expected to arrange those details for himself,”
was the answer. “This newspaper simply offers the prize to the first
aeroplane to arrive in San Francisco, or go furthest in that direction.
Also, of course, we claim the privilege of getting exclusive accounts of
the doings of the _Planet_ aeroplanes. That’s all. Simple, isn’t it?”
“Very,” agreed Billy as he took his leave. “By the way, sir, does any
one else know of your offer?”
“Nobody; not even Reade. I guess he’s pretty sore that we took him off
aviation on the eve of making the prize offer, but it can’t be helped.”
“Why, I—you see, sir, I’d rather not take it, if it is blocking Reade
in any way. I don’t want to take the assignment at all if it’s going to
hurt Reade with the paper.”
The managing editor gave an impatient wave of his hand.
“Let me attend to Reade,” he remarked impatiently, “you go and get out a
story for to-morrow about possible contestants. Of course your friends,
the Chester boys, will enter?”
Billy looked dubious.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “I rather think they were planning for a
rest and to continue their studies, and this cross-country flight won’t
be any picnic. However, I hope they do enter,” replied Billy.
“I had no idea that there would be any doubt about it,” said Mr. Stowe
impatiently, “well, do the best you can. Anyhow, get interviews with
Blewitt, Sharkness and Auldwin. They will be sure to enter their
machines, and let’s have a good, live story for to-morrow. By the way,
not a word of this to anybody but the aviators you may see till we
publish the offer. The _Despatch_ would be quite capable of offering a
similar prize to-morrow morning if they learned what was in the wind.”
Billy nodded as Mr. Stowe once more gave a sign of dismissal, and
hastened from the room. So hurried was his exit, in fact, that he almost
bumped into Reade as he made his way out. The editorial room was
deserted, except for the dark-haired, slender young fellow with whom
Billy had almost collided. The other reporters were all out on their
assignments.
“Well?” were Fred Reade’s first words.
“Well,” rejoined Billy, adjusting his spectacles, which had narrowly
escaped being jarred off his nose in the bump, “isn’t there room enough
in the place without your getting so near that door that you almost
upset my slender form?”
“Never mind that,” replied Frank Reade; “what I want to know is, how do
I stand in there?”
He motioned with his head toward the managing editor’s room from which
the boys were by this time several paces removed.
“I don’t understand you exactly,” was Billy’s reply. He noticed that
Reade’s face bore an angry flush and he seemed excited.
“What I mean is this: Am I going to continue to do aviation for the
_Planet_?”
“Say, Fred, old man, I’m awfully sorry——”
“Oh, cut that out. You don’t mean it, and you know you don’t. You wanted
to grab off the job for yourself, and I can see by your face that you
have.”
“If you mean that I am to do aviation for the _Planet_ in future, you
are right,” replied Billy. “I am; but it was only on Mr. Stowe’s orders.
You’re wrong, Fred, and you know you are, when you accuse me of trying
to take your job away from you.”
“Oh, rot,” exclaimed the other angrily. “If that had been the case you’d
have kept away. You don’t have to work. You made plenty of money out of
your share of the Golden Galleon treasure. You have just deliberately
tried to oust me from my job.”
“You talk as if you’d been fired,” said Billy. “You know that you are
one of the most valued reporters on the _Planet_.”
“Don’t try to jolly me,” rejoined the other angrily. “And as for being
fired, I don’t have to be, for I’ve got my resignation ready written
out. Here copy boy!” he cried, “take this note in to Mr. Stowe.”
As the boy hurried up Reade drew from his pocket an envelope and handed
it to the lad.
“Hold on there!” cried Billy, genuinely moved at Reade’s evident
chagrin, “have you gone crazy, Fred? What’s the matter?”
“Take that note in,” thundered Reade to the hesitating boy, who
thereupon hurried off, “it’s your fault I’ve had to quit, Billy Barnes,
and I’ll not forget it, I can promise you. I’ll get even with you for
this in a way you don’t suspect. No; I won’t shake hands with you. I
don’t want to speak to you.”
Reade flung angrily off and put on his coat and hat. Without taking any
more notice of Billy he strode out of the _Planet_ offices and into the
street.
On the sidewalk he paused for a minute. His hat shoved back off his brow
and his forehead puckered in perplexity.
“I’ll do it,” he exclaimed suddenly under his breath as if he had made
up his mind to something. “I’ll do it. The _Despatch_ will jump at it,
and I’ll get even on Billy Barnes and the _Planet_ at the same time.”