“GO!”
“Ben, Ben, wake up!”
“What is the matter—what has happened?”
“The very worst—the Davis quarters is on fire and the _Flyer_ is
burning up.”
Ben bounded from the mattress on which he lay. He did not have to
grope to find his clothes. A great glare shone into the little shed
which he and Bob had occupied since the _Dart_ had arrived on the
field. It was some distance from the Davis place, and had a canvas
extension which housed the Woodville machine.
Bob was getting into his clothes, uttering excited disjointed
sentences, meanwhile keeping his eyes fixed on the center of the
fiery glare.
“It is certainly in the direction of the Davis quarters,” said Ben
hurriedly, “but it may not be his place.”
“But it is. Can’t you see—the exact location, and two men rushing by
shouted that it was.”
Fleet-footed and breathless, the two youths dashed across the patch
of sward between their new quarters and the blazing pile. Half the
distance accomplished, their worst fears were verified.
“It’s the _Flyer_,” panted Bob.
The roaring flames and excited shouts kept up a wild uproar about
a vivid midnight picture. There was no water supply on the field.
Before the Blairville fire department could be summoned the aerodrome
would be in ashes. The only thing that helpers could do was to get
long poles and pull the blazing canvas off the shelter tent away from
the frame extension of the Davis living quarters.
“It’s all gone up, tent and machine,” choked out Bob, as they came
directly upon the scene.
“Yes, and—oh—Mr. Davis is hurt.”
Ben rushed up to the old aviator as he spoke. Two men were leading
Mr. Davis from the smouldering ruins. The way they helped him hold
his hands showed that he had met with some accident.
“Oh, Mr. Davis,” cried Ben, “what is it?”
The aviator turned a pale and troubled face on his young assistant.
“Yes, Ben!” he said, forcing a smile, “don’t get scared. Just a singe
or two on the hands.”
Ben saw that the sleeves of the coat Mr. Davis wore hung in shriveled
threads. His hands were seared and blistered.
“A little liniment will fix me up all right,” said the aviator with
affected cheerfulness, as he noticed the deep concern on the face of
Bob as well as that of Ben. “Keep your nerve, lads, you may need it
to-morrow.”
His helper, as the man was called who had oiled and taken care of the
_Flyer_, came up at that moment.
“Here, Jones,” called the aviator, halting. “Have you got a good
revolver?”
“Two of them, Mr. Davis.”
“Get them both, and start up to the _Dart_ quarters without a
minute’s delay. Don’t keep your eye off the machine a single minute
until I relieve you at daylight. If any skulker comes within ten feet
of the place, pepper him. You, Ben Hardy, come along with me.”
The old aviator spoke like some commanding general. There was a
sternness to his expression that was significant. As he entered the
door of the quarters he cast a backward glance at the smouldering
wreck of the _Flyer_ and sighed. Then his face became set and grim.
“My lads here will attend to me, friends,” he spoke to the two men
who had helped him.
“Can’t we be of some use to you, Mr. Davis?” inquired one of them.
“Why, yes, come to think of it. I wish one of you would tell Mr.
Bridges I want to see him, the quicker the better.”
“He may be in bed, if the fire hasn’t routed him out.”
“Then wake him up—it’s very important.”
The men departed. The aviator planted himself in an armchair and gave
his orders to Ben and Bob. Very soon they had the sleeves of his coat
cut off at the elbow. Without a wince or a groan Mr. Davis directed
them like a skilled surgeon. Liniment was applied to his burns,
cotton and bandages set in place, and finally the old aviator sank
back in real or affected comfort, with the words:
“That’s fine. It doesn’t bring back the _Flyer_, poor old friend, but
it mends me up for the tussle.”
“You aren’t thinking of trying for to-morrow, with your hands in that
condition?” interrogated Bob.
Before the aviator could reply, Mr. Bridges had arrived. He was the
director of the meet, its high executive official.
“Dear me, Davis,” he exclaimed in genuine concern, “this is a serious
affair. I needn’t tell you I am dreadfully sorry. Have you sent for a
doctor.”
“Yes,” nodded the aviator with a smile, “you.”
“Eh?”
“That’s it—I want you to doctor up to-morrow’s programme.”
“Yes, it will be a severe disappointment to the public—no _Flyer_, no
Davis.”
“But I wish to be represented, just the same.”
“Oh.”
“Now, see here, Bridges,” proceeded the old aviator, “there is not
the least occasion in the world for red tape. It’s a plain, simple
proposition of a plain, straightforward man. I have a place on the
programme. I claim it.”
“But you have no airship to enter.”
“Yes, I have—the _Dart_.”
“Oh, I see,” nodded the director, “very good. Operator?”
“Operators—two: Dallow and Hardy. Make a note of it officially,
Bridges, and see that we have a fair show.”
“It’s a little irregular, isn’t it?”
“So was the burning of the _Flyer_,” remarked Mr. Davis dryly.
“Any suspicions?”
“If I have any, they will keep until this meet is over. Then I may
have something to say. Can I depend on the substitute entry as I make
it, with no quibbling?”
“You can depend on any service I can give an old friend and a square
man,” assured the director heartily.
“Thank you. You give that fair show, and I’ll try and keep up the
Davis reputation.”
The aviation director retired with a courteous bow. As the door
closed on him, Mr. Davis turned his glance upon his two young
assistants.
“Well?” he demanded with a quizzical smile.
“You have dazed me,” spoke Ben, with a wondering break in his voice.
“Do you really mean it?”
“Same here,” piped in Bob. “It’s like getting a fortune all at once.”
“Oho! so you are counting on the prize already, are you?” chuckled
Mr. Davis.
“Isn’t that what you expect us to do?” challenged Bob.
“I reckon it is,” assented the aviator.
“Then we will try, Mr. Davis,” said Ben, a tremor of excitement in
his voice, but rare determination in his eye, “we will try hard.”
“That’s the talk,” said the aviator encouragingly. “Now then, bring
that little stand close to my side.”
Ben obeyed the order.
“Open that yellow paper. Spread it out. Both of you sit down close up
to me. This is a special weather report that arrived five hours ago.
The red lines and notations are mine. Listen carefully, and try and
catch my idea of the surest and easiest course for to-morrow’s run.”
Both boys were impressed with the intensest interest and admiration,
as the old aviator explained his ideas. Mr. Davis had marked out a
zig-zag course to the northwest. At a glance, Ben could discern how
carefully he had calculated and planned with expert skill.
Taking wind velocity, temperature readings, barometric depressions
and storm centres for a basis, the wise old aviator had blocked out
a course like a pilot at sea directing his ship through sandbars,
reefs and counter winds. Where there was a cross air current, a mark
designated it. He even indicated the altitude average.
“Why,” cried the exuberant Bob, “you make it a mere playing, Mr.
Davis!”
“Do I?” retorted the old aviator grimly. “You may change your mind
after a four hour’s spin. It’s no fun, lads.”
“I do not see how we can fail to do something quite fair, under all
these conditions,” said Ben.
“It will be simply a question of the gasolene supply,” explained Mr.
Davis. “There, however, is where that auxiliary pipe feature your
father has invented comes in good. Now then, I want you to go to
bed and shut your eyes and minds to the world till I wake you up.
Remember, you have the biggest day of your lives before you, and you
will need your best nerve and strength to meet it.”
“Hurrah!” crowed the irrepressible Bob.
“We’ll say that when we win,” added Ben.
They were not awakened until eight o’clock the next morning. Bob
began to worry, and Ben himself was flustered at the lateness of the
hour.
“Easy, now,” ordered Mr. Davis, “you two fellows are simply dummies
in the hands of trainers till we land you in the _Dart_.”
Mr. Davis had sent for two new aviation suits for the boys, the
latest and best that could be procured. They fitted comfortably, and
the boys made a fine professional appearance in them.
Mr. Davis had left them to chat together over their meal. When they
rejoined him in his sitting room, they found him with two telegrams
lying open on the stand before him.
“Change the course as I direct, Ben,” he said. “The weather
conditions are practically the same as last night’s report showed,
except at two points. I’ll name them to you. Make a westerly
deviation at the first, and take a high level at the second.”
Ben did as he was directed. Bob, leaning over his shoulder, made a
wry face.
“What’s the matter with you?” inquired Mr. Davis quickly.
“Huh!” complained Bob, “you’ve marked out only a thousand-mile run.”
“Hear him! A thousand miles? Why, if you have enough backbone to beat
six hundred and fifty miles, you win the prize,” declared the old
aviator.
It was a grandly inspiriting scene, that upon which Ben Hardy and Bob
Dallow entered an hour later. The sun was bright, the sky was clear
and speckless of a single cloud, the air brisk and invigorating. It
was a typical day for air sailing, and the young sky pilots felt
hopefully at their best.
The aviation field was a gay and entrancing spectacle. At its edge
were gathered several thousand spectators, automobiles, motor-cycles
and other vehicles, some trimmed in gala array. Pennants were strung
here and there about the field, and the nine aeroplanes entered for
the contest were as pretty as dainty birds, straining to try their
wings in the empyrean.
Hails and cheers rang out in every direction. There was hearty
applause as Ben and Bob, the youngest aviators in the contest, took
their places in the _Dart_. Ben tried the levers and the other
various parts of the machine.
“She works like a watch,” he declared to his companion.
“Ready,” was Bob’s reply, his eye on the judge’s stand.
Boom!—flared forth the signal gun, followed by a general chorus,
uttered in the word so thrilling to the heart of the enthusiastic
aviator:
“Go!”
Lifted from earth on a superb sweep, true to its name, the _Dart_
arose on a splendid arrow course. There was a fascinating spiral
whirl as the graceful aeroplane struck an upper air current. Then,
fondly, longingly viewed by the old aviator and his friends, the
_Dart_ diminished, became a mere speck, and faded away in the far
distance.