WINNING THE CONTEST
The day which was to witness the tests of the aeroplane models for the
prizes offered by the professor of aeronautics dawned still and fair.
It followed several days of storm, in which the boys had been unable to
make any excursions in their motor boat, or into the country, or,
indeed, even to devote any time to the engrossing subject of tracing
the theft of the uniforms to its source.
Early in the morning a small field in the rear of Mr. Blake's house was
well filled with boys of all ages and sizes, watching the contestants
in the model contest trying out their craft. The models were of all
sorts and sizes. Some were freak craft that had been constructed in a
hurry from pictures, without any attention being paid to scale or
proportions, while others were carefully made bits of mechanism.
Among the latter class were Paul Perkins' monoplane--Silver Arrow, he
called it,--Hiram Nelson's two models, the monoplane of Tom Maloney, a
lad of about sixteen, and Ed River's little duplicate of a Curtiss
biplane. The contest was to take place on the Main Street of the town,
in front of the bank, and in the middle of the course two poles had
been erected, one on each side of the street, between which a brightly
colored tape had then been strung, forming a sort of aerial hurdle.
The tape was fifty feet above the ground, and to qualify at all it
would be necessary for the contesting models to clear it.
The lecture which took place in the village hall came first and was
well attended, most of the young folks of Hampton being there. If the
truth must be told, however, while the lecturer was expounding his
subject, illustrating it on the blackboard with chalk drawings, the
majority of his young hearers were wishing that it was over and the
contest really begun.
Especially was this true of the boys of the Eagle Patrol, who were
every one of them anxious to see what kind of aeroplanes Jack Curtiss
and Bill Bender would have produced. The lecture, however, at last
came to an end, and the gentlemen on the platform shook hands with the
professor and the professor shook hands with them, and somebody called
for three cheers for "Hampton's distinguished son."
Everybody then lost no time in filing out into the afternoon sunlight,
where they found quite a crowd already on the streets, and a small
wooden grand stand, which had been erected near what was expected to be
the finishing line, seating several guests. The committee and the
professor, led by the Hampton brass band, blaring away at patriotic
airs, made their way to the front seats in the structure, and everybody
was requested to line up on each side of the street, so as to make a
clear lane for the models to fly in.
The starting line was about a hundred yards from the red tape, and the
contestants were compelled to stand back of this. Mr. Wingate, the
president of the yacht club and member of the Boy Scout Council, had
already shuffled the numbers of the contestants in a hat, and they were
to fly their models in the order in which they drew their figures.
Up to this time there had been no sign of Jack Curtiss or Bill Bender,
but the boys now saw them hastening up to a member of the committee and
whispering to him. A moment later a man, with a megaphone boomed out
from the grand stand:
"William Bender announces that he has withdrawn from the contest."
"Aha! I'll bet Jack's got cold feet, too," whispered Hiram, nudging
Paul, who was kneeling down and winding up the long rubber bands which
drove the propellers of the Silver Arrow, an Antoinette model.
But a short interval showed him to be mistaken, for Jack, with his
usual confident air, repaired to the buggy in which he had driven into
town from his father's farm, and speedily produced a model that caused
loud sighs of "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" to circulate through the juvenile
portion of the crowd.
However he had managed to accomplish it, the bully had certainly
produced a beautiful model. It was of the Bleriot type, and finished
perfectly down to the minutest detail. Every wire and brace on it was
silvered with aluminum paint, and it even bore a small figure at its
steering wheel. Beside it the other models looked almost clumsy.
The faces of the Boy Scouts fell.
"If that machine can fly as well as she looks," said Rob to Merritt,
"she wins the first prize."
"Not a doubt of it," was Merritt's reply.
"Oh, well," put in Tubby, for the three inseparables were standing
together, "if he can win the prize fairly, don't knock him. He
certainly has built a beautiful machine. You've got to give him credit
for that."
And now, as Jack, with a triumphant smile at the glances of admiration
his model excited, strode to the starting point, elbowing small boys
aside, and drew from the hat, the man with the megaphone once more
arose. He held in his hand the result of the drawing and the order in
which the models would fly.
"The f-i-r-s-t model to com-pete for the big p-r-ize," he bellowed,
"will be that of Thomas Maloney--a Bler-i-ot!"
Poor Tom might have called his machine a Bleriot, but it is doubtful if
the designer of the original machine of that name would have recognized
the model as having any more than a distant relationship to the famous
type of monoplane. It was provided with a large tin propeller,
however, and seemed capable of at least accomplishing a flight. In
fact, at the trials in the morning it had flown well, and by some of
the lads was regarded as a sort of "dark horse." As Tom was on the
village team, as opposed to the Boy Scout contingent, he was greeted
with loud cheers and whistles by his friends as he stepped to the
starting line, and, holding his already wound up machine in his hand,
made ready to launch it.
"Crack!" went the pistol.
At the same instant Tom, with a thrusting motion, released his model;
but, alas! instead of darting forward like the Sparrow Hawk it was
named after, the craft ingloriously wobbled about eccentrically, and
finally alighted on an old lady's bonnet, causing her to exclaim as the
propeller whizzed round and entangled itself in her hair:
"No good'll ever come of teaching lads to meddle with these here
contraptions."
The model having finally been extricated, amid much laughter, and poor
Tom having offered mortified apologies, the announcer made known that
Hiram Nelson's Doodlebug monoplane would essay a flight.
As the pistol sounded, Hiram launched his craft, and amid cheers from
the crowd it soared up, and, just clearing the red tape, settled
gracefully down a few feet the other side of the two hundred foot line.
"Good for you, Hiram!" exclaimed Ernest Thompson, the bike scout, who
was acting as a patrol on the course. "Whose turn next?"
"You kids wait till I get my Bleriot started," sneered Jack. Several
small boys near him, who were mortally afraid of the big fellow and
rather admired him as being "manly," set up a cheer at this.
"Wait for Jack's dandy model to fly!" they cried.
"Edward Rivers--model of a Curtiss biplane!" came the next announcement
through, the megaphone.
Another cheer greeted this, as young Rivers was also on the "town team."
The little Curtiss darted into the air at the pistol crack and flew
straight as an arrow for the red tape. It cleared it easily and
skimmed on down past the grand stand, and alighted, fluttering like a
tired butterfly, beyond Hiram's model.
"Three hundred feet!" cried the announcer, amid a buzz of approval,
after the measurers of the course had done their work.
"Paul Perkins--Bleriot!" was the next announcement.
A hum of excitement went through the crowds that lined the track. It
began to look as if the record of Ed Rivers' machine would be hard to
beat, but from the determined look on his face and his gritted teeth it
was evident that Paul meant to try hard.
Before the report of the pistol had died out, the yellow-winged
Dragonfly soared upward from Paul's hand and darted like a streak
across the red tape, clearing it at the highest altitude yet achieved
by any of the models.
"Hurrah!" yelled the crowd.
On and on sped the little Bleriot, while Paul watched it with
pride-flushed cheeks. It was evident that it was going to out-distance
the record made by Ed Rivers' machine. The Boy Scouts set up their
Patrol cry:
"Kr-ee-ee-ee-ee!"
As the little machine settled to the ground, far beyond the grand
stand, the officials ran out with their tapes, and presently the
announcement came blaring down the packed ranks of the onlookers:
"Three hundred and fifty feet!"
What a cheer went up then.
"I guess you've got it won. Congratulations!" said Ed Rivers, pressing
forward to Paul's side.
"Thanks, Ed," returned the other; "but 'there's many a slip,' you know,
and there are several others to be flown yet."
Now came in rapid succession several of the smaller models and freak
designs. Some of these wobbled through the air and landed in the
crowd. Others sailed blithely up toward the red tape and just fell
short of clearing it. Another landed right on the tape and hung there,
the target of irreverent remarks from the crowd.
While this was going on, Bill Bender, Jack Curtiss and Sam were in
close consultation.
"Remember, you promised that if you won the prize you'd give that money
back," Sam whispered to Jack, "and for goodness' sake, don't forget it.
I half believe that those boys suspect us already."
"Nonsense," returned the bully. "And what if they do? We covered up
our tracks too well for them to have anything on us. They can't prove
anything, can they?"
"I--I--I don't know," stammered Sam, and was about to say more, but the
clarion voice of the announcer was heard informing the crowd that:
"John Curtiss' Bleriot model will now make a flight for the great
prize."
With a confident smile on his face, Jack stepped forward and held his
model ready. The murmur of admiration that had greeted its first
appearance was repeated as he held it high in the sunlight and the
afternoon rays glinted and shimmered on its fittings and wings.
"That's the model for my money," remarked a man in the crowd.
"It's going to win, too," said Jack confidently.
Just at that moment the pistol cracked, and Jack released his
much-admired air craft.
Its flight showed that it was as capable of making as beautiful a
soaring excursion as its graceful outlines and careful finish seemed to
indicate. In a long, sweeping glide, it arose and cleared the red tape
by a greater margin than had Paul Perkins' model.
"Jack Curtiss wins!" yelled the crowd, as the machine soared right on
and did not begin its downward swoop for some distance. After it had
alighted and the measurers had laid their tapes on the course, the
announcer megaphoned, amid a perfect tornado of roars and cheers:
"The last flight, ladies and gentlemen--and apparently the winning
one--accomplished the remarkable distance of four hundred and fifty
feet--four hundred and fifty feet."
"Three cheers for Jack Curtiss!" shouted Bill Bender, slapping Jack
heartily on the back and giving most of the cheers himself.
"I guess those cubs won't be quite so stuck up now," commented Sam,
shaking Jack's hand warmly.
"I was pretty sure I'd win," modestly remarked the bully, as he began
shouldering his way through the press toward the judges' stand. He was
closely followed by the boys, as it looked as if Paul Perkins might
have won the second prize and Ed Rivers the third.
Urged by Bill Bender, the band began puffing away at "See, the
Conquering Hero Comes," and Jack, nothing averse to appearing in such a
role, bowed gracefully right and left to the admiring throngs.
The professor shook hands warmly with the victorious Jack, and remarked:
"You are to be congratulated, young man. I have rarely seen a better
model, and your skill does you great credit. Are you thinking of
taking up aeronautics seriously?"
The bully, his face very red, stammered that he had entertained some
such thoughts.
The professor was about to reply, when there came a sudden sound of
confusion among that portion of the crowd which had surrounded the
delegates deputed to pick up the aeroplanes and bring them to the
stand. This was in order that they might be exhibited as each prize
was awarded. A small boy with a very excited face was seen struggling
to get through the mass, and he finally gained the judges' stand. As
he faced the congratulatory professor he stuttered out:
"Please, sir, there's something wrong about Jack Curtiss' machine."
"What do you mean, you impudent young shaver!" shouted the bully,
turning white, nevertheless.
"Let the lad speak," said Mr. Blake, who as one of the committee was
standing beside the professor. "What is it, my boy? Let me see.
You're Joe Digby, of the Eagle Patrol, aren't you."
"Yes, sir; and I live out on a farm near Jack Curtiss. I was watching
him fly his machine this morning, from behind a hedge, and I heard them
saying something about 'their store-made machine beating any country
boy's model.'"
"He's a young liar! Pay no attention to him," stammered Jack, licking
his dry lips.
"Silence, sir!" said Mr. Blake gravely. "Let us listen to what this
boy has to say. If he is not speaking the truth, you can easily
disprove it. Go on, my boy."
"Well, I guess that's about all I know about it: but I thought I ought
to tell you, sir," confusedly concluded the small lad.
"You young runt, I'll half kill you if I catch you alone!" breathed
Jack, under his breath, as the lad sped off to join his companions.
"Of course, you are not going to pay any attention to that kid's--I
mean boy's--story," demanded Jack, addressing the professor. "It's
made out of whole cloth, I assure you."
In the meantime the machines had been brought to the grand stand and
were being examined. Naturally, after young Digby's statement, Jack's
was one of the first to be scrutinized. The committee turned it over
and over, and were about to pass on it, when Mr. Wingate, who had been
bending attentively over the bully's model, gave a sudden exclamation.
"Look here, gentlemen," he cried, pointing to a small tag which Jack
had evidently forgotten to remove, "I think this is conclusive
evidence. Here is the label of the 'Manhattan Model Works' pasted
right under this wing."
"Somebody must have put it there. It's a job those Boy Scouts put up
on me," protested Tack. "I made that model every bit myself."
"I regret to say that we must regard the price tag as conclusive
evidence that this machine comes from a store," said the professor
sternly, handing Jack his unlucky model. "You are disqualified for
entering a machine not of your own workmanship.
"Stand back, please," he went on, as Jack tried to protest. "I want to
say," he went on in a loud tone, holding up his hand to command
attention, "that there has been a grave mistake made. The machine which
actually flew the longest distance is disqualified, as it was made at a
New York model factory. The first prize of fifty dollars, therefore,
goes to Paul Perkins, of the Boy Scouts, the second to Edward Rivers,
of Hampton, and the third to Hiram Green, also of the Boy Scouts.
"Hold on one minute," he shouted, as the crowd began to cheer and hoot.
"There is an additional announcement to be made. The committee has
decided to offer a further reward of five dollars to Thomas Maloney,
whose model shows evidence of praiseworthy and painstaking work."
As the cheers broke loose once more, Jack Curtiss and his cronies slunk
off through the crowd, and having placed the rejected model in the
buggy, drove off into the country in no very amiable or enviable frame
of mind.
"Well, you made a fine mess of it," grumbled Bill Bender savagely. "I
told you to look carefully and see that all the tags were off it."
"It's no more my fault than yours," grated out Jack, lashing the horse
savagely, to work off some of his rage. "It's all the fault of those
young cubs of Rob Blake's. Let them look out, though, for I'll get
even with them before long, and in a way that will make them sit up and
take notice."
"Don't forget that young mischief maker, Joe Digby," suggested Bill
Bender. "It was all his fault--the young spy!"
"Oh, I'll attend to him," Jack assured his chum, with a grating laugh
that boded no good for the youngest member of the Eagle Patrol.