ARIEL II
“Hold me, Bruce! I’m seeing things!” gasped Hiram Dobbs, half
whimsically.
“You’re seeing Dave Dashaway. Both of us are. Oh, hooray!”
“And the _Ariel_——”
“A new _Ariel_—_Ariel II_; don’t you see? Brace up—hurry! Don’t you
understand that everything has come out all right at last?”
It was nine o’clock in the morning of the great day. All the entrants
were expected to report within the ensuing sixty minutes. On the
Saturday previous those who had not qualified fully had been ruled out
of the competition. Some had not supplied the required data. Some had
not been able to promise the delivery of their machines on the grounds
before the contest began. Others were mere amateurs in aviatics, with
no demonstrated records.
Those had been anxious, unsatisfactory days for Hiram and Bruce that
succeeded the strange, yet definite message from Mr. Brackett. There
was a ray of hope in his explicit direction to go right on, just as if
there had been no break in the programme laid out by Dave the day they
arrived at the International grounds. Both Hiram and Bruce were very
secretive. They took a flight each day in the _Scout_. They mingled
with the crowds at headquarters. They picked up all the information
possible and kept in touch with everything going on.
The Syndicate crowd had gone past their hangar frequently, as if trying
to probe what lay behind their composure and system. Twice they had
detected a lurker outside the hangar, eavesdropping. He got little
satisfaction, however, for the boys suspected his pretense and talked
of matters a thousand miles away from Mr. Brackett, Dave Dashaway and
the _Ariel_.
And now, eager, anxious, prepared for disappointment yet hoping,
dreaming, they had come down to the grand stand where the inspection of
the entrants of the day was to take place.
Valdec and his crowd were very much in evidence. It was characteristic
of the juggler airman to assume airs of mystery, distinction and
oddness. He wore a score of trumpetry medals, and gave a reckless swing
to his machine as he circled the grounds and alighted the nearest to
the stand occupied by the judges. It was plainly to be seen that he
believed himself the hero of the day. Worthington strutted around
followed by his contingent, some of whom were to take part in various
minor contests after the first day. It had been depressing to Hiram to
note the buoyancy and assurance of this crowd. It nettled him to think
that for him the meet, and all appertaining it to, was a hollow farce
without his chum. Then came the climax. Nearly all the contesting air
craft had reported, and were in full view inside the roped off space
near the starter’s box. It lacked thirty minutes of the stroke of the
bell that would exclude all delinquent contestants, when Bruce, seated
on a bench, suddenly nudged his companion.
“There’s a beauty,” he remarked and Hiram lifted his rather gloomy
glance to inspect a speck of activity cutting the air like a swift
yacht on a clear water course.
Far to the south the stranger was evidently making a bee-line direct
for the center field. Other eyes than those of the boys began to
inspect the approaching biplane. As it came nearer its graceful
outlines, its perfectly true maneuvers, caused attention and
speculation among expert airmen about the stand. The Valdec crowd had
become interested. Then the strained gaze of Hiram Dobbs wavered and he
burst forth with the characteristic outbreak:
“Hold me Bruce—I’m seeing things!”
Then in a sort of delirious transport he allowed his equally excited
comrade to drag him towards the center field with the ringing
announcement that:
“Everything has come out all right at last!”
As they hurried along Hiram stripped off his coat. It revealed him in
flight trim, neat and natty, for he had prepared for his very best
appearance, not knowing what might turn up. He threw the garment to
Bruce with the words: “Take care of it.” Then: “Dave!—Dave!—Dave!” he
shouted, tumbled over a rope, and, regaining his feet, stood still, for
others had gathered about the _Ariel II_.
“Everything’s fixed!” gloated Hiram, eager with delight. “Oh, but this
is grand!”
Mr. Brackett had suddenly appeared from among the crowd. With him was
the manager of the meet, and two other officials. Hiram fancied that
the manufacturer was dilating on the points of the new machine, for he
moved his hand about, making a sweeping movement over this and that
portion of the beautiful mechanism.
Hiram fixed a look upon the chum of whom he had such good reason to
feel proud. Never had the young aviator looked so completely at his
best. Dave’s eye was bright, his face bronzed with sunburn. He wore an
entirely new outfit. He was paying respectful but intelligent attention
to the questions of those about him.
“I wonder,” breathed Hiram suddenly. He turned squarely around. It was
in the direction of the Syndicate airship. They had named it the
_Whirlwind_. Its pilot had just alighted.
Valdec stood holding to one of the wings, as if spellbound. His lower
jaw had fallen, his face was a picture of amazement and discomfiture.
To Hiram his usually sneering lips seemed drawn and white as he put
some question to Worthington, who stood at his side.
The latter muttered something. Then his head went forward until his
big, full neck showed. It was something like a mastiff baffled of its
prey. Hiram Dobbs laughed, he could not help it—a joyous, boyish,
delighted laugh, and those about the _Whirlwind_ heard him. He received
a menacing glance from Valdec. Worthington scowled darkly and showed
his teeth.
“Dave!” cried Hiram again, watching his chance, and bolting past
several persons engaged in admiring inspection of the new _Ariel_.
His chum leaped from his seat and their hands met. Their eyes also. In
those of his tutor, and close friend, Hiram read nerve and courage.
Somehow, he had a sure conviction that Dave Dashaway had come upon the
scene at the last moment determined to win.
Not a word passed between them. Too many were listening, and Hiram had
sense enough to copy the pleasing composure of his leader. The signal
for clearing the field was given from the judges’ stand. Hiram waved a
hand joyously at his chum, and got under the ropes. He made out Mr.
Brackett and hurried after him, to find Bruce at his heels. The latter
did not have the professional badge which had admitted the others to
the field.
“Ah, Dobbs!” greeted the big manufacturer, as Hiram crowded up to his
side. “And you too, Beresford? Taken care of everything, of course?”
“Just followed orders—sure!” replied Hiram, nodding energetically.
“It paid; didn’t it?” intimated Mr. Brackett, with a wave of his hand
towards the new machine and its pilot.
“I should say it did!” cried the impetuous young airman. “Oh, how did
you ever bring it all about?”
“Through one of the friends you and Dashaway seem to have the faculty
of gaining everywhere you go,” answered the manufacturer.
“Was Dave shut up bad—or long?”
“No. Within twenty-four hours of his capture he was at our plant and
has been practicing every day since. As to the old _Ariel_—what do you
think of _Ariel II_?”
Hiram was satisfied for the present with the brief explanation made. In
his own mind he could readily reason out that Borden had, in some way,
been instrumental in the escape of Dave.
“They’re getting ready,” broke in Bruce. He was bubbling over with
excitement and exultation. Mr. Brackett had led them to a section in
the rows just back of the big stand. He had seated himself comfortably,
but his two young guests were unable to keep still, and stood up and
moved about, buoyant and expectant.
“Plain sailing,” announced some one from the next section, reading the
programme, and a smile of satisfaction showed on the face of the big
aeroplane manufacturer.
There were twelve entries for this number, for it was a free-for-all,
purposely allowed to give air craft builders a chance to show their
machines. Hiram and Bruce had eyes only for Dave and the new _Ariel_.
It left the ground at the signal, smoothly and promptly.
“Self-starter,” spoke the complacent manufacturer to his young allies.
“For grace, lightness and accuracy we back this, our latest machine,
against the world.”
Even to Hiram, daily in the past the companion of Dave Dashaway in his
marvelous cloud-work, the aspect of the new machine was a revelation.
Its progress was noiseless, its sweep sure and scientific. Within five
minutes after the general ascent was made the boys had but to listen to
the comments going on about them, to realize that on a popular vote
_Ariel II_ would be awarded the prize.
Some of the contesting pilots could not sustain a protracted flight,
some of the machines did not work smoothly. The contest narrowed down
to six, then to three. The _Whirlwind_ showed great rapidity, but was
erratic and shifty at volplane work and drift. Finally Valdec
descended. Dave’s last competitor followed his example. The _Ariel_
floated to anchor, buoyant as a swan gliding to rest.
Fifteen minutes later the official marker ascended the little platform
on which rested a great ruled-off blackboard. He set at work on event
number one.
Hiram’s eyes were snapping. Mr. Brackett drew a long breath of mingled
assurance and suspense.
“Hurrah!” yelled Bruce Beresford irrepressibly. Hiram flung his cap up
in the air. Mr. Brackett beamed on everybody, and the crowd went wild.
“Event No. 1—Winner, Machine number five,” the man wrote. That was the
awarded numeral of the Brackett entry. “Pilot—Dashaway. Points—thirty.”
Thus read the chronicle of the initial event on the big programme,
awarding to Dave Dashaway the first victory of the meet.
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