BEATEN
Hiram Dobbs was whistling like a nightingale, Bruce Beresford was
polishing up the brass work of the new _Ariel_ for the fifth or sixth
time, when suddenly Hiram made a derisive sweep with his handful of
cotton waste towards two passers-by—Valdec and one of his crowd.
“Hah!” uttered Dave Dashaway’s assistant—“you’ve had your claws cut
short this time!”
Safe and sound, more than hopeful, and very happy felt the young pilot
of the _Scout_. Hiram could defy all his foes now. Day and night, half
a dozen men from the aero plant formed a perfect cordon around the
hangar which housed the almost sure winner of the International, as
Hiram insisted on putting it.
There had been a sort of jollification conference the evening before in
a room at the grounds clubhouse, where the manufacturer and his three
friends felt free to discuss affairs in general without the fear of
intruders or listeners. It was there that Dave explained his recent
adventure at the sand dunes. His capture and the destruction of the old
_Ariel_ had been the result of a well laid plot on the part of the
Syndicate crowd and their allies.
It was Borden who had saved the day. Hiram’s heart warmed anew towards
the tramp artist as he realized how loyally the latter had repaid the
slight kindness they had shown a homeless wanderer at the Midlothian
grounds.
“Mr. Borden warned you too late, Hiram,” explained Dave, “but he found
a way, a little later, to be doubly useful in our interests. The men
who made me a prisoner at the sand dunes and burned up the old _Ariel_
I had never seen before. I was taken perhaps thirty miles in a closed
wagon, tied hand and foot, and guarded by a balking fellow, so I kept
pretty still.”
“Where did they take you, Mr. Dashaway?” the interested Bruce had asked.
“To an old building in a big town over the state line. It must have
been a factory, at some time or other. It had all gone to ruin, and
they kept me in a room in the boiler house, with a heavy iron door to
it. The Syndicate crowd sent Mr. Borden down to help their man guard
me. I don’t know how he managed it, but he got entire charge of me, and
let his supposed fellow watchman lay around the town. The first night
he got a wire to Mr. Brackett who came down for me. Since then I have
been practicing near the Aero Company’s plant, and watching our new
beauty of a biplane grow into the finest craft of its class in the
world.”
“And Mr. Borden?” pressed Hiram curiously.
“I don’t think the Syndicate crowd had the least idea that I was free
until I showed up on the grounds here,” declared Dave.
“What’ll they do when they find out he’s hocussed them?” asked Bruce.
“I have supplied our good friend, Mr. Borden, with the means of going
about where he pleases,” observed Mr. Brackett with a smile. “They
won’t find him unless he wants to be found, you may rest assured of
that fact.”
“And are those fellows to be allowed to go scot free after all they’ve
done!” cried the indignant Hiram.
“I hardly think we will disturb them if they leave us alone—at least
for the present,” replied the manufacturer. “You see, Hiram, we might
not be able to fasten the plot directly upon them. It is still my
opinion that Vernon, our old time enemy, is the main actor in all these
outrages, although he has pretty cleverly covered up his tracks.”
“Well, so far—everything is fine!” declared the volatile Hiram. “Oh,
Dave, if you only win the altitude contest to-morrow!”
“The new _Ariel_ can do its share,” insisted Mr. Brackett.
“I shall try to do mine,” added the young aviator modestly.
“Fifty points!” murmured Hiram. “Score that and you are sure of the big
prize,” and Hiram had a vision of that official blackboard marker
giving to his chum the second award in the International contest.
Four machines besides their own were listed for the altitude contest
and the _Whirlwind_ was among them. The first thing the observant Hiram
noticed as they reached the center field was that Valdec wore his
ordinary sailing jacket. Dave was fully prepared for any cold he might
run into. Besides that, at his side, was a light, round tank with a
coil of rubber hose running from it.
“We’re testing an emergency oxygen supply, if the air gets too
rarefied,” Dave explained to Hiram. “It may work in quite well when we
get up above ten thousand feet.”
“Oh, Dave, you can’t hope to do that!” exclaimed his young assistant.
The manager and a helper visited the five machines while the rules of
the contest were being read by his secretary. The barograph of each
biplane was examined, sealed up and put in place. Three hours was the
time limit allowed, the pilots to select their own course.
There was some cloudiness, but no wind, and the five machines made a
splendid initial rise. The _Whirlwind_ was all for speed. Dave took it
more slowly. Within fifteen minutes the five crafts were scattered to
all points of the compass. They became mere specks as a lower strata of
cloud haze obscured them. Then they vanished from view as a denser
upper cumulus enveloped them.
At eleven o’clock one of the contestants came back to the grounds
because of a break in the control. A comrade competitor gave up the
contest a quarter of an hour later. Number three reported itself out of
the race at noon.
“It’s the _Ariel_ and the _Whirlwind_,” went the rounds of the stand.
Everybody was wrought up to a great pitch of doubt and suspense. The
clouds still obscured all sight of the clear sky.
“There’s one of them!” burst out a voice and there was great excitement
as an air craft came sailing swiftly into view.
“The _Whirlwind_,” spoke a man with a pair of field glasses.
The Syndicate machine came to anchor as Worthington and his allies
rushed toward it. Valdec stepped out of the biplane smiling and profuse
in his bows. He joked and laughed as the expert removed the barograph,
hastened to the judges’ stand and then placed it in a strong tin box
and locked it in.
“Here’s the other!” The shout announced the _Ariel_. In about twenty
minutes the boys and Mr. Brackett were crowding about it. The machine
was dripping with moisture, and as it touched the ground its pilot
removed his head gear, and fell over to one side, gasping for breath.
“He’s collapsed!” exclaimed an attendant and ran for water. They lifted
Dave out of the machine. Mr. Brackett and Hiram supported him. The
expert had removed the barograph. They made Dave swallow some water,
rubbed his hands, and finally he opened his eyes. He smiled vaguely.
“I made it,” he spoke with difficulty. “Nearly went under, but I had
set my mark—over eleven thousand feet.”
“You couldn’t! It’s ahead of any record! He’s dreaming!” blurted out
Hiram.
“The barograph says so—I’ve won. I knew I should,” murmured Dave. “Get
me somewhere to lie down. I’m weak and dizzy.”
“What’s that!” suddenly spoke Hiram, turning sharply as they were
leading Dave over to the club house.
They were at a point where they could not see the blackboard. Hiram
noticed a great crowd about it. Cheers rent the air. A man bolted from
the mass, bareheaded, excited, rushing down the road wildly. Hiram
recognized him as one of the Syndicate hangers-on.
“What is it?” was demanded of him by an inquisitive pedestrian.
“Record smashed!” came the breathless but triumphant reply. “Valdec has
won—12,350 feet!”
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