THE AMATEUR TROPHY
“There’s your machine,” spoke Grimshaw, with a grin.
“My machine?” repeated Dave Dashaway.
“Yes, that’s the biplane I expect to see you handle better than any
operator on the field, or I shall be mightily disappointed.”
It was early morning. Just as breakfast was over at the _Aegis_ hangar,
Grimshaw had appeared. He had nodded knowingly to Mr. King. Then he had
taken Dave in tow; to lead him to his quarters, and back to a shed the
doors of which he had just thrown open. The most exquisite little
biplane upon which Dave had ever feasted his eyes was revealed to view.
“Why,” exclaimed Dave, “where did it come from?”
“Fresh from the factory.”
“When?”
“Last night. We housed it when everybody was asleep. I suppose you
understand, Dashaway?”
“Hardly,” answered Dave in a vague tone.
“Why, what have I been training you for, do you suppose?”
“For this, eh?”
“What else? About a week ago the makers of that little beauty, which
they call the _Baby Racer_, wrote to me asking if they could get a try
out on the course here. They are stunting mostly for amateur patronage,
and want to make a catchy showing. I fixed things with the show
committee four days ago. The people who own the machine pay me one
hundred dollars for my trouble. Half of it is yours.”
“_Fifty dollars!_” said Dave in a rapturous kind of a tone.
“It was hard work getting an extra number on the programme, but Mr. King
has fixed that.”
“It’s to be a regular entry, then?” asked Dave.
“Yes, it is, and a silver cup trophy for the best exhibition. Three
other new machines are in the contest.”
“But,” demurred Dave modestly, “you can’t expect me, a mere beginner—”
“To win the trophy?” retorted Grimshaw, in one of his roaring moods. “I
certainly do. Why, are you thinking of disgracing all my careful
training, by making a fizzle of the chance of a lifetime!”
Dave was nearly overcome. He distrusted neither his own nerve nor the
excellent training of his tutor, but the proposition was so sudden it
almost took his breath away.
“See here, Dashaway,” broke in the old man, “you’ve done just what I
told you in all our training stunts, haven’t you?”
“I’ve tried to, Mr. Grimshaw.”
“Well, you just keep up those tactics right along, and I’ll not steer
you into any mishaps. There’s a big bulletin down at the pylon
announcing this flight. Now get yourself in trim, to show the airmen
what you’re made of. Have the little beauty out and look at her.”
Dave’s fascinated glance rested on a rare combination of grace and
utility, as the _Baby Racer_ was run out from under cover.
The machine was not a large one. It was a model of compactness, and had
every latest improvement. Grimshaw operated the wings.
“It’s an articulated biplane,” he explained. “See here, where the wings
are jointed and spread and close till they look like a big beetle. The
fuselage is clear spruce. The landing chassis is made of rattan strips.
See those reinforced skids, and that four cylindered aerial motor? The
owners said she ought to have a muffler, for she spouts like a blast
furnace when she starts.”
Mr. King came up, smiling and looking pleased, while tutor and pupil
were looking over the _Baby Racer_. Then Hiram put in an appearance. He
was so excited that he hopped around from place to place, telling Dave
that he was the luckiest boy in the world.
By and by the news spread of the arrival of a new model, and a crowd
began to gather. Airmen looked over the natty little machine and made
their comments, _pro_ and _con_. One fellow found all kinds of fault.
Dave noticed that this was the most unpopular man with all the field,
and the employer of the Dawsons at the present time.
“Who’s going to run her?” he asked of Grimshaw.
The old man placed a hand on Dave’s shoulder. The latter flushed
modestly. The grumbler gave him a hard look.
“That kid?” he observed disgustedly.
“He’s one of my crack graduates, I’d have you know,” retorted Grimshaw,
bridling up.
“That don’t make him eligible.”
“Eligible for what?”
“Running a machine on a licensed course.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. King, stepping up, “but we have arranged
all that. Here, Dashaway, keep that about you so you can answer any
impudent questions.”
“A pilot’s license, eh?” muttered the fault-finder—“Oh, then of course
it’s all right.”
“It’s not a pilot’s license,” Grimshaw told Dave after the fellow had
sneaked away, “but it’s just as good as one. It’s a special permit, and
Mr. King’s word and influence stand good for you.”
Dave passed three anxious but busy hours up to the time when the extra
feature advertised was announced, and Grimshaw and two assistants
wheeled the _Baby Racer_ out upon the running course.
“Hop in,” ordered Grimshaw, as the spotless new model was ranged in the
row ready for the start.
“There’s the signal,” spoke his assistant.
“Go!”
Dave bounded up into the air, as he got into position in the roaring
machine.
Like a gull he soared from the ground and circled about the meadows to
the left of the course. The pure white wings of the _Baby Racer_ were
dazzling in the sunlight, almost blinding the staring group of
spectators.
Dave took in the position of the three other contestants. Then he paid
strict attention solely to the directions his proficient teacher had
given him.
From a height of several hundred feet Dave cut off the motor and glided
within fifteen feet of the earth; then with a new roar the engine
started again and up went the mammoth bird.
Not satisfied with his test, Dave speeded up and slowed down several
times, and then darted to earth. Before the machine came to a full stop
he started again and swooped upwards.
For a quarter of an hour the biplane soared above the course, made a
final stop, and came back to the earth within a few feet of the starting
place from its sensational flight in the clouds.
Dave caught the echo of vast cheering, and as he was hustled along to
the Grimshaw quarters, he was conscious of being slapped on the back, of
hearing approving comments. He was a little exhausted and light headed
from the unusual spin, however, and glad to sit down in a reclining camp
chair and get his breath.
Grimshaw left him with Hiram, who had abandoned work for the hour to
give full attention to his friend.
“How did I do, Hiram?” asked Dave.
“You did it all,” declared his enthusiastic champion. “Why, those other
fellows just lopped around like lazy flies. Not one of them went up over
two hundred feet.”
A little later they heard Grimshaw approaching. He was chuckling and
talking to himself.
“A big advertisement for my aviation school, hey?” he cried, bursting in
upon the two friends. “Dashaway, when you get rested just drop down to
the office and get that trophy.”
“I’ve won?” cried Dave.
“Skill, rapidity and altitude—all three points,” was the glad
announcement of the old aerial engineer.
Mr. King came into evidence a few minutes later.
“I’m pretty proud of you, Dashaway,” he said, in his hearty, forcible
way. “This means a professional dash pretty soon, I can tell you.”
About an hour later Dave and Hiram were making their way to the _Aegis_
hangar. As they passed one of the temporary refreshment stands they came
upon a crowd of five boys.
“It’s Jerry and his crowd,” whispered Hiram.
“Don’t pay any attention to them, Hiram,” answered Dave.
“I shan’t, unless they pester me,” replied Hiram.
With Jerry was the young rough, Brooks, the boy Dave and Hiram had
detected behind the pile of benches. Three others Dave recognized as
young loafers who followed the meets, working only occasionally.
They did not break ranks as they came up abreast of Dave and Hiram,
halting them, which movement seemed preconcerted on their part.
“Say, think you’ve done it, don’t you?” sneered Jerry, looking straight
at Dave. “Well, make the most of it. You’ll never take another fly.”
“Why won’t he?” challenged Hiram, making an aggressive forward movement.
But Dave held him back.
“Because I’ve got you—got you right, this time, Dave Dashaway. Back to
nature, back to the farm for you—ha! ha! ha!”
And Jerry’s companion joined him in his mocking jeer as they passed on
their way.
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