GRIT'S GRIP
Two large biplanes were in the race with Dick Hamilton's airship. They
were of the latest type, as could be noted by the young millionaire,
and were swift craft. They had come up from behind, on a long, upward
slant, and were now about in line with each other, and on a par with
the Abaris, though considerably below her.
"Say, look at that crowd of people!" exclaimed Paul, as he stood at the
side of Dick who was at the wheel. The cadet was ready to lend any
assistance that might be needed in working the airship.
"Yes, there is quite a bunch," observed Dick, as he opened the gasolene
throttle a little wider, and took a quick glance down through the
celluloid bull's-eye in the floor of the cabin. "It's a big meet."
They were flying over a big aviation park, that Mr. Vardon at once
recognized as one in which he had given several exhibitions.
"This is quite a meet, all right," the aviator remarked as he noted at
least ten machines in the air at one time. There were mono and
biplanes, but only two of the latter were near enough to Dick's machine
to engage in the impromptu race with it.
"How are we coming on?" asked Paul.
"Holding our own," answered the young millionaire. "I haven't started
to speed yet. I'm waiting to see what those fellows are going to do."
The latter, however, were evidently also hanging back trying to "get a
line" on the performance of the big craft. The pilots of the lower
biplanes could, very likely, tell by the size of the Abaris that she
was no ordinary airship, and, in all probability, they had read of her,
and of the try for the prize. For Larry Dexter made a good press
agent, and had written many a story of Dick's plans.
"Now they're coming on," cried Dick, as he saw one of the lower
machines dart ahead of the other. "He's trying to get me to sprint, I
guess."
"Why don't you try it now?" suggested Mr. Vardon. "We'll soon be at
the limits of the aviation field, and I doubt if these machines will be
allowed to go beyond it. So, if you want to beat them in a race now is
your time to speed up."
"Here she goes!" cried Dick, as he opened wider the gasolene throttle.
In an instant the big craft shot ahead, fairly roaring through the air.
The closed cabin, however, kept the pressure of wind from the
occupants, or they might not have been able to stand it, for the gage
outside registered a resistance of many pounds to the square inch.
It was an odd race. There were no cheering spectators to urge on the
contestants by shouts and cheers, though doubtless those who were
witnessing the evolutions of the aircraft, before Dick's advent on the
scene, were using their voices to good advantage. But the birdmen were
too high up to hear them.
Nor could the excited calls, if there were any such, from the two
rivals of our hero be heard. There were two men in each of the
competing biplanes, and they were doing their best to win.
It must have been an inspiring sight from below, for Dick's craft was
so large that it showed up well, and the white canvas planes of the
others, as well as those of the Abaris, stood out in bold contrast to
the blue of the sky.
"We're doing ninety an hour!" called Dick, after a glance at the speed
gage, while his companions were looking down at the craft below.
"Pretty nearly the limit," remarked Mr. Vardon. "If you can reach a
hundred, Dick, do it. I don't believe those fellows can come near
that."
"They're falling behind now," observed Paul. "Go to it, Dick, old man!"
The young millionaire pulled open the gasolene throttle to the full
limit and set the sparker to contact at the best advantage. The result
was at once apparent. The aircraft shot ahead in a wonderful fashion.
The others evidently put on full speed, for they, also, made a little
spurt.
Then it was "all over but the shouting," as Larry said. Dick's machine
swept on and soon distanced the others.
"I've got to get back a story of this!" cried Larry. "It will be good
reading for those who buy the Leader."
"But how are you going to do it?" asked Paul. "You can't send back a
story now, and we'd have to make a descent to use the wireless," Dick's
craft being so fitted up.
"I'll just write a little note, telling the editor to get the story
from the Associated Press correspondent who is covering this meet,"
Larry answered. "All they need in the Leader office is a 'tip.'
They'll do the rest. But I'll just give them a few pointers as to how
things went on here."
He hastily dashed off a story and enclosed it in one of several leather
cylinders he had provided for this purpose. Each one had a sort of
miniature parachute connected to it, and a flag to attract attention as
it shot down.
Enclosing his story in one of these Larry dropped it, as he had done
before, trusting that it would be picked up and forwarded. The plan
always worked well.
The leather messenger fell on the aviation field, and our friends had
the satisfaction of seeing several men running to pick it up, so Larry
knew his plan would be successful.
The Abaris was now speeding along at the top notch, and for a few
minutes Dick allowed her to soar through the air in this fashion. And
then, having some regard for his engines, he cut down the gasolene, and
slowed up.
"No use tearing her heart out," he remarked.
"There's time enough to rush on the last lap. I wonder if we'll have a
race at the end?"
"I shouldn't be surprised," Mr. Vardon answered. "A number of
celebrated aviators are planning to compete for this prize, and some
may already be on the way across the continent ahead of us."
"Then there's your Uncle Ezra," put in Paul.
"Poor Uncle Ezra," spoke Dick, musingly. "He certainly has treated me
mean, at times, but I can't help feeling sorry for him. Every time he
has to buy five gallons of gasolene, or some oil, he'll imagine he's
getting ready to go to the poorhouse. He certainly was not cut out for
an aviator, and I certainly was surprised when he built that airship."
"He's being used by that fellow Larson, I'm sure of that," declared Mr.
Vardon. "Your Uncle Ezra has fallen into the hands of a scoundrel,
Dick."
"Well, I'm sorry for that, of course," said the young millionaire,
"but, do you know, I think it will do Uncle Ezra good to lose some of
his money. He's got more than he needs, and he can afford to spend
some on aviation. Someone, at least the workmen, and those who sell
materials and supplies, will get the benefit of it."
The aircraft was now going along at about her usual speed of fifty
miles an hour. The aviation park had been left behind, and they were
now flying along at a comparatively low altitude.
"Better go up a little," suggested Mr. Vardon. "It will be dark
shortly, and we don't want to run into a mountain in the night."
Dick tilted the elevating rudder and the craft lifted herself into the
air, soaring upward.
"Here, Innis, you take the wheel now, it's your turn," called our hero,
a little later. "Straighten her out and keep her on a level keel.
It's my turn to get supper."
"And give us plenty, if you don't mind," begged the stout cadet, who
took his chum's place in the pilot house. "This upper atmosphere seems
to give me an appetite."
"I never saw you without it, Innis," laughed Paul.
"Come on out on the deck, for a breath of air before we start to cook,"
suggested Larry. "We can get a fine view of the sunset there."
The open deck, in the rear of the cabin, did indeed offer a gorgeous
view of the setting sun, which was sinking to rest in a bank of golden,
green and purple clouds.
"I'll go out, too," said Lieutenant McBride. "I am supposed to make
some meteorological observations while I am on this trip, and it is
high time I began."
And so, with the exception of Innis, who would have his turn later, and
Mr. Vardon, who wanted to look over the machinery, for possible heated
bearings, all went out on the railed deck. Grit, the bulldog, followed
closely on the heels of Dick.
"Be careful, old man," said the young millionaire to his pet. "There's
no rail close to the deck, you know, and you may slip overboard."
They stood for a few moments viewing the scene while thus flying along
through the air. The colors of the sunset were constantly changing,
becoming every moment more gorgeous.
Suddenly there was a swerve to the airship, and it tilted sharply to
one side.
"Look out!" cried Dick, as he grasped the protecting railing, an
example followed by all. "What's up?"
"We're falling!" shouted Paul.
"No, it's just an air pocket," was the opinion of Lieutenant McBride.
"We'll be all right in another moment."
They were, but before that Grit, taken unawares, had slid unwillingly
to the edge of the open deck.
"Look out for him!" shouted Dick, making a grab for his pet.
But he was too late. The deck was smooth, and the bulldog could get no
grip on it. In another instant he had toppled over the edge of the
platform, rolling under the lowest of the guard rails.
"There he goes!" cried Paul.
Dick gave a gasp of despair. Grit let out a howl of fear.
And then, as Larry Dexter leaned over the side, he gave a cry of
surprise.
"Look!" he shouted. "Grit's caught by a rope and he's hanging there by
his teeth!"
And, as Dick looked, he saw a strange sight. Trailing over the side of
the airship deck was a piece of rope, that had become loosed. And, in
his fall, Grit had caught hold of this in his strong jaws. To this he
clung like grim death, his grip alone keeping him from falling into
space.