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.
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