The aircraft boys of Lakeport

“Hurrah for the first race!”

“I’ll wager the Skylark will win!”

“Not much! The Swallow will come out ahead!”

“How far is the race to be?”

“Over the big red barn on the Phelps place and back.”

“That must be about twelve miles.”

“All of that.”

So the talk went on, one beautiful afternoon, about a week after the events recorded in the last chapter. Several of the boys of Brookside had mastered the art of aviation, and a race had been arranged between the Skylark and the Swallow, as the biplane owned by the Brookside lads had been named. George Dixon was to run the Brookside machine, and it had been decided by lot that Fred should manipulate the Lakeport aircraft.

During the past week nothing more had been heard from Si Voup and Ike Boardman, nor had our friends learned anything further concerning the disappearance of Andrew Akers. Mr. Rush and Mr. Westmore were investigating the doings of Thomas Mason and Lamar Chase, but had so far brought nothing new to light.

The race of the biplanes was to start from a big field midway between Lakeport and Brookside, and quite a crowd had assembled to see the contest. In order to be sure that the Skylark was in good order for the run Fred himself flew the aircraft to the starting field, the other lads going on their bicycles.

“How does she work?” questioned Joe, when he arrived.

“Quite well,” was the stout youth’s reply. “Somehow the motor seems to drag a little at times.”

“Let us look over the carburetter and the spark plugs,” suggested the older Westmore youth, and this was done, and then the engine appeared to run somewhat better.

The Swallow was already on the ground, along with the boys who owned the biplane, and many others. Both flying machines were gone over with care.

“Fred, do you know the way?” asked Link.

“I think I do,” was the answer. “I’ve been over it several times on my wheel.”

“Steer straight for Crossley’s windmill first,” said Bart, “and then follow the railroad tracks as far as Jackson’s barn, and then look for Bacon’s mill. That will give you almost a straight course.”

There had been something of a breeze, but about four o’clock in the afternoon this died down, and both of the contestants announced their readiness to start.

“Now, Fred, make as good a flight as you can,” said Joe. “But don’t run any risks. Better to be beaten than have an accident.”

“Oh, I know that,” was the answer.

The two biplanes had been brought up side by side in the big field. At a word from Mr. Corsen, who had agreed to umpire the race, the engines were started up. Both made such a noise that speech was impossible, and the rich man signaled to go by dropping a flag he carried. Then, with a whizz and a rattle like that of Gatling guns, the two biplanes rushed across the field and arose into the air.

“Hurrah, they’re off!”

“May the best flying machine win!”

“Wow! talk about your races!” said Frank Pemberton. “This has got everything else beat a mile!”

“By gum! ain’t it great!” added Ike Suttervane, a genuine country lad who lived in that vicinity and who had occasionally played on the Lakeport baseball nine as a substitute.

“Tell yer wot, it takes our boys to do it,” burst out Teddy Dugan, an Irish lad, also well known to the boys. “But I’d not be goin’ up in such a big white thing, not me!” he added, with a grave shake of his head.

The crowd continued to yell and cheer, while the chums of Fred and George watched the flight of the two flying machines with close attention. As the young aviators passed swiftly out of sight it was seen that Fred was slightly in the lead.

“We’ll win!” cried Harry, enthusiastically.

“Humph! this race isn’t over yet!” answered a Brookside youth.

On and on swept the two biplanes, each engine banging away as loudly as ever. It had been decided that while side by side Fred should keep to the left and George to the right.

“Now if I can only keep in the lead,” mused the stout youth, as he saw the Swallow drop a little to the rear. Then he looked down on the ground, to make certain that he was steering the right course.

A sudden puff of wind caused Fred to watch his machine more closely and shift the rudder control slightly. Then he saw that the other biplane was rising. It was this that had caused George to drop behind. Now the rival aircraft was in another wind level and soon it was forging to the front at an increased rate of speed.

“I guess it is better flying up there,” reasoned Fred, and he started to go up. “The wind is not so strong and it blows in just the right direction.”

Soon he was on the upper level and there sailing seemed better. But in going up he had lost some headway, and now he saw that the Swallow was in front and increasing the lead steadily. He tried to get more speed out of his motor, but soon found this impossible.

On the upper level it was no easy task for either of the young aviators to follow the course given them. Fred made out the railroad tracks with ease, but was not sure of the Jackson barn. He saw a structure that he thought was it and swung away as directed by Bart. The two machines were now far apart and he noted that George was still following the tracks.

“Either he is wrong or I am,” he mused. Then he came back to the tracks, just as the other biplane left the vicinity of the railroad. The Swallow was now nearly half a mile ahead and running as steadily as ever.

In a few seconds more the wind dropped away entirely and then Fred allowed the Skylark to go down about a hundred feet. He could now see the country below better, and soon discovered that he was at least a quarter of a mile out of his course.

“But if I am out, so is George,” he told himself, as he made a shift to bring the biplane in. “He’s gone as far to the north as I went to the south. I guess this race will go to the fellow who can keep the closer to the course.”

A little later Fred saw Bacon’s mill and then from this was able to steer a straight course for the Phelps place—a well-known country seat of that locality. He was now ahead of the Swallow, much to his satisfaction.

“Maybe I’ll win after all,” he reasoned. “Hope I do. But the Swallow is certainly a good machine.”

The Phelps family had been telephoned to regarding the race, and a crowd had assembled to watch the two flying machines circle in the air over the barn. Not to take chances, Fred made a wide turn and George soon after followed. Those below waved flags, and the little Phelps boy beat loudly on his drum,—a noise that never reached the young aviators, because of the explosions from the aircraft engines. With the muffler of his engine “cut out” a birdman finds it impossible to hear any other sound around him, and if he has a passenger and wishes to speak to him he must do so largely by signs, or by the use of one of several newly-invented speaking devices. Some of the newest of the flying-machine motors run with mufflers, but these are not, as yet, numerous.

“Now if I can only steer a straight course for the starting-point I’ll be all right,” Fred told himself, after leaving the Phelps place behind. But then of a sudden came a sweep of wind that caused him to change his course in a hurry. The wind was so heavy that he had all he could do to keep the Skylark on anything like an even keel. Then he ran into a “soft spot,” and this bothered him some more. When at last he got himself “straightened out,” as he termed it, he found that he was completely off his course and over a section of country that was strange to him.

“Now I certainly have done it,” he mused. “I wonder where the Swallow is?”

He peered around, and finally made out the other biplane well off to the westward. Not knowing what else to do, he turned in that direction. Then he saw that the other aircraft was turned towards him.

“Either he has made a mistake or I have,” he thought, and watched the rival flying machine with interest. Then he saw an old windmill, painted white and red, and that gave him some idea of where he was, and as the Swallow turned off over a country road leading to the railroad tracks, the Skylark did likewise. But another puff of wind came up, and each young aviator had to make another turn. Then each headed for the starting field as well as he was able, Fred coming in from the upper side and George from the lower.

“Here they come!”

“Get out of the way there, or you’ll get hit!”

“The Swallow is the first to land!”

“No, the Skylark will strike the ground first!”

These and many other cries welled up as the two biplanes drew closer. Then the crowd parted, one section rushing to the east of the field and the other to the west.

“Here they are!”

“Down they come!”

“Which one hit the ground first?”

“Neither. It’s a tie race!”

“A tie? Well, now what do you think of that?”

Both of the motors had been shut off, and like two big white birds the biplanes descended slowly towards the field. They landed exactly at the same time and came to a halt less than a hundred feet apart. Fred was the first to leap to the ground, and George quickly followed.

“It is certainly a tie race,” declared Mr. Munroe Corsen. “I shall have to congratulate you both.” And he took each young aviator by the hand.

“I made a wrong turn,” said the youth from Brookside. “If it hadn’t been for that I might have won.”

“And I lost my way and made several wrong turns!” cried Fred. “But never mind; I’m satisfied,” and he smiled at his rival.

“So am I satisfied,” answered George. “But the two machines will have to race again some day.”

“To be sure!” cried Joe. “We’ll get the Bartley boys to take part, and get up a regular aviation meet.”

“That will suit me!” cried Andy Brown. “We can do all sorts of stunts—and put up prizes, too.”

Despite the fact that the race had been declared a tie, everybody who had witnessed the affair was well pleased and all went home satisfied. Andy Brown sailed the Swallow back to Brookside, and Link took the Skylark to Lakeport.

“We must see about this aviation meet,” said Joe, when the boys met that evening, at the carpenter-shop hangar. “We want to run it off before it gets too cold.”

“Right you are!” declared Bart. “And as I don’t care much for flying myself, if you wish, you can appoint me manager of the meet, for the Lakeport Aero Club. You fellows can do the flying and I’ll——”

“Take in all the gate receipts,” put in the irrepressible Matt, who had been invited to be present. “Chain him fast, fellows, when he does it, so he can’t fly away.” And a laugh went up.

“All right, Bart, we’ll make you general manager!” cried Joe. “How about it, fellows?”

“Aye!” came in a general chorus.

“We’ll make Bart general manager, Paul assistant manager, and Matt press agent,” put in Fred. “Matt will make a dandy press agent—he can blow so easily.” And then there was another laugh.

A lively talk followed, and a general plan for an aero meet was mapped out. Then a letter about the affair was written to George Dixon and his followers and a duplicate was penned for the Bartley brothers, of Haverford. All sorts of contests were mentioned, and the other boys were asked to send word what they thought of such a meeting. Then the gathering broke up and the two letters were posted.