Andy was led into the office of the jail and up to the desk of the official who had registered his name the day before. This man opened a drawer and pushed a package before Andy and a receipt.
“See if your money is all right,” he directed, “and sign that receipt.”
“Going to give them back to me, are you?” said Andy brightly, feeling delighted at recovering his liberty. “They must have found out that I am innocent.”
“H-m! that’s to be determined later on.”
Andy looked questioningly about the room. Who had set him free? What did it mean? Just then he caught the sound of voices in another room and the officer pointed to it.
“Your friend is in there,” he said. “He’s waiting for you.”
Andy felt as if he had wings on his feet. His heart was overflowing with gladness. He crossed the threshold of the doorway the officer had indicated, looked in, and then stood stock still, very much surprised.
“Well, young man, we’ve reached you at last?” spoke a hearty voice.
“Why, it’s Mr. Webb!” exclaimed Andy.
He had at once recognized the gentleman whom he had driven over in the automobile from Princeville to Macon, the day when all his troubles in life seemed to have begun.
With Mr. Webb was a man who nodded pleasantly but curiously to Andy. This was Joshua Bird. He was reported to be the richest man in Princeville, and dealt principally in real estate and had the reputation of being something of a miser.
Mr. Webb, holding Andy’s hand, turned to Mr. Bird.
“Well, sir, everything is satisfactory?” he asked.
“Entirely so,” answered Bird. “You’re putting a good deal of faith in a lad you scarcely know, though.”
“I’ll bank on my confidence,” answered Mr. Webb. “Nelson, you remember me, do you not?”
“Perfectly, sir, but I don’t understand.”
“My being here?” questioned Mr. Webb. “A purely selfish motive is at the bottom of it, I am free to confess, although I am glad to be of service to you on general principles. Are you ready to leave here at once?”
“Where for, sir?”
“An automobile dash across the country.”
“And then am I to return here?”
“Not until your trial comes on. Let me explain, so you will understand the situation. I have gone on your bail bond.”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” said Andy gratefully.
“Your friend, Mr. Parks, found me late last night at Greenville, where Mr. West and myself were anxiously awaiting you. He explained about your arrest, and told us the whole story of your affairs. It seems that your trouble began with the finding of my pocketbook. It was only right, therefore, that I should stand by you—which I have done, and intend to keep up, Andy, for you have proven yourself a good, honest boy.”
“Thank you, Mr. Webb,” said our hero with considerable emotion.
“Mr. West, my legal adviser, arranged with Mr. Bird, who has just left us. The signing of your bail bond is the result. You are free to get to those anxious friends of yours at the aviation meet, but first I want you to take a little trip with me.”
“After that old leather pocketbook, I suppose.”
“You’ve guessed it right, Andy.”
“I would like to speak with a good friend of mine in the jail here for a moment,” said Andy, “and then I will be ready to go with you.”
“All right, Andy.”
Chase had already heard the good news and congratulated Andy, chuckling and hobbling about at a great rate.
“Remember you’re to look out for a new job for me,” he intimated.
“I’ll attend to that all right, Mr. Chase,” promised Andy. “If things go as I think they will, I have a friend as well as an employer who will probably need a man such as you to potter about and look after things.”
“Andy, I’ll potter for keeps if you get me that situation,” declared the old lockup-keeper earnestly. “You get it fixed for me, and when your trial comes up, I’ll show you how much I think of you.”
“Things are certainly coming out famously right,” chirped Andy gaily, as he left Chase.
“Now then, Nelson, take a try at my new machine,” said Mr. Webb, as he led Andy to the street.
Seth Talbot, one of his own machines waiting at the curb for a fare, was strolling around inspecting the beautiful touring car which Mr. Webb had indicated.
“Eh, hey! what’s this?” he blubbered out, as Andy walked smartly to the machine and leaped into the driver’s seat.
An officer who was aware of the situation nudged Talbot and spoke a few quick words to him in an undertone. The face of the garage owner turned white with astonishment and malice. Mr. Webb had noticed him, and asked Andy:
“Who is that man?”
“Mr. Talbot, my old employer,” responded Andy.
“I don’t like his looks,” spoke Mr. Webb simply. “Now then, Nelson, of course you know where I want to go.”
“After the leather pocketbook—yes, sir.”
“I hope you can find it.”
“I feel sure we shall, sir. We will have to take some roundabout roads to get to the farm I told Mr. West about.”
“This is a very important matter to me,” explained Mr. Webb. “I may as well tell you, Nelson, that the fortune and happiness of two orphan children, distant relatives of mine, depend on the finding of that old pocketbook.”
“I am very much interested, Mr. Webb,” said Andy.
“You did not notice perhaps, but glued down in the big part of that pocketbook is a thin compartment. Secreted in that is an old time-worn sheet of paper that I spent thousands of dollars and a year’s time in locating and getting into my possession. I was on my way to my lawyer with it, and had placed two hundred dollars in the pocketbook for costs in the law suit, when I lost the pocketbook, as you know.”
“I never dreamed there was any value in the old pocketbook,” said Andy. “I knew it was in my old clothes which I threw away at a farm near Wade, I told you about. I remember perfectly well tossing them up on an old shelf. Unless they have been disturbed, we will find the clothes and the pocketbook. It was a regular old rubbish pile where I tossed them, and out of anybody’s way.”
“I shall feel immensely relieved and glad when I find that document,” declared Mr. Webb, with a sigh of anxiety.
John Parks was responsible for bringing the word to Mr. West that had sent Mr. Webb to Princeville. The aeronaut had told the lawyer considerable about Andy and the approaching airship race, and as they rolled along Mr. Webb showed a great deal of interest in Andy’s aviation ambitions and asked a great many questions.
“I shall want to see you again as soon as I get that document in the pocketbook to the lawyers,” said the gentleman. “The airship race is to-morrow?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I will keep track of you through Mr. Parks, and probably meet you day after to-morrow. I hope you win the race, Nelson, and get the prize. You deserve it, my boy. If you fail, do not get discouraged. You have some good friends, and I am one of them.”
“You have shown that,” said Andy with feeling. “I wouldn’t have missed the race for a good deal.”
Andy entertained his companion considerably by a recital of his adventures three weeks previously when he had helped the goose farmer get his product to market.
“Just yonder is where I met him first,” explained Andy, as they passed over a bridge crossing the river. “It’s a straight road to the Collins farm now, but not very even.”
“I hope we find things as you expect,” said Mr. Webb.
“I think we will,” answered Andy cheerfully.
It was about an hour later when they rounded a curve in a beautiful country road.
“Just beyond that grove of trees,” said Andy, “and we come in full view of the Collins farmhouse. Now we can see it—Why, I—don’t—understand—this.”
Andy slowed down in speech, with a series of wondering gasps, as he likewise slowed down the machine.
“Why, what’s the matter, Nelson?” queried Mr. Webb.
“Don’t you see?” began Andy. “No, you don’t see, and that’s just it. There’s something wrong. The farmhouse did stand right over where that gravelled road runs into the farm, and now——”
“Nelson,” interrupted Mr. Webb almost sharply, “there has been a fire here.”
Andy stared dubiously, but in great concern. There could be no doubt of it, this was the site of the Collins’ farm. There were the white-washed posts where the farm road began, the horse block where he bade the goose farmer good-by, but the farmhouse itself had disappeared.
“Nelson, could you possibly be mistaken?”
“No, sir, positively not.”
Andy had come to a dead stop with the automobile. He stared blankly at the prospect before them. The site of the Collins farmhouse was a flat stretch of waste and ruin. Grass, weeds, trees, fences showed the ravages of a great fire.
Mr. Webb looked dreadfully disappointed. His face had become almost pale. Andy shared his disquietude, but he could simply say:
“I am very sorry.”
“You did all you could, Nelson,” responded his companion. “Here comes some one. We will question him a little.”
A farm laborer with a hoe across his shoulder sauntered down the road. Andy hailed him. As he came nearer to them Mr. Webb said:
“My man, what has been happening around here?”
“Don’t you see?” queried the man, with a comprehensive wave of his hand across the bleak ruins. “Fire.”
“This is the Collins farm, isn’t it?”
“It was,” answered the man. “The fire took them in the night a week ago.”
“And burned everything about the place?”
“Down to the pig styes.”
“Where are the Collins people?”
“Gone over into Bowen County until they can arrange to build again.”
“Start up, Nelson,” ordered Mr. Webb. “It’s a waste of time to loiter around here.”
Mr. Webb felt cruelly disappointed. Andy saw this and was sorry for him. He glanced at the spot where he remembered the old shed to have stood. Even the tree that had sheltered it had burned to a crisp.
“Where am I to go?” inquired Andy.
“You had better strike for Rushville,” replied Mr. Webb. “From what I remember, you can get a train to Montrose earlier than on the Central.”
“I am to go on to John Parks?”
“That’s the programme,” said Mr. Webb, trying to appear cheerful; “why not?”
Andy reflected seriously for a moment or two. Finally he spoke:
“Mr. Webb,” he said; “I hardly feel right to leave you on my bond for that big amount. Something might happen so that I could not appear for trial—trickery, or a dozen things.”
“And because you have not succeeded in recovering that pocketbook, you suppose I’m going to desert you, Nelson?” inquired the gentleman.
“You are not the man to do a single mean thing,” replied Andy, “but, with all your troubles, and me being a stranger——”
“Drop it, Nelson. You have tried to be the best friend in the world to me, and I’d go on your bond for double the amount I have. You are to go straight on to Montrose, win that airship race, and when you have got that off your mind we will have a talk together.”
“You are a good, kind man,” said Andy, with fervor, “and I’d walk barefooted on hot coals to get you back that pocketbook.”
When they reached Rushville, Mr. Webb took charge of the automobile. He made many encouraging references to the coming airship race, and when he left Andy at the railroad station shook his hand in a friendly way.
Andy made a disappointing discovery as soon as he consulted the train schedules. A change in the service of the road had been made only that week, and there was no train south until seven o’clock. It was now three, and he would have to wait four hours.
“I won’t be able to get home until after dark,” reflected the lad. “I hoped to have an hour or two of daylight for practice, but this knocks my plans awry. Well, as it is, this is a good deal better than missing the race altogether.”
It was quite dark when the train reached the limits of Montrose. It stopped at a crossing, and Andy got off and made a short cut for the Parks camp.
His course led him past the large aviation field. Andy was anxious to report to Mr. Parks as soon as possible, but unusual light and animation about the big enclosure aroused his curiosity and interest, and he passed the gate and strolled by the various aerodromes.
Everything was “the race!” Groups were discussing it, contestants were oiling up their machines and exploiting the merits of the others. An hour passed by before Andy realized it. He came to halt in front of the last tent in the row, turned to retrace his steps, and then suddenly halted.
“I’d like to know what the Duske crowd is about,” he reflected, glancing towards the isolated camp which he had surreptitiously visited only a few nights previous. “Mr. Parks might be glad to know, too. I’ll do a little skirmishing and find out what I can.”
Andy crossed a dark space. Lights were moving about the Duske camp, and these served as a guide. He neared the fence surrounding the camp, got over it, and cautiously approached the large tent which held the airship he had inspected on his first stealthy visit to the place.
Suddenly Andy tripped and fell. His foot had caught in a wire stretched taut under the grass. As he went headlong across the grass, a bell began to jingle, and he realized that the wire was one of many probably set to trap intruders. At all events, before he could get to his feet two men ran out of the tent.
One of these was Duske. The other was his companion of the evening when Andy had previously visited the place. They pounced on him promptly.
“Another spy,” spoke Duske, dragging the captive toward the tent.
“They’re getting thick,” observed his companion. “Those fellows at the big camp are mighty curious to pry into the secrets of our craft here. Hello! why, Duske, this is the same fellow we caught snooping around here three nights since.”
“Eh? Oh, it’s you again, is it?”
They had come inside the tent. The light burning there revealed Andy fully. Without letting go of him Duske scowlingly surveyed his captive.
“Say, Duske,” spoke the other man quickly, “it’s Parks’ boy, and he’s the one who won the pony prize.”
“Was that you?” demanded Duske; “are you Andy Nelson?”
“Suppose so?” queried Andy.
“Then you’re the fellow who is going to take Parks’ place in the race to-morrow?”
“I guess that is right,” affirmed Andy.
“No,” cried Duske, showing his teeth, and looking fierce and malicious, “it’s wrong, dead wrong, as you’re going to find out. Fetch me some rope.”
“Hold on,” objected Andy, “you aren’t going to tie me up?”
He put up a manful struggle and very nearly got away. The two powerful men were more than his equal, however, and in a very few minutes Andy found himself tied hand and foot.
Duske and his companion carried him bodily along through the tent, past the flying machine, and threw him onto a mattress lying on the ground in a small compartment partitioned off with canvas. Duske tested the ropes that bound Andy, gave them another twist, and went out into the main tent.
“This looks like luck,” observed the companion of Duske.
“Yes, if we’ve got the bearings right,” replied the other, “Are you sure he was scheduled to take Parks’ place in the race?”
“Of course I am. Hasn’t Tyrrell told us already about his getting into trouble somewhere, and couldn’t be here to make the race? Hasn’t Parks hired Tyrrell in his place?”
“Then how comes the boy to be here? I don’t like the looks of things at all.”
“Tyrrell will be here before long. He can post us if there is any break in our arrangements.”
The two men passed out of hearing. Andy made one or two efforts to loosen his bonds, found them unusually secure, and gave up the experiment. What his captors had said startled and disturbed him considerably.
“Mr. Parks doesn’t expect me to show up in time to make the race, and this man they talked about, Tyrrell, is going to take my place,” reflected Andy. “He is a friend of the people here, and that certainly means harm for Mr. Parks.”
Andy worried himself a good deal during the next hour, imagining all kinds of plots on the part of Duske and his friends to prevent the Racing Star from winning the prize.
Finally Andy heard voices in the large tent. His name was spoken, and he listened intently to catch what was said.
“If that’s so, and it’s really Andy Nelson,” sounded a new voice, “it’s funny, for up to this morning he was in jail at Princeville.”
“Then he’s escaped, or got free somehow,” answered Duske. “He’s that boy of Parks’ who was the winner in the dash for the pony prize.”
“If he is,” came the reply, “you want to hold him a close prisoner till the big race is over.”
The voices that Andy heard died away in the distance. In about ten minutes, however, they came back again within his range of hearing. The man he believed to be Tyrrell, who in some way had induced Mr. Parks to accept him as a substitute for himself in the aviation race, was speaking to his companion, who was Duske.
“That’s the programme, is it?” he was asking.
“To a T.”
“You will look out for the Nelson boy.”
“Don’t fret on that score. We’ll cage him safe and sound until the race is over.”
“You think I had better use the bottle?”
“Yes, here it is. Stow it anywhere in your clothes.”
“Isn’t there some easier way? What’s the use of fire? It may strike investigators as suspicious.”
“Not at all. They tanked you too full, a spark did the mischief, see? You know enough to descend in among some trees?”
“Of course.”
“Let the flame singe your clothing, tell some sensational story of a hairbreadth escape, and you’ll be quite a hero.”
“You think with the Racing Star out of the way that your machine is bound to win, do you?”
“I know it,” affirmed Duske confidently. “Those other aeroplanes are mere botches. They will do as playthings, but as to distance, they’re not in it with the Moon Bird.”
“All right, I’ll follow instructions. Keep that boy safe. I’d better go. It would be all up with our scheme if Parks should suspect I was your friend.”
Andy fairly writhed where he lay. The plot of the villains was now perfectly clear to him. The man Tyrrell had wormed himself into the confidence of Mr. Parks, who little suspected that he was a confederate of Duske. Tyrrell was to make the start with the Racing Star, pretend that an accident had happened, and burn up the airship.
“What shall I do—what can I do?” breathed Andy. “They don’t intend to let me go until after the race is over to-morrow.”
In about an hour Duske and an old man who seemed to be the cook of the camp came to where Andy lay. Duske released one hand of the captive. The anxious prisoner did not feel much like eating, but he realized that he must keep up his strength. He ate some bread and meat which the cook brought, and drank some water.
Duske tied him up again, tighter than ever. Then he spoke to the cook:
“You get your armchair right outside the canvas flap here, Dobbins.”
“All right, Mr. Duske,” replied the man.
“Every fifteen minutes, right through till morning, you are to look in on that boy. See that he is comfortable, but particularly that he is safe.”
“I’ll attend to it.”
“If you let him get away, you’re out of a job, remember.”
The cook followed out the programme directed by Duske to the minutest detail. Andy had no opportunity to free himself—he was watched so closely. He decided that the effort would be futile. Until midnight he lay wide awake, nervous and worried. Then he made up his mind that it did no good to fret, and got some sleep.
He was given his breakfast about six o’clock in the morning. Then he was tied up again and left to himself. He lay on the mattress so that when the wind blew the canvas lifted and he could look out. He was faced away from the direction of the aviation field, however, and twenty feet away the fence stared him blankly in the face.
From sounds near by and in the distance during the next two hours, Andy could figure out just what was going on about him. The Moon Bird was carried from its aerodrome and taken to the aviation field. The old cook seemed to be left in possession of the camp. He looked in on Andy every so often. The rest of the time he was busy in the larger tent or outside of it with his cooking utensils.
Poor Andy was in sore straits of despair. He had a vivid imagination, and could fancy all that was shut out from his view by captivity. He heard a distant town bell strike nine o’clock.
“In an hour the airships will be off,” soliloquized the captive mournfully, “and I won’t be there.”
Andy pictured in his mind all that was going on at the aviation field. He could fancy the airships ranging in place for the start. He could imagine the animation and excitement permeating the groups of spectators. He shut his eyes and tried to forget it all, so keen was his disappointment.
He heard the band strike up a gay tune. Then a gun was fired. Andy almost shed tears. In twenty minutes the starting signal was due.
“They’ll have a head wind,” he ruminated, as the breeze lifted the canvas at the side of the mattress upon which he lay. “It will be light, though, and won’t hinder much;” and then he thrilled, as he fancied himself seated in the operator’s stand of the splendid Racing Star, awaiting the final word, “Go!”
Andy stared blankly at the fence of the enclosure of the Duske camp. A section of it had been broken down, and the gate left open in removing the airship. Of a sudden he stared eagerly. Some one had come into the enclosure.
The intruder was evidently some casual sight-seer, a boy. His hands were in his pockets, and he strolled about as if curiously inspecting everything that came under his notice. He cast a careless glance at the tent, and was proceeding on his way towards the main aviation field, when Andy gave a great start.
“Silas—Silas Pierce!” he shouted, ignoring discovery by the cook.
Andy’s heart was thumping like a trip-hammer. It seemed as if on the verge of the blackest despair a bright star of hope had risen on the horizon. He had recognized the intruder with surprise, but with gladness as well.
It was his companion of the goose trip, the son of Mr. Pierce—the farmer Silas—whom Andy had last seen at the Collins place, the farm he had visited the day previous. Silas wore a brand-new suit of clothes. He suggested the typical country boy, with some loose cash in his pocket, enjoying a brief holiday to the utmost.
“Hey!” exclaimed Silas, with a startled jump, his eyes goggling all about, and unable to trace the source of the challenge.
Andy uttered a groan. At the moment the breeze let down, and the canvas dropped, shutting him in and Silas out. Then a puff of wind came and lifted the flap again.
“Here, here, Silas!” called out Andy in tones of strained suspense. “Quick—help!”
“I vum!” gasped the farmer boy, staring blankly at what he saw of Andy. “Who is it? And—I say, you’re dad’s great friend, the Nelson boy!”
Silas had advanced, and took in the situation, and recognized Andy slowly.
“Lift up the canvas; come in here,” directed Andy in a more cautious tone of voice. “You remember me, don’t you?”
“Guess I do; but what in the world of wonder is the matter with you?”
“Don’t talk so loud,” pleaded Andy anxiously, fearing the arrival of the cook at any moment. “Some bad men have tied me up. Have you got a knife?”
“Yes; and a brand-new one. Won it in a funny game where you throw rings. See there,” and with great pride Silas produced and opened a gaudily-handled jack-knife.
“Oh, thank you, Silas; I’ll never forget this.”
“Hold on! Say! Thunder! Is he crazy? Stop! Stop!”
In profound excitement, Silas Pierce regarded Andy. The minute he had cut the bonds of the young aviator, Andy had bounded to his feet as if set on springs. Afar from the aviation field there boomed out the second, the get-ready gun.
“Ten minutes!” gasped Andy, on fire with resolve. “I’ve got to make it.”
He swept aside the canvas, headed in the direction of the main camp. Hot on his heels came his amazed rescuer, now a wondering pursuer. Andy ran at the fence, gave a spring, and cleared its top in a graceful leap. Silas, more clumsy, ran at two loose boards, and by sheer force of his might and strength, sent them out of place and put after Andy.
“Nelson!” he bawled. “What’s the matter? Nobody’s following you. Crickey, but you’re a sprinter!”
“I’ll see you later—Parks’ camp—in a hurry.”
In a hurry, indeed, was Andy. He was running against time. As a turn past some tents brought him in full sight of the open field, he was a lone heroic figure—heart, brain and body strained to reach the dainty, natty Racing Star, just being wheeled in place for flight.
There were seven airships entered for the race. These were now stationed a distance of several hundred yards apart, ready to start. The spectators were held back from the dead line by ropes stretched from post to post, but Andy was coming across the field from its inside edge. Silas Pierce was putting after him, puzzled and excited, breathless, and far to the rear. Their unconventional arrival attracted no attention, for those in charge of the airships were engrossed in seeing that everything was right for the start.
The Racing Star was being pushed forward to its starting position. All the others were in place. In a swift glance, Andy made out the Moon Bird, and recognized Duske seated amidships.
Near the Racing Star was Mr. Parks, directing affairs, and Scipio was standing near by. At one side were Mr. Morse and Tsilsuma, deeply interested in the manoeuvres going on.
“It’s Tyrrell!” panted Andy, and he redoubled his speed as he made out the treacherous ally of Duske. Tyrrell was arrayed in leather jacket and gloves, keeping pace with the Racing Star as it moved along. As the airship came to a halt on the starting line, Andy saw him move forward to take his seat amidships.
It was then that Andy massed all his strength of being, accompanied by animated gesticulations, as he shouted out:
“Stop that man!”
“Andy!” shouted John Parks in a transport of amazement.
“It’s me,” panted Andy, running up to his employer and pointing at Tyrrell. “Mr. Parks, stop that man. He’s a traitor; he’s a villain!”
Tyrrell had heard and seen Andy. He gave a great start. Then he made a move as if to hasten aboard the airship and get out of his way. Mr. Morse and the Japanese hastened forward. The men guiding the aeroplane stared hard at the newcomer.
“Andy, what do you mean?” demanded Mr. Parks, lost in wonderment.
“Just what I say. Don’t let him get aboard.”
“Hold on, Tyrrell,” ordered the aeronaut.
“We’ll lose the start,” spoke Tyrrell hurriedly.
“Don’t you get aboard.”
“No, sah; yo’ just obey Mistah Parks, suh,” interposed Scipio, laying a great hindering hand on the arm of Tyrrell.
“I have been a prisoner in the Duske camp since yesterday,” explained Andy, catching his breath. “This man Tyrrell came there last night. He is in the employ of Duske.”
“What!” shouted Parks, his face growing dark.
“It’s true, Mr. Parks,” asseverated Andy. “They are in a plot to burn the Racing Star and have you lose the prize.”
“Do you hear what this boy says?” thundered the aeronaut, moving down on Tyrrell with threatening mien.
“It’s—it’s not true,” declared Tyrrell, but turning pale, shrinking back, and looking about him for a chance to run.
“If you don’t believe me,” cried Andy, “search him.”
Scipio held Tyrrell’s arm in a viselike clasp. Parks ran his hand over his clothing. He drew from his pocket a parcel done up in a handkerchief. Mr. Morse took it, opened it, and revealed a bottle filled with some substance like kerosene, a small box of matches and some lint. Quick as a flash the hand of the aeronaut shot out for the throat of Tyrrell.
“You treacherous scoundrel!” he shouted.
Boom!
“The third gun! They’re off, Mr. Parks,” cried Andy. “Oh, don’t let the Racing Star miss it.”
“Send me. Men, get ready. Mr. Parks, I’ll win this race!”
Andy was in no trim physically or in attire to attempt the race. At a glance the aeronaut saw this. But our hero was irresistible. He ran towards the machine, and with nimble movements he glided among the planes and reached the operator’s seat. Already the other airships were sailing skywards.
“Go!” shouted Andy.
Upon the operator’s seat lay the skull cap and goggles, ready for Tyrrell, and Andy hastily donned them. He heard the voice of Parks, now as excited as himself, giving orders, a tacit consent to make the start.
There was a run of scarcely a hundred feet along the grass. Andy placed a firm hand on the wheel. Then came a series of curves and sweeping arcs, which kept the crowd of spectators turning first one way and then the other in entranced silence.
The young aviator followed the popping of the motors of the contestant machines. One was fast becoming a mere speck in the sky.
“The Moon Bird, Duske’s machine,” murmured Andy.
It seemed poised in the air without motion, so direct was its course, so true its mechanism. Two of the other airships had already descended, one of them wrecked and out of the race. The forty-foot mechanical bird, the Duske machine, however, had made the lead and kept it.
The climax came in Andy’s preliminary ascent. Now the Racing Star, light and dainty as a lark, mounted with amazing speed. A glance at three of the airships convinced Andy that they were too faulty to make a record. The Moon Bird, however, was a marvel. From what he had heard Mr. Parks say, Duske had been an expert balloonist, and he now showed amazing ability in the aviation line. He seemed to be putting the stolen airship idea to marked advantage.
Andy struck a level about fifteen hundred feet in the air. There was a head wind, but it was not strong. Andy put on fine speed gradually. The Racing Star passed two of the contestants, and, fully in action, he drove keen on the trail of the Moon Bird.
The train that acted as a pilot with an American flag on its last car, Andy kept in view as a guide. When they came to Lake Clear, the Moon Bird did not follow the rounding land course, nor did Andy. Lake Clear was a shallow body of water, but of considerable extent, and dotted here and there with little islands.
Suddenly the Moon Bird, a machine of good utility, but, as Andy knew, of little lasting power, made a decided spurt, passed the Racing Star, and at a distance of half a mile got fairly abreast of the lake. It was here that Duske met his Waterloo. Hitherto he had maintained practically a steady course. More than once Andy had got near enough to this rival to hear the loud gasping of the tube exhausts drown out the sharp chug-chug of the motor. Suddenly Duske made a sharp turn.
An appalling climax followed. In consternation and suspense Andy watched aerial evolutions that fairly dizzied him.
“He is lost!” breathed Andy, a-thrill.
In an instant he recalled what Mr. Morse had told him of the unfinished model that Duske and his crowd had stolen from him. The inventor had explained to Andy that while the suction principle involved in the rudder construction was unique and bound to increase speed, there should have been added automatic caps to close the rear ends of the suction tubes where a curve was attempted.
Of this Duske evidently knew nothing. The moment he turned the machine, however, there was a whirl. The aeroplane described a dive, then a somersault. Its lateral planes collapsed, and, tipping from side to side, it began to descend with frightful velocity.
Once it half righted, balanced, went over again, and, fifty feet from the ground, shot clear of a little islet, and went down in the water of the lake, a wreck, first spilling Duske out.
“He is killed or stunned!” exclaimed Andy.
The boy aviator saw the other airships forging ahead, indifferent to the accident. Minutes counted in the sixty-mile race to Springfield and back to the starting point, but Andy was humane. He saw clearly that, if alive, the half-submerged Duske would be suffocated in a few minutes’ time.
“I can’t leave him to die,” murmured Andy, and sent the Racing Star on a sharp slant, landing on the island.
Andy was soon out of the airship. He waded to the spot where Duske lay, and dragged him bodily up on dry land. As he turned him on his face, Andy knew from its purple hue, the lifeless limbs and choked gasps of the man, that another minute in the water would have been his last.
A boat put out from the mainland where a crowd of spectators was watching the race. Four men jumped out as the island was reached.
“Take care of this man,” ordered Andy.
“You’re a pretty fair fellow to risk losing the race to save a competitor,” spoke one of the men heartily.
He and his companions followed Andy’s instructions the best they could in starting the Racing Star, and Andy shot skywards again, making up for lost time.
“Hurrah!”
“Why, it’s only a boy!”
“Parks’ man—get your rest, lad, while we see to things.”
Andy found himself in a whirl of motion and excitement. When he had left the island where he had sacrificed his time and risked his chances of winning the race, he had discovered that he was fourth on the programme. The Flash was becoming a distant speck, and the two other contesting biplanes were lagging after the leader.
Andy now set a pace to force the Racing Star to do its utmost. His good knowledge of detail as to the machinery and his masterly manipulation of the same soon brought results. The Racing Star easily passed two of the airships ahead. Then Andy ran neck-and-neck with the pilot train for several miles.
The Flash, however, kept up admirable speed, but finally a wing broke or oil ran out at Wayne, and the operator descended to a relief station.
Now was Andy’s chance, and he made the most of it. With those inspiriting shouts of “Hurrah! Why, it’s only a boy!” and the announcement from the relay posted at Springfield by Parks that they were on hand to tank up the Racing Star and adjust the machinery, Andy landed at the outskirts of the city, just half the race distance covered.
It made him quite dizzy-headed to sail down along a vast sea of human beings, wild with enthusiasm at greeting the leader so far in the race.
Two men took entire charge of the Racing Star, with quick movements, tanking, oiling the cylinders, testing every part of it. A third man brought Andy a tray containing a cup of steaming coffee, one of beef tea, and some crackers.
“There she comes!”
“Hurrah No. 2!”
“The Flash!”
“And there she goes!”
“All aboard, Parks,” sang out the leader of the relay gang, and with a glide and a whiz the Racing Star was once more up in the air.
Again the Flash was in the lead. Having been supplied with fuel and oil at its recent stop, the operator did not make any halt at the turning post. Andy felt fresh and ambitious, and the Racing Star responded loyally to every touch of wheel and lever.
Fifty feet from the ground a wheel dropped from place, but Andy paid no attention to this. The train did not act as pilot on the return trip. Instead, at intervals of five miles to indicate stations, smudges were being sent aloft. Andy made a direct run for the first one of these, mapping out his route from those dimly visible on the course ahead.
At Dover Andy passed the Flash. For the next five miles they kept pretty well abreast.
The last smudge was about eight miles from Montrose. Andy flew past it making a circular turn as he plainly made out the aviation field in the distance. His competitor made a short cut, lost on a turn to strike the straight course and Andy overtook him.
Now it was that Andy tensioned up the splendid machine to its highest power. The white expanse of canvas and wood shivered and trembled under an unusual strain.
“In the lead!” cried Andy in delight, and his eyes sparkled through the goggles as he took a swift backward glance. The Flash was bungling. Its progress was a wobble and its operator was at fault in striking an even balance.
The speed of the Racing Star had now been increased to its utmost.
“Five minutes more, six at the most, will decide the race,” breathed Andy. “I can’t lose now.”
The Racing Star was no longer a bird afloat, but an arrow. Giving to the machine a certain slant, calculating to a foot how and where he would land, Andy saw nothing, thought of nothing, but the home post.
He was conscious of a frightful bolt downwards that fairly took his breath away. There was a blur of flying fences, buildings, tents, a green expanse, a sea of human faces, a roar as a great shout went up, and the Racing Star met the ground on a bounce, and Andy Nelson was the winner of the great race.
Our hero did not step from the airship as eager, willing hands eased the Racing Star down to a stop. Cheering, excited men fairly pulled him over the drooping planes. Some one hugged him with a ringing yell of delight, and John Parks’ voice sounded in his ears.
“Oh, you famous boy—Andy, my lad, it’s the proudest moment of my life!”
Mr. Morse caught Andy’s hand, his serious face flushed with pride.
“The Racing Star did it,” said Andy.
“Yo’ did it, chile, and yo’ did it brown,” chimed in Scipio, his mouth expanded in joyous delight from ear to ear.
John Parks never let go of Andy’s arm as they made their way through the crowds to the main aerodrome stand. The official starter had unscrewed the speedometer and elevation gauge. He ran before them to the stand. Someone quickly chalked a legend on the big, bare blackboard. It ran:
Start of flight—10:04.
Finish—11:39.
Distance traveled—60 miles.
Maximum height—1,200 feet.
Wind velocity—12 miles from the west.
Winner—Racing Star.
Operator—Andy Nelson.
Somehow the boy aviator thrilled as he read his name at the bottom of the little legend.
“It’s like a dream, Mr. Parks—just like a dream,” and his voice was faint and dreamy in itself.
“Don’t collapse, lad,” directed the aeronaut anxiously—“the best is to come.”
“It’s only the reaction,” said Andy. “To think I did it—me, only Andy!”
“There isn’t another Andy like you in the whole world,” enthusiastically declared Parks. “Yes, sir,” as a man waved to him from the table on the grand stand.
“Here’s the check, Parks,” notified the judge.
“Well, we’ve won it, haven’t we?” chuckled the aeronaut.
“You have, and it’s ready for you. A pretty piece of paper, hey—five thousand dollars. Make it out to you?”
“I’ll take it in two checks,” answered Parks.
“Mr. Parks——” began Andy.
“There’s only one check for the whole amount,” replied the judge, “and only the name left to be filled in.”
“Oh, that’s the way of it, eh?” said the aeronaut. “All right, fill it in John Parks and Andy Nelson. I reckon, Andy, I can’t get that twenty-five hundred dollars away from you without your signature.”
He poked Andy in the ribs in jolly fun. He was all smiles and laughter as he shouted an order to Scipio to hurry home and get up the best celebration dinner he knew how. Then, Andy following him, he stepped forward to take the arm of Mr. Morse, and thus, the Japanese walking with Andy and congratulating him on his great feat, they crossed the field away from the crowds.
Some one broke over the dead line ropes and made a dash after them, yelling loudly:
“Andy, oh, Andy Nelson!”
“Hold on there!” ordered an officer, trying to head off the trespasser.
“Silas Pierce!” exclaimed Andy.
“He goes with us, officer,” called out Parks. “You bet you go with us, you grand old hero!” he cried, giving the farmer boy a joyful, friendly slap on the shoulder.
“Yes, indeed,” smiled Andy, catching the arm of Silas and hugging it quite, “if it hadn’t been for you, there would have been no race.”
“Andy,” gasped Silas, “I can hardly believe it. Why you’re famous.”
“Am I?” smiled Andy.
“And rich.”
“Rich in good friends, anyway,” replied Andy.
“I hung around. When I saw you coming in on the lead, I nearly fell flat I was so excited,” declared Silas.
“I want a chance for a little talk with you, Silas,” said Andy. “I want to show you how much I appreciate what you have done for me.”
The merry, happy coterie crossed the field, and coming out at a gate made a short cut for the Parks camp. They had just neared it, when among the crowd thronging about the place, Andy made out a boy edging towards him.
He crowded past several persons and came up to Andy’s side and caught his sleeve.
“Andy,” he said in a bold but sheepish way, “you know me, don’t you?”
“Why, yes, I know you,” answered Andy.
He stared in mingled surprise, perplexity and distrust at the speaker.
It was Dale Billings. Hungry-faced, unkempt looking, as if he had not slept for a week, and then in a hay mow or a freight car. Andy’s old-time enemy confronted him in the hour of his great triumph.
“Did you want to see me, Dale,” inquired Andy.
“Yes, I do, and bad,” responded Dale Billings. “See here, you’ve won a big race. You’re rich. If it hadn’t been for me and Gus Talbot, you wouldn’t be.”
“How is that?” inquired Andy.
“We figured along the line, didn’t we? If I’d gone to work for old Talbot when I had a chance, you’d have been out and wouldn’t have learned about automobiles and machinery and such, and couldn’t have run an airship and won the race.”
This was queer reasoning. Andy had to smile. He couldn’t feel any way but pleasant and happy with the great airship prize his, however, and he said:
“Well, let that go. What are you driving at, Dale?”
“We’re in hard luck, me and Gus.”
“You look it,” said Andy.
“We haven’t got a cent, we don’t dare to go back home. Gus is sick in an old shed down the tracks, and we haven’t had a mouthful to eat since yesterday morning. There’s no friends here we know but you. I’m just desperate. Loan me two dollars, Andy.”
“Why certainly,” answered Andy.
“I mean five—yes, if you’ll loan us ten dollars till we get work and on our feet, we’ll pay it back.”
“All right,” agreed Andy, “only you’ll have to come up to our camp for it. You know where it is—Parks’ camp.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I want to have a talk with you. You can depend on the money, Dale.”
A thought ran through the mind of the young aviator that by kindness he might make some impression on the two outcasts. As he summed up the meanness and audacity of his recent capture, however, Andy secretly confessed that it would be a hard undertaking.
First thing of all, our hero took a bath and got himself in better shape generally. Mr. Parks and a group of his friends occupied the main sitting room. Andy had left Dale in one of the smaller apartments of the old shack. As he went thither he passed Scipio, arrayed in white apron and natty cap and warbling a plantation ditty as he brandished knife and carver gaily.
“Getting sech a dinnah, Andy, chile,” he chuckled. “Ah give you a feast you nebber forgit.”
“Now then, Silas,” said Andy, entering the room where he had left the farmer boy, “I’ve got time to shake your hand good and hearty, and glad to do it.”
“And I’m glad you’re not too proud to do it,” replied Silas.
“You’ve done a big thing for me, Silas,” went on Andy.
“Think so?”
“Where would the race be if you had not come along in the nick of time and set me free?”
“I was mightily surprised to see you in that queer fix,” said Silas, “and I didn’t know what had happened when you started on a rush for the airship.”
“Well, you understand now,” said Andy. “Now then, Silas, what can I do for you?”
“Do, how?”
“I want to acknowledge your usefulness in some way. There must be something you want or need.”
“You mean you’d like to give me some little memento for trying to help you along?”
“But I’m glad to do it for nothing.”
“Never mind. Come, speak out, Silas. A bicycle, a nice new watch and chain?”
“Why, see here,” said Silas, after a moment’s deep thought, “if it’s the same to you, I’d like ten dollars and seventeen cents.”
Andy smiled. “For something special?” he inquired.
“Why, yes. You see I want to go to school this winter and learn shorthand. The term is eighteen dollars, and I’ve only saved up seven dollars and eighty-three cents.”
“I’ll do better than that for you, Silas,” said Andy, “and I’m glad to find you so ambitious. How is your father?”
“All right, I guess, though I haven’t seen him for nigh onto a month.”
“Why, how’s that?”
“I’ve been staying at the Collins farm.”
“You have?” exclaimed Andy, at once interested.
“Yes. Just came up from there yesterday. There hasn’t been much doing, and won’t be until the folks get their new house built. I was on their hands, though, and I’m staying around visiting relatives.”
“How do you mean you was on their hands, Silas?” inquired Andy.
“Why, dad got talking with Mr. Collins after we’d got rid of the geese. There’s a good academy at Wade, and Mr. Collins was going into sheep in a big way. He offered me quite a good job and the chance to go to school in the winter, and I took it.”
“But Mr. Collins’ house burned down,” said Andy.
“What, did you hear of that?” asked Silas in surprise.
“Yes,” nodded Andy.
“Well, that put things in bad shape for the family, but they are coming back soon, and in the meantime I tend to the sheep in the pasture lot. Lucky they had moved the old shed over there for storm shelter before the house and barns burned down.”
“What shed?” asked Andy, with a quick start.
“The one that stood under the old elm tree. Don’t you remember? Why, it was the shed you changed your clothes in.”
“What!” shouted Andy, jumping to his feet in intense excitement; “that shed wasn’t burned down?”
“Ain’t I telling you? They moved it over to the pasture on skids two weeks before the fire.”
“And it is there now?”
Andy felt like making a rush at once at the great hopeful news Silas had told. The latter had grabbed his arm.
“Don’t what?”
“Bolt. You’re going to make a dash like you did this morning.”
“No, Silas,” said Andy, trying to be calm. “You can’t imagine what great news you have brought me.”
“I don’t see how.”
“We must go to the Collins farm at once, Silas, that old shed had a shelf up over the side window?”
“Remember that, do you? So do I.”
“It had a lot of rubbish on it.”
“I noticed that.”
“Has it ever been disturbed?”
“Not that I know of. You see, Mr. Collins was arranging to have the old barracks patched up by a carpenter from Wade, when the fire came along.”
“Silas,” said Andy, “I threw my old clothes up on that shelf. If they are still there, I shall be able to find an old leather pocketbook in them that contains a paper upon which depends a fortune.”
“You don’t say so?” remarked Silas, in open-mouthed wonderment “What queer things you happen across!”
“A gentleman named Webb is very, very anxious to recover that pocketbook. I want you to go at once with me and see if the clothes are still there,” and Andy briefly recited the story of the lost pocketbook and the details of his recent visit to the Collins farm.
He was consulting a railroad timetable to determine when the next train left Montrose, when Scipio rushed into the room.
“Andy, boy,” he spoke quickly, “yo’ told a boy to told me dat he was to be let come to see yo’?”
“What kind of a boy, Scipio?” inquired Andy.
Scipio described Dale Billings, and as he did so passed some personal comments on his “’spicious” appearance.
“Yes, that’s right, Scipio,” said Andy.
“Den somefin’s wrong,” declared the perturbed cook. “When he come, I say Mistah Nelson very much preoccupied with another gemman, and he must wait. He sot down on dat chair just outside the door hyar.”
“Go on, Scipio.”
“I keep my eye on him. Dat boy,” announced Scipio, “remind me of mean, low-down people, I meet afore in my ’sperience. Bimeby I watch him bend towards de door. He seemed listening. Den I saw him start and draw closer to de door. Den all of a sudden he make a rush out of de place. I run to de gate. Den anoder sneaking-looking boy meet him. Dey talk fast, berry much excited. Den dey make a run towards the railroad tracks as if dey was in a turrible hurry.”
“Dale Billings and Gus Talbot!” exclaimed Andy, on fire with the intelligence imparted by his loyal, dusky friend. “Silas, they have got our secret. They are after the old leather pocketbook on the Collins farm. We must get there first!”
Andy directed Silas to wait where he was. Then he ran to the room where Mr. Parks was engaged with his friends. Appearing at the doorway he attracted the attention of the aeronaut and beckoned to him.
“What is it, Andy?” inquired Parks, coming outside. “You look excited.”
“I am,” admitted Andy, and then very briefly, but clearly, he explained his urgency.
“I say, you mustn’t let any grass grow under your feet!” exclaimed Parks. “I reckon you’ve got it right—that sneaking fellow you was trying to help is off on the track of the old shed you tell about. There’s the Racing Star—no, that won’t do, but—I’ve got it, Andy. Wait here a minute.”
John Parks flashed in among his friends and then flashed out again. Now he was accompanied by a well-dressed portly gentleman whom Andy had seen about the aviation grounds, and whom he knew to be one of the principals in getting up the race.
The aeronaut was busy talking fast and urgently to this person, who nodded to Andy and said:
“That’s all right Do you know how to run an automobile?” to Andy.
“Why, that was his old business,” explained Parks.
“I’ll risk anybody getting ahead of you, then. My machine is just outside the camp.”
“Come on, Silas,” hailed Andy as they passed on towards the gate.
Andy found a magnificent six-cylinder automobile just outside the camp. He thanked its owner heartily for allowing its use, beckoned Silas to the rear seat, and waved adieu to his employer with the cheery words:
“I’ll be back inside of two hours, Mr. Parks.”
“Say,” bolted out Silas, holding on with both hands as they crossed the railroad tracks and struck a winding country road due north, “isn’t—isn’t this going pretty fast?”
“Oh, this is just starting up,” declared Andy.
“I never rode in one of these before,” said Silas. “Those sneaks won’t get much ahead of this, I’m thinking.”
Andy thought this, too. There was not the least doubt in his mind that Dale Billings and Gus Talbot were already on the trail of the old leather pocketbook. All they could do, however, was to steal their way on some slow freight train. Still, they might induce someone to go for them or with them by faster travel. They might get an automobile, even if they had to steal one. Andy felt that it was pretty hopeless trying to make Dale or Gus respectable. He had intended, in the liberality of his heart, to put them on their feet. Here, the first thing, Dale was acting the part of a sneak and a thief.
It felt good to Andy to get back to his old business once more. Once out on a clear, level road, he made the machine fairly hum. Various ejaculations back of him told that his unexperienced passenger was having spasms. In considerably less than an hour the machine reached Wade. They were soon at the site of the Collins farmhouse.
“There’s the old shed, see?” spoke Silas, as Andy directed the machine across the fields.
“Yes, I see,” said Andy, “and it’s a sight for sore eyes.”
He halted the machine and jumped out as they reached the fence of a pasture lot containing several flocks of sheep. In one corner of it stood the old shed. Silas was worked up to quite as high a pitch of suspense and expectation as Andy himself.
“There’s the shelf!” he cried, as Andy passed through the doorway.
“Yes, but—my old clothes are not here.”
“Oh, don’t say that!” almost choked out Silas.
“It is true,” said Andy, getting down from the keg he was standing on. “Here’s a lot of old truck, wagon hardware and hoops and a grindstone, but the clothes are gone.”
Silas uttered a dismal groan.
“Oh, I’m a hoodoo!” he declared, banging his head first on one side and then on the other. “Here I’ve made you all this trouble, all for nothing. But, say,” added the farmer eagerly, “some one must have taken those clothes. We may trace them down. And say, some one has been in this shed since I left it yesterday.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Someone has slept here. See, the floor is covered with straw. Some tramp, I suppose. It rained last night, and he came in here for shelter. Oh, whoop! whoopee!”
At first Andy thought his companion had taken leave of his senses. With a Comanche-like yell Silas had made a spring. Then a method to his apparent madness was disclosed.
Andy saw him pull a wadded mass out of a hole formerly used to admit a stove pipe. Andy gasped with gladness and hope.
“My clothes,” he said, “sure enough!”
“Don’t you see?” said the jubilant Silas, dancing a joyful hornpipe. “It rained. The tramp who stayed here stuffed up the hole to shut out the rain. Say, sure your clothes?”
“Yes,” said Andy, searching them.
“And the pocketbook?”
“Here it is,” cried our hero in a strained tone that trembled. “Yes, the pocketbook is here all right.”
“Hurrah!” yelled Silas Pierce at the top of his voice.