CHAPTER XX
BEATEN
Hiram Dobbs was whistling like a nightingale, Bruce Beresford was polishing up the brass work of the new Ariel for the fifth or sixth time, when suddenly Hiram made a derisive sweep with his handful of cotton waste towards two passers-by—Valdec and one of his crowd.
“Hah!” uttered Dave Dashaway’s assistant—“you’ve had your claws cut short this time!”
Safe and sound, more than hopeful, and very happy felt the young pilot of the Scout. Hiram could defy all his foes now. Day and night, half a dozen men from the aero plant formed a perfect cordon around the hangar which housed the almost sure winner of the International, as Hiram insisted on putting it.
There had been a sort of jollification conference the evening before in a room at the grounds clubhouse, where the manufacturer and his three friends felt free to discuss affairs in general without the fear of intruders or listeners. It was there that Dave explained his recent adventure at the sand dunes. His capture and the destruction of the old Ariel had been the result of a well laid plot on the part of the Syndicate crowd and their allies.
It was Borden who had saved the day. Hiram’s heart warmed anew towards the tramp artist as he realized how loyally the latter had repaid the slight kindness they had shown a homeless wanderer at the Midlothian grounds.
“Mr. Borden warned you too late, Hiram,” explained Dave, “but he found a way, a little later, to be doubly useful in our interests. The men who made me a prisoner at the sand dunes and burned up the old Ariel I had never seen before. I was taken perhaps thirty miles in a closed wagon, tied hand and foot, and guarded by a balking fellow, so I kept pretty still.”
“Where did they take you, Mr. Dashaway?” the interested Bruce had asked.
“To an old building in a big town over the state line. It must have been a factory, at some time or other. It had all gone to ruin, and they kept me in a room in the boiler house, with a heavy iron door to it. The Syndicate crowd sent Mr. Borden down to help their man guard me. I don’t know how he managed it, but he got entire charge of me, and let his supposed fellow watchman lay around the town. The first night he got a wire to Mr. Brackett who came down for me. Since then I have been practicing near the Aero Company’s plant, and watching our new beauty of a biplane grow into the finest craft of its class in the world.”
“And Mr. Borden?” pressed Hiram curiously.
“I don’t think the Syndicate crowd had the least idea that I was free until I showed up on the grounds here,” declared Dave.
“What’ll they do when they find out he’s hocussed them?” asked Bruce.
“I have supplied our good friend, Mr. Borden, with the means of going about where he pleases,” observed Mr. Brackett with a smile. “They won’t find him unless he wants to be found, you may rest assured of that fact.”
“And are those fellows to be allowed to go scot free after all they’ve done!” cried the indignant Hiram.
“I hardly think we will disturb them if they leave us alone—at least for the present,” replied the manufacturer. “You see, Hiram, we might not be able to fasten the plot directly upon them. It is still my opinion that Vernon, our old time enemy, is the main actor in all these outrages, although he has pretty cleverly covered up his tracks.”
“Well, so far—everything is fine!” declared the volatile Hiram. “Oh, Dave, if you only win the altitude contest to-morrow!”
“The new Ariel can do its share,” insisted Mr. Brackett.
“I shall try to do mine,” added the young aviator modestly.
“Fifty points!” murmured Hiram. “Score that and you are sure of the big prize,” and Hiram had a vision of that official blackboard marker giving to his chum the second award in the International contest.
Four machines besides their own were listed for the altitude contest and the Whirlwind was among them. The first thing the observant Hiram noticed as they reached the center field was that Valdec wore his ordinary sailing jacket. Dave was fully prepared for any cold he might run into. Besides that, at his side, was a light, round tank with a coil of rubber hose running from it.
“We’re testing an emergency oxygen supply, if the air gets too rarefied,” Dave explained to Hiram. “It may work in quite well when we get up above ten thousand feet.”
“Oh, Dave, you can’t hope to do that!” exclaimed his young assistant.
The manager and a helper visited the five machines while the rules of the contest were being read by his secretary. The barograph of each biplane was examined, sealed up and put in place. Three hours was the time limit allowed, the pilots to select their own course.
There was some cloudiness, but no wind, and the five machines made a splendid initial rise. The Whirlwind was all for speed. Dave took it more slowly. Within fifteen minutes the five crafts were scattered to all points of the compass. They became mere specks as a lower strata of cloud haze obscured them. Then they vanished from view as a denser upper cumulus enveloped them.
At eleven o’clock one of the contestants came back to the grounds because of a break in the control. A comrade competitor gave up the contest a quarter of an hour later. Number three reported itself out of the race at noon.
“It’s the Ariel and the Whirlwind,” went the rounds of the stand. Everybody was wrought up to a great pitch of doubt and suspense. The clouds still obscured all sight of the clear sky.
“There’s one of them!” burst out a voice and there was great excitement as an air craft came sailing swiftly into view.
“The Whirlwind,” spoke a man with a pair of field glasses.
The Syndicate machine came to anchor as Worthington and his allies rushed toward it. Valdec stepped out of the biplane smiling and profuse in his bows. He joked and laughed as the expert removed the barograph, hastened to the judges’ stand and then placed it in a strong tin box and locked it in.
“Here’s the other!” The shout announced the Ariel. In about twenty minutes the boys and Mr. Brackett were crowding about it. The machine was dripping with moisture, and as it touched the ground its pilot removed his head gear, and fell over to one side, gasping for breath.
“He’s collapsed!” exclaimed an attendant and ran for water. They lifted Dave out of the machine. Mr. Brackett and Hiram supported him. The expert had removed the barograph. They made Dave swallow some water, rubbed his hands, and finally he opened his eyes. He smiled vaguely.
“I made it,” he spoke with difficulty. “Nearly went under, but I had set my mark—over eleven thousand feet.”
“You couldn’t! It’s ahead of any record! He’s dreaming!” blurted out Hiram.
“The barograph says so—I’ve won. I knew I should,” murmured Dave. “Get me somewhere to lie down. I’m weak and dizzy.”
“What’s that!” suddenly spoke Hiram, turning sharply as they were leading Dave over to the club house.
They were at a point where they could not see the blackboard. Hiram noticed a great crowd about it. Cheers rent the air. A man bolted from the mass, bareheaded, excited, rushing down the road wildly. Hiram recognized him as one of the Syndicate hangers-on.
“What is it?” was demanded of him by an inquisitive pedestrian.
“Record smashed!” came the breathless but triumphant reply. “Valdec has won—12,350 feet!”