"Wrenn," spoke up Mr. Giddings with quick frankness, "I beg your pardon. The young men here and myself fancied you must have had a guilty part in the production of this fac-simile of our airplane. We now see who is really to blame."
"I do not blame you for your suspicions," was the candid reply of the fat man, "if things are as you state; and I will do you the honor, Giddings, to say that, although we are business rivals, your word is as good as gold with me. This is a lamentable situation. What shall we do about it?"
Mr. Giddings studied deeply before making answer. Then he observed: "Wrenn, this contest, as you know, has been too widely advertised to wreck it just as it is about to begin by the arrest of this man, Peter Deveaux. Say nothing to him about it; in fact, we will none of us mention a word of this to anybody; but when the race is over you can quietly dismiss him from your service, if you wish. As I now look at it, no great harm has been done, if any, by his duplicity; with two planes practically alike, the race will really be a fairer one, and a more exciting one for the public who read our newspapers, and supremacy will probably go to the better crew."
"I don't know about my crew, as Deveaux picked them up; but they did good work when they brought me down here the other day in the plane," said Mr. Wrenn. "Giddings, I think your plan is all right, and we'll let the race go on as if nothing had happened; but you bet your last dollar I'll fire Pete when it's all over, if he has done what you say!"
With that the publisher of the Clarion accompanied our friends back to the hangar, where he had a good look at the Sky-Bird II, and showed his own airplane, which was in all essentials an exact copy of the other. Following this they left the airdrome and went to their hotels.
All had a good night's rest—probably the last one they would have on earth for more than a week,—and after a hearty breakfast they proceeded to get what supplies they would need to last them until they should reach Georgetown, British Guiana, on the north coast of South America. This would be their first stop. Somehow the townspeople quickly guessed their identity, and they were followed from store to store as they shopped by a curious and motley throng of dark-skinned natives, among whom were noticed quite a few white children, presumably belonging to American employees of the Government.
With such eatables as they had bought stored in a basket, and carrying a few other packages, the boys went out to the airdrome. A guard stood at the door to keep out those having no business in the hangar, and as the young flyers passed in they noticed that Mr. Wrenn and a group of four fellows in flying-suits were going over the rival airplane.
"Here, boys, come over here a minute!" called the fat man. As they approached, the aviators with him turned from their work. One, a slender fellow with swarthy skin and a scrubby black mustache, scowled when he looked at John Ross, and as Bob Giddings and Tom Meeks got their eyes on him, they gave an involuntary start, for they recognized in the man the fellow they had seen hanging around the fair-grounds in Yonkers when their machine was in process of construction.
"It's time you fellows got acquainted with each other," said Mr. Wrenn, and he forthwith proceeded to introduce his crew as Pete Deveaux, Chuck Crossman, Oliver Torrey, and Sam Lane.
"How are you, Ross?" greeted Pete Deveaux. He uttered a sour sort of laugh, as his companions offered their hands around the group. "I won't do any shaking," said he, "as my hands are kind of greasy."