“Easy, now,” ordered Mr. Davis, “you two fellows are simply dummies in the hands of trainers till we land you in the Dart.”
Mr. Davis had sent for two new aviation suits for the boys, the latest and best that could be procured. They fitted comfortably, and the boys made a fine professional appearance in them.
Mr. Davis had left them to chat together over their meal. When they rejoined him in his sitting room, they found him with two telegrams lying open on the stand before him.
“Change the course as I direct, Ben,” he said. “The weather conditions are practically the same as last night’s report showed, except at two points. I’ll name them to you. Make a westerly deviation at the first, and take a high level at the second.”
Ben did as he was directed. Bob, leaning over his shoulder, made a wry face.
“What’s the matter with you?” inquired Mr. Davis quickly.
“Huh!” complained Bob, “you’ve marked out only a thousand-mile run.”
“Hear him! A thousand miles? Why, if you have enough backbone to beat six hundred and fifty miles, you win the prize,” declared the old aviator.
It was a grandly inspiriting scene, that upon which Ben Hardy and Bob Dallow entered an hour later. The sun was bright, the sky was clear and speckless of a single cloud, the air brisk and invigorating. It was a typical day for air sailing, and the young sky pilots felt hopefully at their best.
The aviation field was a gay and entrancing spectacle. At its edge were gathered several thousand spectators, automobiles, motor-cycles and other vehicles, some trimmed in gala array. Pennants were strung here and there about the field, and the nine aeroplanes entered for the contest were as pretty as dainty birds, straining to try their wings in the empyrean.