“Here she comes,” rose in a deafening roar.
Bud’s face could be made out for the first time. It wore neither smile nor alarm. It was as placid as marble. With his feet close together in his stirrups, his body erect and tense, his blue flannel shirt fluttering in the breeze, he held his course with the ease of a locomotive engineer.
“Now,” exclaimed Attorney Stockwell to Deputy Pusey, “get your writ ready an’ keep your eyes peeled. Nab him the minute he lights.”
Once over the mob of upturned faces—gathered now mainly on the long stretch of the race-track—Bud’s body swayed and his machine veered. In another moment, the aeroplane had altered its course and was on its way circling the grounds just above the track. Ten thousand people rushed forward in spontaneous excitement. Just off the track, Attorney Stockwell watched, breathed hard, and waited.
On the back stretch of the track, the aeroplane sank lower and lower until by the time the upper turn was reached, it was just over the heads of the spectators. Then, came the flight down the track, over the crowd and in front of the grand-stand.
“I’ll show ’em I can travel where I please,” said Bud to himself. “Hold on to your hats,” he yelled suddenly, as he smiled for the first time.
With a dart, the car skimmed toward the jam of humanity like a swallow skims over a pond. Falling over each other, pushing, knocking and yelling, the crowd attempted to clear the track. There was a crash, and, as Bud swept onward, not over twenty feet above the ground, the track fence gave way, and the panic stricken crowd sank in confused heaps.
“Keep off the track,” yelled Bud warningly.
From the judges’ stand, the figure of Superintendent Perry suddenly leaped forward. In his hand, he waved his big black hat warningly.
“Git back there, git back,” he called in a loud voice. “Git back, an’ keep back, or some one’ll get killed.”