At that instant, the aeroplane, like a yacht in a gale, swept by the grand-stand. There was the low hum of propellers, and the whirr of the engine, but not a creak from the car itself, and not a word or look from the gritty young aviator. A buzz of relieved admiration seemed to rise like a breeze from the grand-stand, the thousands on the dust deep race-track caught their breath, and Bud had passed. His first circuit of the course had been made.
From the airship house on the center of the track, three figures were rushing forward. They had just made a discovery.
“Mr. Stockwell,” Deputy Pusey had suddenly exclaimed as he saw Bud enter on his second lap, “do you know what he’s a goin’ to do?”
The attorney had just suspected, but he was watching the flying car as if fascinated.
“He’s goin’ to beat us after all,” shouted the deputy, grabbing the lawyer’s arm. “He ain’t a goin’ to land. He’s a goin’ to fly away agin.”
An awful word came from Mr. T. Glenn Dare’s lips, and Attorney Stockwell, his face red with new anger, sprang forward as if to intercept the flying boy.
[CHAPTER XV]
THE ENEMY OUTWITTED ONCE MORE.
Just within the race-track enclosure and in the shade of the judges’ stand, stood Deputy Sheriff Pusey’s side-bar buggy and his famous roadster. The rig was known all over the county. Its appearance usually meant the service of a writ, a subpoena or a warrant. It was a forlorn hope, but, before the aeroplane had reached the far end of the track again, the deputy and Attorney Stockwell were in the buggy and the county official, his big official badge blazing on his blue coat and his official voice demanding that the crowd give way, were forcing a path through the packed crowd.