“You gentlemen have made your choice,” faltered Lafe. “You’ve picked out your operator. I ain’t takin’ none of Bud Wilson’s leavin’s.”
As Lafe hurried away, Mr. Elder smiled. Although Lafe was again in the crowd the next day, he took good care to avoid the president.
Bud, now eager to escape from his responsibility, was a little ahead of time in reaching the grounds on his last flight. But he did not arrive before the crowd. The grand-stand, race track, and part of the enclosure were jammed again. The nervous eagerness, the restless scanning of the sky in all directions and the spectators’ impatience were rewarded about five minutes before three o’clock, when the dark, oblong aeroplane was made out in the sky north of the grounds.
This day, the band was prepared, and as Bud whirled into the course, the vociferous musicians struck up La Poloma—more appropriate than the leader knew, as the translation of the Spanish means “The Dove.” But Bud wasn’t a white dove that day. Old “Stump” Camp, either from a sense of humor or a love for the beautiful, had proposed and actually decorated the bare aeroplane framework with flowers.
The gaudiest blooms in Mother Camp’s garden had been tied to the car uprights, and right and left of the young aviator were bunches of pink, red and white hollyhocks that met almost in an arch over Bud’s head. At each end, there was single, mammoth sunflowers. Even across the track enclosure, the decorations could be made out, and the usual “Ahs” and “Ohs” soon swelled into a wave of amused admiration.
Again the crowd surged forward and back, horses backed and reared, and the band umpahed and quavered.
With knowledge born of the previous day’s experience, the crowd parted as the circling car came into the head of the stretch on its first lap, and Bud had no occasion to call out warnings. He was greeted with salutations of all kinds. This time, with growing confidence, he felt able to look about. His eyes sought eagerly for his foster father, Mr. Dare, or the deputy sheriff.
Then he smiled and the crowd yelled. But Bud was smiling because his quick eyes had detected what he hoped to find. Over in front of the deserted “aerodrome,” he saw the three men. He had guessed right. Since the fair would conclude that day, Bud realized that there was no longer any object in trying to hide the aeroplane. Whatever legal fight was to be made could now be carried on without embarrassment to the fair association.
“My work’s done,” Bud had said to himself. “All I want to do now is to turn over the machine and get away. And I’m goin’ to get away quick. They said I was under arrest. Not if I know it.”
Then the aeroplane approached the crowded grand-stand. As it did so, Bud threw his vertical lever slightly to the starboard and brought the car just in front of the packed seats. Every one sprang up, open-mouthed and curious. As the graceful car drifted by the structure, the young aviator, smiling, reached out to the nearest of his vertical frames and jerked loose a large pink bundle. With another swift motion, the mass of pink went whirling through the air toward the spectators. Hundreds of spicy, clove-pinks separated and fluttered among the outstretched hands.