“I never did pay,” laughed Bud, speaking to the driver of the wagon, “but this is the first time I ever went in at the main gate.”
Winding their way among the plows, self-binders and threshing-machines already in place, and then directly between the two lines of peanut, pop, candy, cider and “nigger baby” stands—already making a half-hearted attempt to attract trade—the aeroplane wagons passed through the heart of the grounds. Near the “grand stand,” where for ten cents extra, one might view the trotting and running races, President Elder alighted and personally superintended the unlocking of the gates leading onto the race-track. Across this, the three vehicles made their way.
At the far end of the space within the smooth half-mile race-track was a newly built shed, made according to directions forwarded from the aeroplane factory in New Jersey. In front of this, the wagons halted. There were not many persons in attendance that day on the fair, but there were enough to make an audience of several hundred at once. The aeroplane shed was a temporary structure—a shed with a board top and canvas sides. Willing hands soon had the different sections of the car either in the house or near by in front.
Lafe Pennington’s coat was off, and he superintended the unloading with a great show of authority. By this time, a carpenter and a machinist had arrived, and the officious bank clerk announced that spectators had better be dispersed in order that he might work undisturbed.
“What do you want Bud to do?” asked President Elder.
Lafe smiled feebly.
“Nothing just now,” he answered. “He can stay outside and see that we are not disturbed. I don’t think it will take us very long.”
The confident clerk started to enter the shed.
“How about the starting track and the derrick for the drop weight?” asked Bud innocently. “I don’t see any material here for those.”
Lafe stopped suddenly, and looked up in surprise.