By this time one would have thought the afternoon’s program consisted of nothing but a prearranged pitched battle. Alex Conyers had to make a few remarks to dispel this delusion—since President Trevor seemed as absent-minded as the others.
“Don’t forget,” exclaimed Connie, “that you’ll have to take your airships if you mean to race ’em. If we have to scrap, we’ll scrap, but, by jickey, don’t start out as if that’s all you’re a-lookin’ for. Why you haven’t even got the Dart,” continued Connie pointing to Sammy Addington who stood by with two of his smallest and oldest machines.
“I ain’t a-goin’ to take no risk,” retorted Sammy. “In case we have to surrender they can have these,” holding up his battered veterans. “But what’s the use o’ takin’ chances on the Dart? I reckon you don’t know she cost seven dollars!”
“That’s givin’ up before you see the enemy,” laughed Connie.
“Go get the Dart,” ordered Trevor instantly. “Be game.”
A suggestion of this sort was all that Sammy needed. At the same time, he felt again of the rock tied in his handkerchief. This boded no good to Nick Apthorp.
One of the routes to reach Sycamore Tree Pasture was by the main street of Scottsville to the north town limits, thence by a rackety, vibrating suspension bridge across Green River to the “pike” that turned east along the river. Another, and a more popular way with all the boys, was by way of the near-by railroad bridge. There was no footway for pedestrians on this, and the walk over the unprotected, open ties was therefore dangerous enough to be alluring.
An additional attraction of the smoky old railroad bridge was that one was apt to meet older acquaintances there, for which reason it was a favorite resort for boys playing hooky. Here, safely concealed on the lower crosspieces or hidden on the stone abutments on the upper side of the bridge, they might smoke forbidden cigarettes in safety. The railroad bridge was in the territory of the “Goosetown gang.” Boldly bearding the lions in their den, the aviators decided to approach the scene of the tournament by this dangerous trail. As usual it was over Alex Conyers’ protest.
“If you’re afraid,” suggested the valiant young president to Connie, “why don’t you get your father’s chauffeur and ride over in the machine?”