"Now they're coming on," cried Dick, as he saw one of the lower machines dart ahead of the other. "He's trying to get me to sprint, I guess."
"Why don't you try it now?" suggested Mr. Vardon. "We'll soon be at the limits of the aviation field, and I doubt if these machines will be allowed to go beyond it. So, if you want to beat them in a race now is your time to speed up."
"Here she goes!" cried Dick, as he opened wider the gasolene throttle.
In an instant the big craft shot ahead, fairly roaring through the air. The closed cabin, however, kept the pressure of wind from the occupants, or they might not have been able to stand it, for the gage outside registered a resistance of many pounds to the square inch.
It was an odd race. There were no cheering spectators to urge on the contestants by shouts and cheers, though doubtless those who were witnessing the evolutions of the aircraft, before Dick's advent on the scene, were using their voices to good advantage. But the birdmen were too high up to hear them.
Nor could the excited calls, if there were any such, from the two rivals of our hero be heard. There were two men in each of the competing biplanes, and they were doing their best to win.
It must have been an inspiring sight from below, for Dick's craft was so large that it showed up well, and the white canvas planes of the others, as well as those of the Abaris, stood out in bold contrast to the blue of the sky.
"We're doing ninety an hour!" called Dick, after a glance at the speed gage, while his companions were looking down at the craft below.
"Pretty nearly the limit," remarked Mr. Vardon. "If you can reach a hundred, Dick, do it. I don't believe those fellows can come near that."
"They're falling behind now," observed Paul. "Go to it, Dick, old man!"