“You mean for that newspaper prize?”
The boys nodded.
“I don’t like the idea of your entering a contest of that character,” said Mr. Chester; “there is a great deal of danger, too.”
“No more than we have been through,” remonstrated Frank; “besides, think of the experience. Why, we would fly over a dozen states.”
“A dozen—fifty, at least,” cried Billy, with a fine disregard for geography.
“But how would you go? How long would it take you?” demanded their father.
“I haven’t figured out just the time we would consume,” said Frank, “but I have a rough idea of our route. The object, of course, would be to avoid any big mountain chains, although if we have our Joyce automatic adjuster I think we could manage even those cross currents with ease. But this is to be a race and we want to get there first. The newspaper route is from here to Pittsburg, from there to Nashville, crossing the Ohio and Cumberland rivers, thence, due west almost, across the northern part of Arkansas, Oklahoma, the Texas Panhandle, New Mexico, Arizona and then across California to San Francisco.”
“Hurrah,” cried Billy, his eyes shining. “Indians, cowboys, gold mines and oranges.”
When the laugh at the jumbled series of images the mention of the different states Frank had enumerated aroused in Billy’s mind had died down Mr. Chester wanted to know how the boys were going to carry their supplies.
“Well,” said Frank, “as you are going to California and leaving the car behind we thought that perhaps you wouldn’t mind letting us use it. We will be very careful——”