“The only chance it has to win this race is for both the aeroplanes to break down,” said Harry. “We can pass it even if it got a twenty-mile lead.”
The Golden Eagle flew on during the afternoon without incident. It was getting toward sundown, and Frank was thinking of descending and camping for the night, when, as they were passing high above a spot where four cross-roads intersected, they spied below them the two autos of Barr and Reade drawn up near to the rival aeroplane, which, as Frank had said, had been compelled to come down to replenish her tanks.
Through his glasses Harry scrutinized the group. They were gathered about Slade’s aeroplane, and seemed to be discussing excitedly.
“I thought so,” said Harry, as he put the glasses back in their pocket at the side of the pilot house.
“Thought what?” asked Frank.
“Why, I guess there’s something the matter with their cylinders. Over-heated, I guess. They were pouring water on them when I looked through the glass.”
Hardly had he spoken when there was a singing sound in the air close by his ear. It was like the droning of a big June bug.
“Pretty high for a bug to be flying,” commented Harry.
“That wasn’t any bug, Harry,” contradicted Frank, “it was a bullet.”
“What! they are firing at us again?”