"Why, the 'take off' at the Harrowbrook Club links."
"What do you mean by 'take off'?" inquired his mother.
"I mean the space in which an aeroplane makes its preliminary run, as you might call it, before it takes the air," rejoined the boy. "You see the rules of the race are that we fly from here to the Harrowbrook Club—a distance of twenty miles, alight there and refill our gasolene tanks, drink a cup of coffee in the club-house and then rise up once more and fly back."
"You mean that you are afraid that there will be difficulty in starting back from the Club grounds?" asked his father.
"Yes, father. You see, while we did it all right this afternoon, on the day of the race there will be a lot of 'planes all on the ground at the same time, and it's going to make it more difficult. However, I daresay we shall be able to manage it all right."
"Oh, Frank, do be careful," cautioned his mother.
"Of course I will, mother," the lad reassured her. "If I thought there was any serious risk I would not cause you anxiety by competing."
After a little more talk the elder Chesters drove off, as the boys had decided to sleep in their aerodrome that night, on the two camp cots they had provided for such emergencies. They intended to get an early start in the morning, on another practice sail, as at that hour there was usually little wind.
As they strolled across the grounds which were now rapidly being deserted, as all the aeroplanes were housed for the night, they encountered Armand Malvoise, the French driver of the mysterious Buzzard. He was a heavy-set, blue-chinned man with eyebrows that met in a black band, lending his face a perpetual scowl.
"You made a fine flight this evening," cried Harry cheerfully.