"You think so?" replied the Frenchman. "I shall make a better one on the day of the race. I mean to win that cup."
"Well, give us at least a look-in," laughed Frank good-naturedly.
"Bah, you are boys. I am a seasoned aviator. I have flown at Rheims and Vienna and in the south. It is absurd for you to compete with me."
"Personally I should like to see an American carry off the trophy, but if the best flyer wins I shall be quite satisfied," was Frank's quiet reply.
"You will see the colors of La Belle France floating over my aerodrome after the race," was the rejoinder.
"We shall see," was Frank's quiet answer, as the Frenchman strode off toward the village, where he usually remained gossiping in the hotel and complacently receiving the adulations of his admirers till late at night.
"Ach, he is as goot-natured as a caged lion, dot feller!" came a sudden exclamation behind the boys.
They turned about and faced old August Schmidt, the German aviator, who had started his career as a builder and operator of dirigibles, but was entered in the Hempstead Cup race as the flyer of a monoplane of his own design; and which, on account of its peculiar appearance, the crowds had already nicknamed the Grasshopper. As if in furtherance of this idea the German had painted his queer craft a bright green.
"Vell, you boys have a good chance for der cup got," the old man went on, between puffs at an enormous pipe with a china bowl that formed his inseparable companion when he was not in the air.
"Do you think so?" asked Frank.