The professor was about to reply, when there came a sudden sound of confusion among that portion of the crowd which had surrounded the delegates deputed to pick up the aeroplanes and bring them to the stand. This was in order that they might be exhibited as each prize was awarded. A small boy with a very excited face was seen struggling to get through the mass, and he finally gained the judges' stand. As he faced the congratulatory professor he stuttered out:
"Please, sir, there's something wrong about Jack Curtiss' machine."
"What do you mean, you impudent young shaver!" shouted the bully, turning white, nevertheless.
"Let the lad speak," said Mr. Blake, who as one of the committee was standing beside the professor. "What is it, my boy? Let me see. You're Joe Digby, of the Eagle Patrol, aren't you."
"Yes, sir; and I live out on a farm near Jack Curtiss. I was watching him fly his machine this morning, from behind a hedge, and I heard them saying something about 'their store-made machine beating any country boy's model.'"
"He's a young liar! Pay no attention to him," stammered Jack, licking his dry lips.
"Silence, sir!" said Mr. Blake gravely. "Let us listen to what this boy has to say. If he is not speaking the truth, you can easily disprove it. Go on, my boy."
"Well, I guess that's about all I know about it: but I thought I ought to tell you, sir," confusedly concluded the small lad.
"You young runt, I'll half kill you if I catch you alone!" breathed Jack, under his breath, as the lad sped off to join his companions.
"Of course, you are not going to pay any attention to that kid's—I mean boy's—story," demanded Jack, addressing the professor. "It's made out of whole cloth, I assure you."