“So,” he muttered, “that’s your scheme, is it? Well, I guess we’ll be able to head that off. That aeroplane of yours won’t go in that race if I can help it, and even if it did I know enough now to head you off from getting the big prize. That young Harding ought to pay me well for this.”
So saying, Jukes Dade shuffled off toward Fanning’s hangar, still chortling evilly to himself.
Jimsy returned to the shed without any good news. In fact, the doleful expression on his usually merry face would have told them that long before he opened his mouth. In the midst of the general gloom a merry face was suddenly obtruded through the swinging doors.
“Hullo! hullo! young folks, what’s the trouble? You look as if you were going to attend a funeral.”
They looked up to see the figure of Hal Homer, clad in white flannels, and with a checked cap on his curly head, standing in the doorway.
“Can I come in?” he asked, and without waiting for an answer in he came.
“Oh, Mr. Homer,” cried Jess, fairly pouncing on him, “we’re so glad you’ve come; we are in a dreadful fix.”
“A dreadful fix? Why, my dear young lady, I read in the local paper that I bought on my way from the depot that Roy’s machine, judging from the trials, was going to have things all her own way.”
“So much so,” struck in Jimsy, “that it looks as if some of Roy’s enemies have spirited him away.”
“What? I’m afraid I hardly understand.”