Swinging the aeroplane about, Peggy began flying directly above the tracks.
“No sign of the train yet—we may make it,” said Jimsy, pulling out his watch. It showed a quarter to six, and they had fifteen miles to travel, or so Roy estimated the distance.
“Let her out for a mile-a-minute,” he exclaimed.
Peggy only nodded. She was far too busy getting all the work she could out of the motor. An extra passenger makes a lot of difference to an aeroplane, and the Butterfly was only built to accommodate three. But she was answering gallantly to the strain.
On she flew above the tracks, every now and then roaring above some astonished crossing keeper or track-walker.
Suddenly, from somewhere behind them, they heard a long, moaning whistle.
In her excitement she gripped Roy’s arm tightly and peered back.
All at once, around a curve, the locomotive came into view—black smoke spouting from its funnel and a column of white steam pouring from its safety valves.
“She’ll beat us,” cried Jimsy, despairingly, as the thunder of the speeding train grew louder. The setting sun flashed on the varnished sides of the cars.