At last Lake Loon came into view. It was a more or less shallow body of water with a small island in the middle of it. As they neared it Speedwell and Roy were flying almost abreast, with Speedwell just a shade in the lead.
Suddenly Speedwell made a spurt and shot ahead of the Dragon. At a distance of half a mile from Roy, who was now last, Speedwell was above the lake.
Peggy and the woman flyer had already turned and were on their way back, with the latter still in the lead. Roy was watching Speedwell intently.
He saw the man bank his machine to take the curve in order to round the lake. An appalling climax followed.
"He's turned too sharp. He'll never make it," exclaimed Roy, holding his breath.
The aëroplane swayed madly. Then began a fierce fight on Speedwell's part to settle it on an even keel. But skillful as he was he could not master the overbalanced machine.
"He is lost!" breathed Roy, every nerve athrill.
And then the next minute:
"Cracky! He's got it. No, he's falling again—ah!"
There was a note of horror in the exclamation. The aëroplane in front of Roy dived wildly, then fairly somersaulted. The strain was too great. A wing parted.