And now the aviation park appeared in the distance. Peggy headed straight for it, hoping devoutly that her motor would not heat up and jam under the terrific speed it was being forced to.
The Cuban woman glanced round anxiously. It was a bad move for her. Like a flash the Golden Butterfly shot by the other machine as the latter wobbled badly.
Peggy's delight was mixed with apprehension. The motor was beginning to smoke. Plainly it was heating up.
"Will it last five minutes longer?"
That was the thought in Peggy's mind. The Golden Butterfly was hardly an airship any longer. It was a thunderbolt—a flying arrow. Before Peggy's eyes there was nothing now but the tall red and white "pylon" that marked the winning post. Could she make it ahead of her rival? Close behind her she could hear the roar of the other motor, but she did not dare to look round for fear of losing ground.
Swiftly she mentally selected the spot where she would land, and then down shot the Golden Butterfly like a pouncing fish hawk. The speed of the descent fairly took Peggy's breath away. Her cap had come off and her golden hair streamed out in the breeze wildly.
There was a blur of flying trees, then came the grandstand, a mere smudge of color, a sea of dimly seen faces and a roar that was like that of a hundred waterfalls.
Down shot the Golden Butterfly just inside the "pylon." It ran for about a hundred yards and was then brought to a stop.
Peggy Prescott had won the great race.