"It's a homing aëroplane."
Then, a minute later:
"It's Roy. Look at him come. I didn't think the Red Dragon could go as fast."
Roy it was, sure enough. He was coming at a pace that might have landed him as winner of the race if he had not been delayed by his errand of mercy.
Ten minutes later he had joined them. First he explained what had happened to the judges of the course. Kelly, crest-fallen and wretched-looking, thanked him half heartedly for what he had done and said that he would care for Speedwell till he got better, which, by the way, was a promise that he did not perform.
A sudden stir in the crowd caused the little party in the box to look up.
A man was hastily chalking up some legend on the big black bulletin board. It ran thus:
Long-distance Race for $500 prize.
Start of Flight—11:01:2.
Finish of Flight—12:02:0.
Maximum Height—1,500 feet.
Wind Velocity—10 miles from southeast.
Winner—Golden Butterfly.
Winning Aviator—Miss Margaret Prescott.
What a cheer went up then. It seemed as if the roof would be raised off the grandstand by it.
"It's like a dream!" sighed Peggy, "just like a dream."