“What kind of a wrinkle is this?” some one asked.
Harry grabbed the aeroplane, as Penfield got down, and taking a bottle from his pocket, doused the spring and wheels with kerosene oil. “Trot over, Pen, old boy,” he said. “Good luck to you!”
The little fellow, smiling nervously, carried the dripping model over to the line. The crowd eyed him and his odd-looking monoplane with good-natured indulgence. One or two taunts were heard, but most of the spectators laughed amiably.
“What’s that, an ice-wagon?” said Garret, who stood near the line, holding his own trim little craft. “Keep still, Garret!” said another boy.
“Let her go!” said another.
Any one could see that the hand which held the machine was trembling nervously. The boy looked back toward the touring car for Harry, who smiled back reassuringly. He would not for the world have had Penfield know that he felt any doubt.
The little monoplane darted from Pen’s hand, silently. He watched it intently as it rose, plowing its way forward. At a distance of, perhaps, two hundred feet its propeller slowed down.
“That’s better than I thought,” some one said.
For the fraction of a second it fluttered and its rear end settled, as if to sink. Then a strange thing happened. There was a sudden clicking sound in the air, and the crude little monoplane darted forward and upward, making a bee line for the cupola of the clubhouse. Up it went, shaking, but rising steadily. The crowd was too dumfounded to cheer. It cleared the cupola and disappeared. And when Billy, followed by a score or more of curious and excited spectators, picked it up more than six hundred feet from the starting point, it began to buzz spasmodically, as if it had forgotten all about its aerial mission and were bent on waking some tired sleeper.
“What under the sun is that, anyway?” asked a gentleman, pushing his way into the crowd. “I never saw such a thing in my life!”