“The New Yorker, of New York, pilots Augustus Yost and Alan Frawley, will you report us?”
“We sure will. When are you coming down?”
“We don’t know. This is an endurance race—we’ll keep up as long as possible. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” and so ended a scene which ten years ago would have been scoffed at as impossible, yet it was only the other day that newspaper readers perused the account of an aeroplane towing a disabled dirigible into her hangar.
But we must now hasten home to High Towers with the boys. They arrived there without further incident, having made excellent time. The workmen who had been left behind were there to help them make a landing, and once more the Electric Monarch rested on dry land.
Hardly had she touched the ground, however, before Jupe was seen running from the house at top speed. He was shouting something, but till he got close by they could not make out what it was. Then his words became clearer.
“It’s my father!” cried Jack, in an alarmed voice.
“What can be the matter?” cried Tom.
“I don’t know, but it must be something serious,” declared Jack, with a pale face, as Jupe came panting up.
“Oh, Massa Jack,” he wailed, “yo’ fadder am turrble sick, sah. Dey heard de bell ring an’ hurry up to der liberry. Dey foun’ him lyin’ on de flo’ widout his senses.”