At the end of fifty miles, Hiram, watching out in every direction, gave a quick cry of satisfaction.
“I’ve counted them,” he told his chum. “The ragtag and bobtail fell out before we got forty miles. There’re two men even with us below, Dave. That one pegging away on the lower level is the Whirlwind.”
“Yes, and doing very finely,” commented Dave. “There’re the smokestacks of Grand Bay ahead.”
“Speed up, Dave,” urged Hiram, his usual excitable nature getting the best of him.
The young aviator did not reply, but all his expert senses were on the alert. So far as he could judge, he had now but three rivals to fear. The Whirlwind was in the lead, but not for any great distance and would have to change its level when a turn was due.
Dave had a point in view in first ascertaining the number of his real rivals, and then their possible capabilities in the return flight. The wind had steadily grown stronger with the hours. The lake was rough and muddy, and a cloud film had overspread the sky.
To fly to the best advantage when the turn was made at Grand Bay, Dave saw that a system of tacking and circling would be necessary. The Ariel had been built purposely to meet these exigencies. He doubted if any of the three other machines could go through on any great rate of speed.
“I am sure of one thing,” he reckoned quite confidently; “the Ariel can outdo the Whirlwind two to one in drifting with the wind at its stern.”
“Dave! I say, Dave!” cried Hiram Dobbs breathlessly. “Here comes the Whirlwind!”
“I see,” answered Dave calmly.