“She looks it,” enthused Will. “I wanted to ask you about the biplane. You’re going to stay here till morning, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I guess that is the programme,” replied Hiram.
“Then you want to house the machine. I heard that some one stole the Comet. It was talked around here that some wanted to put the Comet out of the race because of her good chances.”
“Oh, is that so?” remarked Hiram.
“So, if you want the machine well taken care of,” proceeded Will, “give me the pleasure of doing it. You see that hangar over yonder—the one built of light cement blocks? It’s a remodeled storehouse. Belongs to Mr. Givins, a rich amateur. I take care of his machine when it’s here. He took a run up to Milwaukee this morning, and won’t be back until to-morrow, he said. There isn’t a safer, cleaner, more roomy place on the grounds. You see the windows are barred and there is a great big lock on the doors.”
“Why, say, that’s just famous,” said Hiram. “Dave will be glad to know of such good accommodations as you offer, Will.”
“Besides,” continued the hangar lad, “I’ll sleep in the place all night. Nobody will run away with the Comet while I am on watch.”
“I believe you,” cried Hiram buoyantly. “Come on, I want you to meet Dave. He will be mighty glad to see you.”
Number eight of the contestant group came in at dusk. Number eleven, a high power machine, reported an hour later. A wire had come from Pittsburgh announcing the smash—up of number five, nobody hurt, but machine totally disabled and permanently out of commission.
The young pilot of the Comet had some very pleasant words for Will Mason. The offer of the hangar lad to take charge of the Comet for the night was entirely satisfactory. The local airmen vied in showing attention to their guests, and the eight hours stop was an enlivening break in the long expedition before them.