A farmer came along in a light wagon and gave Dave a lift. Just as they drove into Clyde, the man made the sudden remark:
“There’s one of them airships.”
Over towards the southeast a whizzing monoplane was speeding on its way.
“The race is on,” decided Dave.
“There’s another!” cried his companion, and stopped his wagon and got out. Dave followed his example, thanked him for the lift, and, looking upwards, walked on to a rise where he could get a better view of the air movements.
In turn four machines came into view. One or two of them were near enough for Dave to recognize. A queer qualm came over him as a fifth machine drove a course directly over the town.
“The racing monoplane I was to have run,” he said breathlessly. “I wonder who has taken my place? Hello—something wrong!”
Like a soaring eagle suddenly wounded, the monoplane dropped one wing. It curvetted under a manipulation of the rudder. Then with no reason apparent for the strange movement, the monoplane tilted at a sharp angle.
“He’s gone—it’s a smash up!” shouted Dave in a transport of the wildest anxiety and alarm.
To a casual observance the daring airman aloft was simply giving spectators a stock thrill. Dave realized instantly that something was wrong.