Cameron was doing all that he possibly could. The aëroplane was a mere speck against the blue of the sky, steadily increasing the distance that separated it from the racing automobile.
"We no ketchee!" panted Ping. "By Klismus, Motol Matt all same eagle bird. Woosh! No ketchee!"
"The Chink's got it right, McGlory," cried Cameron. "Unless something happens to the aëroplane we'll never overhaul it. Matt's gaining on us right along."
"And all we can do is to watch and let him gain," fumed the cowboy. "I feel like I did, once, when I was tied hand and foot and gagged while a gang of roughs were setting fire to a boathouse in which Pard Matt lay asleep. Oh, speak to me about this!"
Then, all at once, the motor went wrong, and the car lost speed until it came to a dead stop. McGlory groaned.
"Of course this had to happen," he stormed. "If you're ever in a hurry something is bound to go wrong with these blooming chug carts. We're out of the race, Cameron. Take your time, take your time. Hang the confounded luck, anyway."
Cameron got down and went feverishly to work locating the trouble. Ping tumbled out of the tonneau and fluttered around, dancing up and down in his excitement and anxiety.
McGlory did not get out of his seat. Gloomily he kept his eyes on the fading speck in the heavens until he could see it no more.
"It's out of sight," he muttered heavily.