by Roy Rockwood
CHAPTER XXI
THE AMATEUR TROPHY
“There’s your machine,” spoke Grimshaw, with a grin.
“My machine?” repeated Dave Dashaway.
“Yes, that’s the biplane I expect to see you handle better than anyoperator on the field, or I shall be mightily disappointed.”
It was early morning. Just as breakfast was over at the _Aegis_ hangar,Grimshaw had appeared. He had nodded knowingly to Mr. King. Then he hadtaken Dave in tow; to lead him to his quarters, and back to a shed thedoors of which he had just thrown open. The most exquisite littlebiplane upon which Dave had ever feasted his eyes was revealed to view.
“Why,” exclaimed Dave, “where did it come from?”
“Fresh from the factory.”
“When?”
“Last night. We housed it when everybody was asleep. I suppose youunderstand, Dashaway?”
“Hardly,” answered Dave in a vague tone.
“Why, what have I been training you for, do you suppose?”
“For this, eh?”
“What else? About a week ago the makers of that little beauty, whichthey call the _Baby Racer_, wrote to me asking if they could get a tryout on the course here. They are stunting mostly for amateur patronage,and want to make a catchy showing. I fixed things with the showcommittee four days ago. The people who own the machine pay me onehundred dollars for my trouble. Half of it is yours.”
“_Fifty dollars!_” said Dave in a rapturous kind of a tone.
“It was hard work getting an extra number on the programme, but Mr. Kinghas fixed that.”
“It’s to be a regular entry, then?” asked Dave.
“Yes, it is, and a silver cup trophy for the best exhibition. Threeother new machines are in the contest.”
“But,” demurred Dave modestly, “you can’t expect me, a mere beginner—”
“To win the trophy?” retorted Grimshaw, in one of his roaring moods. “Icertainly do. Why, are you thinking of disgracing all my carefultraining, by making a fizzle of the chance of a lifetime!”
Dave was nearly overcome. He distrusted neither his own nerve nor theexcellent training of his tutor, but the proposition was so sudden italmost took his breath away.
“See here, Dashaway,” broke in the old man, “you’ve done just what Itold you in all our training stunts, haven’t you?”
“I’ve tried to, Mr. Grimshaw.”
“Well, you just keep up those tactics right along, and I’ll not steeryou into any mishaps. There’s a big bulletin down at the pylonannouncing this flight. Now get yourself in trim, to show the airmenwhat you’re made of. Have the little beauty out and look at her.”
Dave’s fascinated glance rested on a rare combination of grace andutility, as the _Baby Racer_ was run out from under cover.
The machine was not a large one. It was a model of compactness, and hadevery latest improvement. Grimshaw operated the wings.
“It’s an articulated biplane,” he explained. “See here, where the wingsare jointed and spread and close till they look like a big beetle. Thefuselage is clear spruce. The landing chassis is made of rattan strips.See those reinforced skids, and that four cylindered aerial motor? Theowners said she ought to have a muffler, for she spouts like a blastfurnace when she starts.”
Mr. King came up, smiling and looking pleased, while tutor and pupilwere looking over the _Baby Racer_. Then Hiram put in an appearance. Hewas so excited that he hopped around from place to place, telling Davethat he was the luckiest boy in the world.
By and by the news spread of the arrival of a new model, and a crowdbegan to gather. Airmen looked over the natty little machine and madetheir comments, _pro_ and _con_. One fellow found all kinds of fault.Dave noticed that this was the most unpopular man with all the field,and the employer of the Dawsons at the present time.
“Who’s going to run her?” he asked of Grimshaw.
The old man placed a hand on Dave’s shoulder. The latter flushedmodestly. The grumbler gave him a hard look.
“That kid?” he observed disgustedly.
“He’s one of my crack graduates, I’d have you know,” retorted Grimshaw,bridling up.
“That don’t make him eligible.”
“Eligible for what?”
“Running a machine on a licensed course.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. King, stepping up, “but we have arrangedall that. Here, Dashaway, keep that about you so you can answer anyimpudent questions.”
“A pilot’s license, eh?” muttered the fault-finder—“Oh, then of courseit’s all right.”
“It’s not a pilot’s license,” Grimshaw told Dave after the fellow hadsneaked away, “but it’s just as good as one. It’s a special permit, andMr. King’s word and influence stand good for you.”
Dave passed three anxious but busy hours up to the time when the extrafeature advertised was announced, and Grimshaw and two assistantswheeled the _Baby Racer_ out upon the running course.
“Hop in,” ordered Grimshaw, as the spotless new model was ranged in therow ready for the start.
“There’s the signal,” spoke his assistant.
“Go!”
Dave bounded up into the air, as he got into position in the roaringmachine.
Like a gull he soared from the ground and circled about the meadows tothe left of the course. The pure white wings of the _Baby Racer_ weredazzling in the sunlight, almost blinding the staring group ofspectators.
Dave took in the position of the three other contestants. Then he paidstrict attention solely to the directions his proficient teacher hadgiven him.
From a height of several hundred feet Dave cut off the motor and glidedwithin fifteen feet of the earth; then with a new roar the enginestarted again and up went the mammoth bird.
Not satisfied with his test, Dave speeded up and slowed down severaltimes, and then darted to earth. Before the machine came to a full stophe started again and swooped upwards.
For a quarter of an hour the biplane soared above the course, made afinal stop, and came back to the earth within a few feet of the startingplace from its sensational flight in the clouds.
Dave caught the echo of vast cheering, and as he was hustled along tothe Grimshaw quarters, he was conscious of being slapped on the back, ofhearing approving comments. He was a little exhausted and light headedfrom the unusual spin, however, and glad to sit down in a reclining campchair and get his breath.
Grimshaw left him with Hiram, who had abandoned work for the hour togive full attention to his friend.
“How did I do, Hiram?” asked Dave.
“You did it all,” declared his enthusiastic champion. “Why, those otherfellows just lopped around like lazy flies. Not one of them went up overtwo hundred feet.”
A little later they heard Grimshaw approaching. He was chuckling andtalking to himself.
“A big advertisement for my aviation school, hey?” he cried, bursting inupon the two friends. “Dashaway, when you get rested just drop down tothe office and get that trophy.”
“I’ve won?” cried Dave.
“Skill, rapidity and altitude—all three points,” was the gladannouncement of the old aerial engineer.
Mr. King came into evidence a few minutes later.
“I’m pretty proud of you, Dashaway,” he said, in his hearty, forcibleway. “This means a professional dash pretty soon, I can tell you.”
About an hour later Dave and Hiram were making their way to the _Aegis_hangar. As they passed one of the temporary refreshment stands they cameupon a crowd of five boys.
“It’s Jerry and his crowd,” whispered Hiram.
“Don’t pay any attention to them, Hiram,” answered Dave.
“I shan’t, unless they pester me,” replied Hiram.
With Jerry was the young rough, Brooks, the boy Dave and Hiram haddetected behind the pile of benches. Three others Dave recognized asyoung loafers who followed the meets, working
only occasionally.
They did not break ranks as they came up abreast of Dave and Hiram,halting them, which movement seemed preconcerted on their part.
“Say, think you’ve done it, don’t you?” sneered Jerry, looking straightat Dave. “Well, make the most of it. You’ll never take another fly.”
“Why won’t he?” challenged Hiram, making an aggressive forward movement.But Dave held him back.
“Because I’ve got you—got you right, this time, Dave Dashaway. Back tonature, back to the farm for you—ha! ha! ha!”
And Jerry’s companion joined him in his mocking jeer as they passed ontheir way.
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