CHAPTER XXIII--THE GREAT RACE

"Hurrah!"

"Why, it's only a boy!"

"Parks' man--get your rest, lad, while we see to things."

Andy found himself in a whirl of motion and excitement. When he had left the island where he had sacrificed his time and risked his chances of winning the race, he had discovered that he was fourth on the programme. The _Flash_ was becoming a distant speck, and the two other contesting biplanes were lagging after the leader.

Andy now set a pace to force the _Racing Star_ to do its utmost. His good knowledge of detail as to the machinery and his masterly manipulation of the same soon brought results. The _Racing Star_ easily passed two of the airships ahead. Then Andy ran neck-and-neck with the pilot train for several miles.

The _Flash_, however, kept up admirable speed, but finally a wing broke or oil ran out at Wayne, and the operator descended to a relief station.

Now was Andy's chance, and he made the most of it. With those inspiriting shouts of "Hurrah! Why, it's only a boy!" and the announcement from the relay posted at Springfield by Parks that they were on hand to tank up the _Racing Star_ and adjust the machinery, Andy landed at the outskirts of the city, just half the race distance covered.

It made him quite dizzy-headed to sail down along a vast sea of human beings, wild with enthusiasm at greeting the leader so far in the race.

Two men took entire charge of the _Racing Star_, with quick movements, tanking, oiling the cylinders, testing every part of it. A third man brought Andy a tray containing a cup of steaming coffee, one of beef tea, and some crackers.

"There she comes!"

"Hurrah No. 2!"

"The _Flash_!"

"And there she goes!"

"All aboard, Parks," sang out the leader of the relay gang, and with a glide and a whiz the _Racing Star_ was once more up in the air.

Again the _Flash_ was in the lead. Having been supplied with fuel and oil at its recent stop, the operator did not make any halt at the turning post. Andy felt fresh and ambitious, and the _Racing Star_ responded loyally to every touch of wheel and lever.

Fifty feet from the ground a wheel dropped from place, but Andy paid no attention to this. The train did not act as pilot on the return trip. Instead, at intervals of five miles to indicate stations, smudges were being sent aloft. Andy made a direct run for the first one of these, mapping out his route from those dimly visible on the course ahead.

At Dover Andy passed the _Flash_. For the next five miles they kept pretty well abreast.

The last smudge was about eight miles from Montrose. Andy flew past it making a circular turn as he plainly made out the aviation field in the distance. His competitor made a short cut, lost on a turn to strike the straight course and Andy overtook him.

Now it was that Andy tensioned up the splendid machine to its highest power. The white expanse of canvas and wood shivered and trembled under an unusual strain.

"In the lead!" cried Andy in delight, and his eyes sparkled through the goggles as he took a swift backward glance. The _Flash_ was bungling. Its progress was a wobble and its operator was at fault in striking an even balance.

The speed of the _Racing Star_ had now been increased to its utmost.

"Five minutes more, six at the most, will decide the race," breathed Andy. "I can't lose now."

The _Racing Star_ was no longer a bird afloat, but an arrow. Giving to the machine a certain slant, calculating to a foot how and where he would land, Andy saw nothing, thought of nothing, but the home post.

He was conscious of a frightful bolt downwards that fairly took his breath away. There was a blur of flying fences, buildings, tents, a green expanse, a sea of human faces, a roar as a great shout went up, and the _Racing Star_ met the ground on a bounce, and Andy Nelson was the winner of the great race.

Our hero did not step from the airship as eager, willing hands eased the _Racing Star_ down to a stop. Cheering, excited men fairly pulled him over the drooping planes. Some one hugged him with a ringing yell of delight, and John Parks' voice sounded in his ears.

"Oh, you famous boy--Andy, my lad, it's the proudest moment of my life!"

Mr. Morse caught Andy's hand, his serious face flushed with pride.

"The _Racing Star_ did it," said Andy.

"Yo' did it, chile, and yo' did it brown," chimed in Scipio, his mouth expanded in joyous delight from ear to ear.

John Parks never let go of Andy's arm as they made their way through the crowds to the main aerodrome stand. The official starter had unscrewed the speedometer and elevation gauge. He ran before them to the stand. Someone quickly chalked a legend on the big, bare blackboard. It ran:

Start of flight--10:04. Finish--11:39. Distance traveled--60 miles. Maximum height--1,200 feet. Wind velocity--12 miles from the west. Winner--Racing Star. Operator--Andy Nelson.

Somehow the boy aviator thrilled as he read his name at the bottom of the little legend.

"It's like a dream, Mr. Parks--just like a dream," and his voice was faint and dreamy in itself.

"Don't collapse, lad," directed the aeronaut anxiously--"the best is to come."

"It's only the reaction," said Andy. "To think I did it--me, only Andy!"

"There isn't another Andy like you in the whole world," enthusiastically declared Parks. "Yes, sir," as a man waved to him from the table on the grand stand.

"Here's the check, Parks," notified the judge.

"Well, we've won it, haven't we?" chuckled the aeronaut.

"You have, and it's ready for you. A pretty piece of paper, hey--five thousand dollars. Make it out to you?"

"I'll take it in two checks," answered Parks.

"Mr. Parks----" began Andy.

"There's only one check for the whole amount," replied the judge, "and only the name left to be filled in."

"Oh, that's the way of it, eh?" said the aeronaut. "All right, fill it in John Parks and Andy Nelson. I reckon, Andy, I can't get that twenty-five hundred dollars away from you without your signature."

He poked Andy in the ribs in jolly fun. He was all smiles and laughter as he shouted an order to Scipio to hurry home and get up the best celebration dinner he knew how. Then, Andy following him, he stepped forward to take the arm of Mr. Morse, and thus, the Japanese walking with Andy and congratulating him on his great feat, they crossed the field away from the crowds.

Some one broke over the dead line ropes and made a dash after them, yelling loudly:

"Andy, oh, Andy Nelson!"

"Hold on there!" ordered an officer, trying to head off the trespasser.

"Silas Pierce!" exclaimed Andy.

"He goes with us, officer," called out Parks. "You bet you go with us, you grand old hero!" he cried, giving the farmer boy a joyful, friendly slap on the shoulder.

"Yes, indeed," smiled Andy, catching the arm of Silas and hugging it quite, "if it hadn't been for you, there would have been no race."

"Andy," gasped Silas, "I can hardly believe it. Why you're famous."

"Am I?" smiled Andy.

"And rich."

"Rich in good friends, anyway," replied Andy.

"I hung around. When I saw you coming in on the lead, I nearly fell flat I was so excited," declared Silas.

"I want a chance for a little talk with you, Silas," said Andy. "I want to show you how much I appreciate what you have done for me."

The merry, happy coterie crossed the field, and coming out at a gate made a short cut for the Parks camp. They had just neared it, when among the crowd thronging about the place, Andy made out a boy edging towards him.

He crowded past several persons and came up to Andy's side and caught his sleeve.

"Andy," he said in a bold but sheepish way, "you know me, don't you?"

"Why, yes, I know you," answered Andy.

He stared in mingled surprise, perplexity and distrust at the speaker.

It was Dale Billings. Hungry-faced, unkempt looking, as if he had not slept for a week, and then in a hay mow or a freight car. Andy's old-time enemy confronted him in the hour of his great triumph.