Chapter 10

WINNING THE CONTEST

The day which was to witness the tests of the aeroplane models for the prizes offered by the professor of aeronautics dawned still and fair. It followed several days of storm, in which the boys had been unable to make any excursions in their motor boat, or into the country, or, indeed, even to devote any time to the engrossing subject of tracing the theft of the uniforms to its source.

Early in the morning a small field in the rear of Mr. Blake's house was well filled with boys of all ages and sizes, watching the contestants in the model contest trying out their craft. The models were of all sorts and sizes. Some were freak craft that had been constructed in a hurry from pictures, without any attention being paid to scale or proportions, while others were carefully made bits of mechanism.

Among the latter class were Paul Perkins' monoplane--Silver Arrow, he called it,--Hiram Nelson's two models, the monoplane of Tom Maloney, a lad of about sixteen, and Ed River's little duplicate of a Curtiss biplane. The contest was to take place on the Main Street of the town, in front of the bank, and in the middle of the course two poles had been erected, one on each side of the street, between which a brightly colored tape had then been strung, forming a sort of aerial hurdle. The tape was fifty feet above the ground, and to qualify at all it would be necessary for the contesting models to clear it.

The lecture which took place in the village hall came first and was well attended, most of the young folks of Hampton being there. If the truth must be told, however, while the lecturer was expounding his subject, illustrating it on the blackboard with chalk drawings, the majority of his young hearers were wishing that it was over and the contest really begun.

Especially was this true of the boys of the Eagle Patrol, who were every one of them anxious to see what kind of aeroplanes Jack Curtiss and Bill Bender would have produced. The lecture, however, at last came to an end, and the gentlemen on the platform shook hands with the professor and the professor shook hands with them, and somebody called for three cheers for "Hampton's distinguished son."

Everybody then lost no time in filing out into the afternoon sunlight, where they found quite a crowd already on the streets, and a small wooden grand stand, which had been erected near what was expected to be the finishing line, seating several guests. The committee and the professor, led by the Hampton brass band, blaring away at patriotic airs, made their way to the front seats in the structure, and everybody was requested to line up on each side of the street, so as to make a clear lane for the models to fly in.

The starting line was about a hundred yards from the red tape, and the contestants were compelled to stand back of this. Mr. Wingate, the president of the yacht club and member of the Boy Scout Council, had already shuffled the numbers of the contestants in a hat, and they were to fly their models in the order in which they drew their figures.

Up to this time there had been no sign of Jack Curtiss or Bill Bender, but the boys now saw them hastening up to a member of the committee and whispering to him. A moment later a man, with a megaphone boomed out from the grand stand:

"William Bender announces that he has withdrawn from the contest."

"Aha! I'll bet Jack's got cold feet, too," whispered Hiram, nudging Paul, who was kneeling down and winding up the long rubber bands which drove the propellers of the Silver Arrow, an Antoinette model.

But a short interval showed him to be mistaken, for Jack, with his usual confident air, repaired to the buggy in which he had driven into town from his father's farm, and speedily produced a model that caused loud sighs of "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" to circulate through the juvenile portion of the crowd.

However he had managed to accomplish it, the bully had certainly produced a beautiful model. It was of the Bleriot type, and finished perfectly down to the minutest detail. Every wire and brace on it was silvered with aluminum paint, and it even bore a small figure at its steering wheel. Beside it the other models looked almost clumsy.

The faces of the Boy Scouts fell.

"If that machine can fly as well as she looks," said Rob to Merritt, "she wins the first prize."

"Not a doubt of it," was Merritt's reply.

"Oh, well," put in Tubby, for the three inseparables were standing together, "if he can win the prize fairly, don't knock him. He certainly has built a beautiful machine. You've got to give him credit for that."

And now, as Jack, with a triumphant smile at the glances of admiration his model excited, strode to the starting point, elbowing small boys aside, and drew from the hat, the man with the megaphone once more arose. He held in his hand the result of the drawing and the order in which the models would fly.

"The f-i-r-s-t model to com-pete for the big p-r-ize," he bellowed, "will be that of Thomas Maloney--a Bler-i-ot!"

Poor Tom might have called his machine a Bleriot, but it is doubtful if the designer of the original machine of that name would have recognized the model as having any more than a distant relationship to the famous type of monoplane. It was provided with a large tin propeller, however, and seemed capable of at least accomplishing a flight. In fact, at the trials in the morning it had flown well, and by some of the lads was regarded as a sort of "dark horse." As Tom was on the village team, as opposed to the Boy Scout contingent, he was greeted with loud cheers and whistles by his friends as he stepped to the starting line, and, holding his already wound up machine in his hand, made ready to launch it.

"Crack!" went the pistol.

At the same instant Tom, with a thrusting motion, released his model; but, alas! instead of darting forward like the Sparrow Hawk it was named after, the craft ingloriously wobbled about eccentrically, and finally alighted on an old lady's bonnet, causing her to exclaim as the propeller whizzed round and entangled itself in her hair:

"No good'll ever come of teaching lads to meddle with these here contraptions."

The model having finally been extricated, amid much laughter, and poor Tom having offered mortified apologies, the announcer made known that Hiram Nelson's Doodlebug monoplane would essay a flight.

As the pistol sounded, Hiram launched his craft, and amid cheers from the crowd it soared up, and, just clearing the red tape, settled gracefully down a few feet the other side of the two hundred foot line.

"Good for you, Hiram!" exclaimed Ernest Thompson, the bike scout, who was acting as a patrol on the course. "Whose turn next?"

"You kids wait till I get my Bleriot started," sneered Jack. Several small boys near him, who were mortally afraid of the big fellow and rather admired him as being "manly," set up a cheer at this.

"Wait for Jack's dandy model to fly!" they cried.

"Edward Rivers--model of a Curtiss biplane!" came the next announcement through, the megaphone.

Another cheer greeted this, as young Rivers was also on the "town team."

The little Curtiss darted into the air at the pistol crack and flew straight as an arrow for the red tape. It cleared it easily and skimmed on down past the grand stand, and alighted, fluttering like a tired butterfly, beyond Hiram's model.

"Three hundred feet!" cried the announcer, amid a buzz of approval, after the measurers of the course had done their work.

"Paul Perkins--Bleriot!" was the next announcement.

A hum of excitement went through the crowds that lined the track. It began to look as if the record of Ed Rivers' machine would be hard to beat, but from the determined look on his face and his gritted teeth it was evident that Paul meant to try hard.

Before the report of the pistol had died out, the yellow-winged Dragonfly soared upward from Paul's hand and darted like a streak across the red tape, clearing it at the highest altitude yet achieved by any of the models.

"Hurrah!" yelled the crowd.

On and on sped the little Bleriot, while Paul watched it with pride-flushed cheeks. It was evident that it was going to out-distance the record made by Ed Rivers' machine. The Boy Scouts set up their Patrol cry:

"Kr-ee-ee-ee-ee!"

As the little machine settled to the ground, far beyond the grand stand, the officials ran out with their tapes, and presently the announcement came blaring down the packed ranks of the onlookers:

"Three hundred and fifty feet!"

What a cheer went up then.

"I guess you've got it won. Congratulations!" said Ed Rivers, pressing forward to Paul's side.

"Thanks, Ed," returned the other; "but 'there's many a slip,' you know, and there are several others to be flown yet."

Now came in rapid succession several of the smaller models and freak designs. Some of these wobbled through the air and landed in the crowd. Others sailed blithely up toward the red tape and just fell short of clearing it. Another landed right on the tape and hung there, the target of irreverent remarks from the crowd.

While this was going on, Bill Bender, Jack Curtiss and Sam were in close consultation.

"Remember, you promised that if you won the prize you'd give that money back," Sam whispered to Jack, "and for goodness' sake, don't forget it. I half believe that those boys suspect us already."

"Nonsense," returned the bully. "And what if they do? We covered up our tracks too well for them to have anything on us. They can't prove anything, can they?"

"I--I--I don't know," stammered Sam, and was about to say more, but the clarion voice of the announcer was heard informing the crowd that:

"John Curtiss' Bleriot model will now make a flight for the great prize."

With a confident smile on his face, Jack stepped forward and held his model ready. The murmur of admiration that had greeted its first appearance was repeated as he held it high in the sunlight and the afternoon rays glinted and shimmered on its fittings and wings.

"That's the model for my money," remarked a man in the crowd.

"It's going to win, too," said Jack confidently.

Just at that moment the pistol cracked, and Jack released his much-admired air craft.

Its flight showed that it was as capable of making as beautiful a soaring excursion as its graceful outlines and careful finish seemed to indicate. In a long, sweeping glide, it arose and cleared the red tape by a greater margin than had Paul Perkins' model.

"Jack Curtiss wins!" yelled the crowd, as the machine soared right on and did not begin its downward swoop for some distance. After it had alighted and the measurers had laid their tapes on the course, the announcer megaphoned, amid a perfect tornado of roars and cheers:

"The last flight, ladies and gentlemen--and apparently the winning one--accomplished the remarkable distance of four hundred and fifty feet--four hundred and fifty feet."

"Three cheers for Jack Curtiss!" shouted Bill Bender, slapping Jack heartily on the back and giving most of the cheers himself.

"I guess those cubs won't be quite so stuck up now," commented Sam, shaking Jack's hand warmly.

"I was pretty sure I'd win," modestly remarked the bully, as he began shouldering his way through the press toward the judges' stand. He was closely followed by the boys, as it looked as if Paul Perkins might have won the second prize and Ed Rivers the third.

Urged by Bill Bender, the band began puffing away at "See, the Conquering Hero Comes," and Jack, nothing averse to appearing in such a role, bowed gracefully right and left to the admiring throngs.

The professor shook hands warmly with the victorious Jack, and remarked:

"You are to be congratulated, young man. I have rarely seen a better model, and your skill does you great credit. Are you thinking of taking up aeronautics seriously?"

The bully, his face very red, stammered that he had entertained some such thoughts.

The professor was about to reply, when there came a sudden sound of confusion among that portion of the crowd which had surrounded the delegates deputed to pick up the aeroplanes and bring them to the stand. This was in order that they might be exhibited as each prize was awarded. A small boy with a very excited face was seen struggling to get through the mass, and he finally gained the judges' stand. As he faced the congratulatory professor he stuttered out:

"Please, sir, there's something wrong about Jack Curtiss' machine."

"What do you mean, you impudent young shaver!" shouted the bully, turning white, nevertheless.

"Let the lad speak," said Mr. Blake, who as one of the committee was standing beside the professor. "What is it, my boy? Let me see. You're Joe Digby, of the Eagle Patrol, aren't you."

"Yes, sir; and I live out on a farm near Jack Curtiss. I was watching him fly his machine this morning, from behind a hedge, and I heard them saying something about 'their store-made machine beating any country boy's model.'"

"He's a young liar! Pay no attention to him," stammered Jack, licking his dry lips.

"Silence, sir!" said Mr. Blake gravely. "Let us listen to what this boy has to say. If he is not speaking the truth, you can easily disprove it. Go on, my boy."

"Well, I guess that's about all I know about it: but I thought I ought to tell you, sir," confusedly concluded the small lad.

"You young runt, I'll half kill you if I catch you alone!" breathed Jack, under his breath, as the lad sped off to join his companions.

"Of course, you are not going to pay any attention to that kid's--I mean boy's--story," demanded Jack, addressing the professor. "It's made out of whole cloth, I assure you."

In the meantime the machines had been brought to the grand stand and were being examined. Naturally, after young Digby's statement, Jack's was one of the first to be scrutinized. The committee turned it over and over, and were about to pass on it, when Mr. Wingate, who had been bending attentively over the bully's model, gave a sudden exclamation.

"Look here, gentlemen," he cried, pointing to a small tag which Jack had evidently forgotten to remove, "I think this is conclusive evidence. Here is the label of the 'Manhattan Model Works' pasted right under this wing."

"Somebody must have put it there. It's a job those Boy Scouts put up on me," protested Tack. "I made that model every bit myself."

"I regret to say that we must regard the price tag as conclusive evidence that this machine comes from a store," said the professor sternly, handing Jack his unlucky model. "You are disqualified for entering a machine not of your own workmanship.

"Stand back, please," he went on, as Jack tried to protest. "I want to say," he went on in a loud tone, holding up his hand to command attention, "that there has been a grave mistake made. The machine which actually flew the longest distance is disqualified, as it was made at a New York model factory. The first prize of fifty dollars, therefore, goes to Paul Perkins, of the Boy Scouts, the second to Edward Rivers, of Hampton, and the third to Hiram Green, also of the Boy Scouts.

"Hold on one minute," he shouted, as the crowd began to cheer and hoot. "There is an additional announcement to be made. The committee has decided to offer a further reward of five dollars to Thomas Maloney, whose model shows evidence of praiseworthy and painstaking work."

As the cheers broke loose once more, Jack Curtiss and his cronies slunk off through the crowd, and having placed the rejected model in the buggy, drove off into the country in no very amiable or enviable frame of mind.

"Well, you made a fine mess of it," grumbled Bill Bender savagely. "I told you to look carefully and see that all the tags were off it."

"It's no more my fault than yours," grated out Jack, lashing the horse savagely, to work off some of his rage. "It's all the fault of those young cubs of Rob Blake's. Let them look out, though, for I'll get even with them before long, and in a way that will make them sit up and take notice."

"Don't forget that young mischief maker, Joe Digby," suggested Bill Bender. "It was all his fault--the young spy!"

"Oh, I'll attend to him," Jack assured his chum, with a grating laugh that boded no good for the youngest member of the Eagle Patrol.