The Boy Aviators Treasure Quest | Page 9

cloud of black smoke enveloped her engine
and she wobbled badly. A rush across the field began. Suddenly the
black aeroplane made a dash downward at a speed that seemed as if her
driver had lost control of her altogether.
"He'll be dashed to death," cried the crowd, as they saw the craft shoot
downward.
Indeed it seemed so.
But Malvoise was too experienced an aviator to be caught napping. As
soon as his engine began to miss fire and to smoke, he had set his
guiding planes at a sharp angle and dropped in the manner described.
Had the Buzzard not been fitted with air-cushion buffers on her landing
wheels and steel springs on the skids that supported her stern, a serious
accident must have inevitably occurred. But, as it was, the Frenchman
only received a severe jarring and was scowling over his engine when
the crowd rushed down on him.

As the crowd of curious onlookers swept down on the disabled
aeroplane and her furious driver, a loud "honk-honk" was heard and a
big touring car came dashing across the plain. The people scattered
right and left as soon as it was apparent that the car's destination was
the stranded Buzzard.
Beside its driver, the car had only a single occupant, an old man it
seemed by the tuft of gray hair that was projected from his chin, and
which was all that could be seen of his face. The rest of his features
were covered by a motoring mask with large glass eye-holes that made
him look not unlike a goggle-eyed frog.
"Come here, Malvoise," croaked the newcomer, in a voice strangely
like that of the creature he remotely resembled.
The Frenchman instantly left his engine and hurried to the side of the
automobile. The two conversed in low tones, though it was easy to see
that the old man was in a violent rage.
"I tell you the Buzzard must win," he concluded, after storming at
Malvoise for an accident that had really been no fault of his. "I've put
up a $50,000 plant for the manufacture of aeroplanes of her type and
I've got to have that cup in order to sell them."
"I told you, Mr. Barr," rejoined the Frenchman, "that I had found a man
who would do what we want. I told you that over the 'phone last night,
you recollect."
"Oh, yes, I recollect," croaked the old man impatiently, "but he doesn't
seem to have done much. You are sure we have no other dangerous
rivals?"
"Quite," was the reply. "Old Schmidt's monoplane is the only other one
that comes near us and we can easily outdistance her."
"Good! that only leaves the Golden Eagle to contest for the cup with
us."

"Yes, and she is never going to get it," grinned the Frenchman.
"She must not," said the old man, earnestly, "I owe those boys a grudge
for the way they robbed me of my ivory. I never found the other tusks
they said they had left behind either. I believe that ill-favored black
rascal, Sikaso, got them."
"You leave it to me," was the rejoinder of the Frenchman, to whom the
latter part of this speech had been incomprehensible of course, "the
Buzzard will win the cup, never fear."
At this moment, the heavy-set figure of Sanborn was seen shouldering
its way through the crowd.
"Why here's our man now," whispered Malvoise to old Barr. "This is
the mechanic of the Chester boys of whom I spoke to you."
Old Barr greeted Sanborn graciously, but he seemed somewhat
surprised when the mechanic, after some talk, suddenly said:
"I have something important to tell you, Mr. Barr."
"What is it?" demanded the magnate, not without impatience.
"I cannot tell you here, somebody might overhear us. I'll take a ride
with you in your car."
"But it won't do for the Chester boys to see us together."
"They won't be back for some time. They are off on a long flight. I can
tell you my proposition and be back at the aerodrome by the time they
return."
"Very well, I will hear what you have to say."
As the car moved slowly off, the chauffeur steering it carefully among
the scattered crowd, the two occupants of the tonneau were engaged in
a conversation that must have been deeply interesting, judging from old
Barr's gestures and exclamations. If one could have penetrated behind

his mask they would have seen his thin lips curled in a delighted smile
and his eyes glisten with cupidity at the proposition Sanborn was
craftily unfolding.
CHAPTER IV.
EBEN JOYCE APPEARS.
Hardly had the automobile containing the old man and the machinist
vanished down the road in a cloud of dust before a shout from the
crowd proclaimed that the