The Boy Aviators Treasure Quest | Page 3

its preliminary run, as you might call it, before it takes the air," rejoined the boy. "You see the rules of the race are that we fly from here to the Harrowbrook Club--a distance of twenty miles, alight there and refill our gasolene tanks, drink a cup of coffee in the club-house and then rise up once more and fly back."
"You mean that you are afraid that there will be difficulty in starting back from the Club grounds?" asked his father.
"Yes, father. You see, while we did it all right this afternoon, on the day of the race there will be a lot of 'planes all on the ground at the same time, and it's going to make it more difficult. However, I daresay we shall be able to manage it all right."
"Oh, Frank, do be careful," cautioned his mother.
"Of course I will, mother," the lad reassured her. "If I thought there was any serious risk I would not cause you anxiety by competing."
After a little more talk the elder Chesters drove off, as the boys had decided to sleep in their aerodrome that night, on the two camp cots they had provided for such emergencies. They intended to get an early start in the morning, on another practice sail, as at that hour there was usually little wind.
As they strolled across the grounds which were now rapidly being deserted, as all the aeroplanes were housed for the night, they encountered Armand Malvoise, the French driver of the mysterious Buzzard. He was a heavy-set, blue-chinned man with eyebrows that met in a black band, lending his face a perpetual scowl.
"You made a fine flight this evening," cried Harry cheerfully.
"You think so?" replied the Frenchman. "I shall make a better one on the day of the race. I mean to win that cup."
"Well, give us at least a look-in," laughed Frank good-naturedly.
"Bah, you are boys. I am a seasoned aviator. I have flown at Rheims and Vienna and in the south. It is absurd for you to compete with me."
"Personally I should like to see an American carry off the trophy, but if the best flyer wins I shall be quite satisfied," was Frank's quiet reply.
"You will see the colors of La Belle France floating over my aerodrome after the race," was the rejoinder.
"We shall see," was Frank's quiet answer, as the Frenchman strode off toward the village, where he usually remained gossiping in the hotel and complacently receiving the adulations of his admirers till late at night.
"Ach, he is as goot-natured as a caged lion, dot feller!" came a sudden exclamation behind the boys.
They turned about and faced old August Schmidt, the German aviator, who had started his career as a builder and operator of dirigibles, but was entered in the Hempstead Cup race as the flyer of a monoplane of his own design; and which, on account of its peculiar appearance, the crowds had already nicknamed the Grasshopper. As if in furtherance of this idea the German had painted his queer craft a bright green.
"Vell, you boys have a good chance for der cup got," the old man went on, between puffs at an enormous pipe with a china bowl that formed his inseparable companion when he was not in the air.
"Do you think so?" asked Frank.
"Ches, I do. Der Grasshopper is a goot leedle monoplane, but I am afraid dat some of der principles I have worked oud in her iss all wrong. Some day I break mein neck by der outside I am afraid much."
"Why you've done some good flying in the Grasshopper," consoled Harry.
"Ches, she is a goot leedle ship, bud she vont vin dees race, I dink. By der vay, boys, I have been meaning to warn you aboud dot Frenchman."
"How do you mean--'warn us'?" asked Frank.
"Vell he means to win dis race. I know dot he has bet a lot of money on himself. Den also the manufacturers of der Buzzard will make a lot of money already if der Buzzard wins der cup. If she does not--abend, dey lose. Yah, der is a lot to vin and much to lose for der Buzzard, and dot Frenchman vill do anything to make sure of vinning."
"Well, I guess we can take care of ourselves," laughed Frank, as he and his brother bade the queer old man good-night and entered their shed. It was filled with the appetizing odor of frying steak. On the top of the blue flame stove in a screened-off corner, Le Blanc, one of their mechanics, was cooking the simple meal with the loving care of a ten-thousand-dollar chef.
"Smells good!" remarked Harry sniffing. "Where's Sanborn?"
Sanborn was the other machinist and had been taken on in the place of their faithful old Schultz, who had fallen heir to a large sum of money