They had been flying thus for perhaps two hours, when Paul saw that for which he had been keenly watching for some time. It was a faint black speck, like a tiny bird, against the blue of the heavens ahead of them. He continued to watch this silently, after calling his chum's attention to it, until, under an increase of speed, the Sky-Bird had drawn close enough for them to observe that it was what they suspected—an airplane.

In another hour they were near enough to recognize in it the unmistakable outlines of the Clarion. To all appearances their rivals had also observed them, and were crowding on power, for now they gained much slower. Yet they still continued to narrow the breach between them, steadily, rod by rod, and minute by minute. They could see that the Clarion was not well handled, for she wavered in her flight considerably.

"They'd be wise if they'd throw those rocks out which they took aboard," commented Paul. "That might help them to fly steadier."

"They're flying all of a thousand feet higher than we are," said Bob. "We're going to pass under them, I think, in the next half-hour."

That was the way matters looked. The Clarion was riding high, and was so close by this time that the windows in her cabin could be made out. Against those panels of glass our friends felt sure some of the rival crew were even at that moment pressing anxious faces as they watched the Sky-Bird steadily creeping up on them.

It was such an auspicious moment that Paul went and aroused John and Tom, so that they could see the Sky-Bird overtake and pass her adversary. Those two worthies grumbled a whole lot for a few moments, being half asleep, but when they grasped the situation and saw the Clarion just ahead, they were as much interested as anybody.

Slowly, surely the Sky-Bird overtook the rival machine. When it seemed her nose was almost up to the tail of the Clarion, they saw a movement in the bottom of the fuselage of the craft above them, where her trapdoor of glass was situated in the floor of the cabin. Then something gray streaked down through the air. It went whizzing by just in front of the Sky-Bird, and a few moments later plunged into the sea with a great splash.

"Huckleberry pie!" ejaculated Tom Meeks, "one of their rocks has burst through their floor trap. Say, that was a close call for us!"

"Watch out! Here comes another!" cried Paul, as a second gray missile went by them on the other side.

Barely had it struck the waters beneath, when a third rock came so close that they could feel the rush of air as it passed downward. It was as if they were being bombarded by an enemy above, who used great stones instead of explosives. Their faces paled when the truth struck them like a thunderbolt. With calm deliberation, deadly intent, and a skill born of dropping bombs on targets during the war, some of the fellows in the machine above were trying to wreck the Sky-Bird with the rocks they had gathered in the field back in Ceylon!

"Quick, Bob!" cried John to their pilot. "Swerve out from under these devils as fast as you can! If another stone comes down here, it may—"

The words he intended to say never were uttered. At that very moment another gray object streaked its way down through the heavens, whirling uglily. They thought sure it would strike the cabin roof and crash through, and intuitively they cowered back in the corners for protection.

But their speed carried the stone farther to the rear. There was a tearing, rending sound.

Their faces blanched. And then Bob called out: "Hi, fellows, something's gone wrong! The Sky-Bird's bound to put her nose into the sea. The tail elevators don't work!"



CHAPTER XXIV

RIDING AN AIRPLANE'S TAIL

Filled with the gravest fears for the safety of the Sky-Bird and themselves, all except Bob rushed to the rear windows of the cabin and looked out to see what had caused the ripping noise, and what could be wrong with the tail.

Paul reached a point of vantage first. One swift look showed him the trouble. The left elevator had a big hole through it, made by the stone, fragments of silk showing all round the ragged gap. But this could not have caused the derangement of the steering controls entirely, and looking for a reason, Paul saw that the impact had caused the wire running to the right elevator to become twisted around a bracket near the end of the fuselage. Under this condition neither elevator could be controlled. With the good one held downward, it was no wonder that the airplane had started a stubborn, slow dive toward the ocean in spite of Bob's frantic efforts to work the lever normally effecting it.

"Shut off your engine!" called Paul to Bob. "That will hold us back. Three minutes of time I think will save us!"

With the words, Paul seized the end of a long coil of rope which lay near, and fastened it about his waist. Both Bob and John saw what he meant to do. He would crawl out upon the fuselage and attempt to untangle the inactive control wire, freeing the now useless right elevating plane!

It was a daring thing to do—a most perilous proceeding. But the older men knew that it was the only thing that could prevent them from plunging into the sea. So John threw open a window for his brother, the nimblest one of them, gave his hand a parting squeeze, and Paul climbed through.

Paul never had realized as he did now how smooth that rounded body of the machine was, nor how strong the wind shot back along it when the machine was in flight. Although he clutched it with both arms and legs, and lay as close to it as he could press, he thought two or three times, as he made his way out toward the tail, that he would be torn loose. He knew that his friends in the cabin, whom it might be he would never speak to again, were watching his progress with fear gripping their hearts, and were probably inwardly praying for his success with every breath.

Finally the boy reached the tail. He dare not look down at the sea to see how much closer they were now, for the sight might unnerve him and prove disastrous to his purpose. So, glazing his vision to all except his environs and intent, he wrapped his legs around the narrowing body of the machine, let go with his arms, and in a crouching posture seized the tangled wires. Two or three tugs and he had them free. He announced this fact with as loud a yell as he could.

Immediately afterward he heard his brother's voice. "Hang right there where you are, Paul! Don't try to come back until we get elevation again and I give you the word."

He realized what this meant and looked down as he once more wrapped his arms around the fuselage, with his shoulders against the rudder bracket. What he saw was the restless sea less than two hundred feet below! Had Bob waited for him to attempt to crawl back into the cabin with the tail elevated, the Sky-Bird would have buried herself in the waters before he was half-way to his objective. They must now rise, if that were possible, to a good height; then Bob would slowly spiral the airplane downward and afford him a declining surface to work back upon.

Luckily Paul's freeing of the right elevating plane, gave the pilot fairly good control over the machine, so Bob had no difficulty in bringing the Sky-Bird into a rising swoop, although none too soon. Mounting at a good angle, but one which would not be likely to displace the youth clinging at the tail, he brought the airplane up to two thousand feet.

"Now, Paul! Slide for it!" cried John, as the machine began a slow descent in a great circle.

Paul then worked his way back like a crab, sliding a little, but not once allowing his tensioned limbs to relax to the danger point. Before the airplane had come within five hundred feet of the sea, he felt his legs grasped in the strong hands of John and Tom, and the next moment they had hauled him bodily through the window.

"Ginger, Buddy, that was a close call for us—and you, too!" exclaimed John. "I hope I never see you in such a ticklish place again!"

Paul sank into a seat. He was too exhausted to do anything but smile. When at last he could find his voice he asked, anxiously: "Can Bob control her all right now?"

"Well enough to land us where we wish to go, he says," observed Tom.

"That's right," put in Bob himself, who had overheard the conversation. "The Sky-Bird isn't what she was before that rock went through her, but if nothing worse happens we'll reach Singapore, though it will probably be somewhat later than our sweet friends in the other plane."

"We can land at Sumatra, I think, if we have to make repairs before," ventured John. "We ought to cross the northern end of that island in the course of an hour."

Searching the horizon for their rivals, they saw that, evidently satisfied with the mischief they had done, the Clarion crew had gone on at full speed, for they were now far ahead.

"If I ever run onto Pete Deveaux again I believe I shall be angry enough to choke him till he's unable to speak his own name," declared Paul.

"I'm afraid I'll have to help you at that job, Paul," cried Tom. "He's the most unprincipled scoundrel that ever went unhung."

"You are right, Tom; Deveaux is a brute," said John. "His deviltry came near being the end of us. When we get home, we must see to it that he is punished as he deserves. But we must keep it out of the papers now, as it will look, in case we get beat, as if we wanted an excuse."

John and Tom now resumed their hammocks and broken sleep, for they saw that, although the shattered tail elevator caused the Sky-Bird to ride roughly and at reduced speed. Bob and Paul could probably handle her all right from now on. The cross winds of the monsoon also hindered their progress a good deal, blowing erratically from different directions, but they plugged along at a pace slow enough to keep themselves within the zone of safety.

A little later they came in sight of Sumatra, but as they were going fairly well, thought it best not to attempt a landing for repairs. So they crossed the northern tip of the island, and proceeded on over the Strait of Malacca. Sometime since, Paul had taken Bob's place at the throttle, and the latter had communicated with their destination by wireless, learning that the other airplane had arrived.

It was twilight when they at last reached Singapore, and made a landing in the race-course in the outskirts of the town. By long odds this was the smallest island upon which they had so far stopped, but they found the city one of the busiest. Their rivals had left fully two hours before.

Now came the task of repairing the broken tail elevator. As the frame was undamaged, it was only necessary to straighten out a few bent supports and put new covering on. The British official at the field showed them where to purchase the necessary silk and glue, also a good waterproof varnish for coating the covering. From his own home he secured a pair of scissors with which to do the cutting, and John and Bob worked at the task, while Paul and Tom took on fuel and water and looked after other preparations for resuming their journey as soon as possible.

During this process, Grandpa the monkey was permitted to come out of the cabin and entertain the crowd of onlookers with his antics, which he did to perfection, as he had done at other stops. To the ivory ring about his slender little waist, Paul always fastened a long thin rope, which he had bought in Para, when he let Grandpa out. This leash prevented him from wandering off, something nearly all unfettered monkeys will do if not watched very closely by their masters. Almost any place seems to be home to a monkey, and almost any man seems to suit him for a temporary master.

Grandpa himself delighted in running out upon the wings of the Sky-Bird at the stops. He pulled the control wires and made the ailerons swing up and down, which always raised a laugh among the crowds. Another favorite pastime with him was to post himself in front of the reflector of the big searchlight up on the cabin, and make the most comical grimaces at his image on the polished reflector inside, sometimes uttering queer noises as if he were crying, and at other times chattering with the utmost anger at the phantom monkey, mixing these demonstrations up with wild dashes around behind the lamp to see if the mimicking animal were there. No matter what language the natives of each port might speak, they never failed to understand and appreciate these little sideshow comedies of Grandpa's. And when it would become noised about among them that this particular monkey had traveled all the way from South America through the air with the "bird-men," their awe for him was amusing to behold.



CHAPTER XXV

ENGULFED IN A VOLCANO'S DUST

With three hundred gallons of gasoline in her tanks, and her broken tail-elevator well repaired, the Sky-Bird was ready at eleven o'clock that evening to take off. Her crew were all tired out, but they knew they would soon be able to occupy the comfortable seats or hammocks in the cabin for another long stretch of over-sea travel, for it would be morning before they would reach Port Darwin, Australia, their next stop.

It had been raining very hard in Singapore just before they arrived, and the field was quite wet, with many puddles in the low spots. Through one or two of these they had had to run in landing, and it seemed that in hopping off they would be forced to do so again. Fortunately the ground was sandy, so they had come to a stop in a spot not at all muddy, and had thus been able to work upon the machine without the discomforts of wading in slime while doing it.

They now started the engine, Tom climbed in, and they were off, running over the soft ground at increasing speed. Then the airplane struck a pool of water, five or six inches deep, which almost pulled them up. It also held them back so that when the machine emerged it was going very little faster than at the beginning. The next patch of ground was a little longer, but they had not risen when they struck it at a rate of about twenty-five miles an hour.

This pool was also quite deep, and the sudden resistance almost threw the Sky-Bird onto her nose. It did cause her to dip so that her long propeller struck the puddle, and immediately water and sand were sucked up and thrown in almost every direction by the swiftly revolving blades. Much of it reached the natives, who in two long rows of curious humanity, formed a lane for the passage of the craft, and many a poor fellow gave a howl and fell back against those behind, spluttering and rubbing grit and water from his face, while rivulets coursed down his dusky body amid the howls of laughter of his mates.

The flyers had only a fleeting glimpse of this amusing incident before they found the front windows of the cabin so covered with the deluge of spray that they could scarcely see ahead. Two of them quickly opened the portals, for a grave danger menaced them.

Less than sixty yards ahead was the lower fence of the field, and just back of this arose scrub trees and houses, with no opening between which could be utilized. They must clear these formidable obstacles, looming bigger every second, and the distance was alarmingly short, for the last pool had again retarded their momentum to such an extent that they had just barely staggered through it.

Picking up speed once more at every turn of her propeller, the Sky-Bird shot down the last stretch of ground reaching to the fence. How fast this obstruction loomed up! Just in the nick of time the airplane left the ground. They sailed over the tops of trees and houses so close that the wheels of their landing-gear almost scraped. It was one of the finest maneuvers of the whole voyage, and the boys praised John so for his good piloting that he had to ask them to desist.

After a wide sweep above Singapore, they headed for the open water, which in this case happened to be South China Sea.

The weather was very threatening. Dark-looking clouds began to efface the moon and stars, whose light had aided in the take-off at Singapore, and within fifteen minutes occasional flashes of sheet-lightning could be seen far ahead, throwing into relief the immense bulk of the foreboding clouds and shedding a pallid gleam over the sea. Occasionally a light zephyr came out of the east, but it would last only a moment.

"We ought to be just about over the equator now," announced John a little later.

Paul and Bob had stayed up on purpose to witness this event, and by dead reckoning had computed their position so closely that John's announcement had come just as they were about to make a similar statement. Although they could see no "line" stretching along down there in the sea, they fancied they could, with the most pleasant imagery. That great line, the belt of the universe, dividing the Northern and Southern hemispheres, they had already crossed once, in their zigzagging course, at the mouth of the Amazon. Now here in the South China Sea they were crossing it a second time. At no time had they been more than thirteen degrees away from it. One more crossing of it, if all went well, and they would be almost within sight of the end of their journey—Panama!

With this pleasant thought Bob and Paul rolled up in their hammocks, trusting John and Tom to bring them safely through the bad weather that seemed in store, and were soon asleep.

To the two older flyers, used to all conditions of aerial passage as a result of several years' experience, the present conditions were not at all terrifying. Although the spectacle of the dark clouds in front of them was extremely uncanny, they realized that they were only local thunder showers which could probably be avoided by a little careful navigating.

In this they were right. By wheeling a little out of their course, to the left or right, and by flying up over one big cloud which could not be avoided in any other manner, they managed to dodge the most dangerous fields of lightning and the worst torrents of rain.

Presently they left the dark clouds far behind, and once more the stars appeared in the blue firmament above and the pale moon lit up the tropical sea.

With relief John guided the Sky-Bird lower, so that they could keep a sharp lookout for guide-posts of land. They passed several small islets which were uncharted with them, but when, about midnight, they made out a great black blotch not far ahead, they recognized it as the southern end of the island of Borneo, and knew they were all right.

In a little while Borneo was sweeping along below them, its mangroved shores gloomy and desolate-looking, not to say weird, in the pale moonlight. Among those dense forests and thickets the flyers knew many a wild animal was prowling at that very moment, and in the thatched huts in the glens slept many a fierce-visaged savage with weapons close at hand.

Toward morning the flyers observed a volcano in active eruption off to the southeastward, apparently on the island of Timor. It was a beautiful sight, so wonderful that John awoke the sleepers, that they too might enjoy it. Fantastic lights of various colors shot upward from the crater. These shafts lit up billowing clouds of smoke and ashes, which poured out in awe-inspiring volume. Back of it all stood the dark-blue velvet sky, against which the pyrotechnics were embossed in a stunning manner. Man could never have wished to witness a more remarkable manifestation of nature than did the young aviators, as they viewed the spectacle from their own favored position in the air.

Swiftly the Sky-Bird drew them toward the volcano, for it was directly in their course. As they approached, they could see flames licking their way upward from the dark mass of rock constituting the shaft, and could make out streams of lava pouring over the sides of the crater, going down into the unknown blackness below. What a sight it was! How their pulses beat! How their hearts quickened!

But now, very unexpectedly, the sight was shut out. Thin, pungent, volcanic smoke and ash began to surround them. In a few moments it was so thick that they grew alarmed. All had the same fearful thought—

If this should continue a little while, they would lose their bearings, and might run right into the fountain of fire itself!

This was a terrifying possibility, for it would mean a horrible death to every one of them. Fireproof though the airplane was in the general sense of the word, every one of those in her cabin knew that if they should ever pass through those licking flames, the great heat in them would fairly melt the light structure of the machine in the twinkling of an eye. No metal or wood could withstand that terrible blast a moment, much less human flesh.

It is small wonder, therefore, that Tom now sent the Sky-Bird off to the right, and higher, also. They closed the windows, to keep out the foul smells, and anxiously awaited developments. They could not see a yard in front of them, so thick were the smoke and gases. It was a trying time.

Fortunately Tom had taken the best course he could. Five minutes passed—ten minutes—fifteen—and then the air began to clear. Slowly the curtain lifted; and presently looking back, they saw that they had passed the volcano and were leaving it and the island well behind.

Its fires, too, seemed to be burning out. Only a few forks of ghostly light were coming up from the crater. These grew fainter and fainter, and in a little while the eruption seemed to have entirely subsided, for Timor was swallowed up once more in the impenetrable mantle of night.



CHAPTER XXVI

IN AUSTRALIA

Shortly after five o'clock the next afternoon, Paul saw ahead and to port what appeared to be haze, but which he and Tom hoped was the coastline of Australia. Ten minutes later the observer joyfully pointed out to the pilot unmistakable evidence of an island upon which stood a tall object—Bathurst Island lighthouse.

John and Tom were routed out, and all saw the rugged outline of the great island—a continent itself, as large as the United States and much the same shape—stretching away to the southward and slowly dwindling into low, sandy, barren shores as it went.

Less than forty minutes later they were circling over Port Darwin, on the northwest corner of the continent, while a good-sized crowd of people down below pointed excitedly upward. The flyers soon made out the landing-field by reason of its white marker, and swooped gracefully down, while those below cheered.

Two zealous customs officials were anxious to examine the new arrivals, also a health officer; but this did not take long, and during the process they were able to converse pleasantly with Mr. Seth Partlow, the British official in charge of the field, also with the mayor of Darwin, who gave them the most cordial welcome.

They were sorry to learn that Pete Deveaux and his flyers had departed less than a half-hour before their own arrival; but they had been expecting such a report owing to the fact that they had been left so far behind at Singapore. They now determined to hurry up refitting operations, and leave at the first opportunity, hot upon the trail.

Messages were dispatched to Mr. Giddings at Panama and to his newspaper in New York; and another roll of films containing numerous interesting views taken that morning just before and after landing, were mailed in to the Daily Independent.

Here, for the first time, they were able to secure a paper containing accounts of their own and their rival's passage. It was a novel experience to read these glowing descriptions of incidents still fresh in their minds—descriptions which had in some cases flown by wire, in others by air-waves, from point to point, more than half-way around the world. It provoked thoughts which made them marvel at the wonderful ingenuity and power of the very equipment which they were using themselves every chance they could get—their wireless telegraph and telephone sets. The remarkable news-gathering efficiency of the world, the coordination of agencies in gathering and disseminating news, was astounding to contemplate.

The mayor of the town insisted upon the boys partaking of dinner at his home near by, and they thankfully agreed to do this when Mr. Partlow declared he would personally see to the filling of the Sky-Bird's tanks, for which task he had plenty of assistants.

They were most cordially received by the mayor's wife. Within fifteen minutes they had the satisfaction of sitting down to one of the most satisfying meals they had ever had. Not only was everything well cooked, but there was a great variety of viands. They were all particularly impressed with the toothsomeness of the meat which the maid served, so much so that Paul could not refrain from remarking: "Mr. Bailey, I never ate sweeter chicken than that."

"No, I don't believe you ever did," laughed the mayor. "The fact is, young man, that is not domestic chicken at all. It is the flesh of the brush-turkey, a wild fowl which the bushmen or blackfellows bring in here to market. It is a great delicacy."

"I have read of these bushmen," said Bob. "Are they quite wild?"

"Indeed they are," the mayor replied. "The blackfellow is, I believe, on the lowest rung of civilization. He is unlike the negro, the Malay, the Mongolian, and the American Indian, in many ways. If you could stay a few days, I would be glad to take you back in the bush and show you a few specimens in their native state. They have a long skull, with a low, flat forehead, Their brows overhang deep-set, keen eyes, and they have a heavy lower jaw, with teeth as strong as a dog's. Their hair is generally wavy or curly, being usually auburn or black in color. As a rule their faces are almost hidden by beards and whiskers, which they never comb and which, like the hair on top of their heads, are always in a beautiful tangle."

"How do they dress, sir?" asked Paul.

This brought another laugh from Mr. Bailey. "That doesn't worry them in the least!" he declared. "Most bushmen are covered from head to foot with hair, and I imagine they think this is a good enough uniform, for they wear nothing except what nature gave them. In bad weather, however, they do add some artificial protection to their tough bodies by making a rough wrap out of the skin of a kangaroo or a piece of flexible bark. Some tribes use rushes and seaweed for this purpose, while others make a blanket from the dried frog scum of the swamps and ponds. For boats, pieces of eucalyptus bark, folded and tied at the ends and daubed with clay, suit them very well. They are too lazy to dig out the trunk of a tree for a canoe, like the natives of most other countries."

"Do these blackfellows live in huts?" asked John.

"That's where their laziness manifests itself again," said the mayor, smiling. "The blackfellow has no permanent dwelling. His shelter is a cave or overhanging rock, as an animal might select one; sometimes it is only a large section of bark which he tears from a tree, and under which he walks or squats in storms or lies at night."

"Back in the States," remarked Tom, "we hear much about the skill of these fellows with the boomerang. I dare say a lot of these stories are overdone."

"Possibly," said their host, "and yet it is a fact that these natives are undoubtedly more adept at casting various forms of wooden implements than any other people in the world. Their very indolence leads them to adopt all sorts of easy-made weapons, and wood is surely one of the most common materials for the purpose one could find. Clubs of all kinds are hurled at prey or human enemies. Among these the boomerang is a favorite. They have several forms. One type is very light, round on one side and flat on the other, and slightly twisted on its axis. It is used almost entirely for play, though sometimes to hurl at flocks of birds in the sky. The war and hunting boomerangs are much heavier; they are bent differently, and do not return to the thrower, but are a deadly weapon in the hands of these bushmen at ranges up to four hundred feet. But stone-pointed spears are their chief weapons."

"With this skill I presume they have no trouble in securing enough to eat," suggested Paul, sipping his cocoa.

"On the contrary, there are times when weather conditions, such as drouth, make it a very difficult matter for some tribes to get sufficient food. Then they will turn to human flesh, and will eat men who have fallen to their weapons, or their own tribesmen who have succumbed to disease or hunger. Even infants are sometimes killed and eaten by their parents."

"Horrible!" cried the flyers. This seemed almost incredible, with civilization in abundance so near.

"I agree with you," said Mr. Bailey, failing to notice his wife holding up a protesting finger toward him. "Of course the blackfellow prefers to have other foods when he can get them. The kangaroo, wallaby, and opossum, form his chief food supply, but no animal or nourishing plant is neglected. He even eats ants, caterpillars, moths, beetles, grubs, snakes, lizards, often uncooked——"

At that point Mr. Bailey felt a sharp twist of his ear, and looking up, found his wife gazing at him with a very severe expression.

"Thomas Bailey! You are a cannibal yourself! Where is your sense of propriety? Have you lost your head in your interest in this subject? Don't you know you are eating?—that you have guests here who are also eating?"

"My! my! Goodness gracious!" ejaculated their host, in a great fuss. "Young men, I was not thinking. Will you ever pardon me for this transgression of etiquette?"

The flyers smilingly hastened to assure both their friends that they had not lost their appetites in the least; that they really had enjoyed every morsel of food and information passed out. They remained to chat long enough to convince the lady and gentleman of this fact, and then took their departure. They had actually spent a most entertaining hour, one which they would not have missed for a good deal.

At eight-fifty local time the Sky-Bird took off for her long hop to Apia, principal city of Upolu, an island of the Samoan group. It was the beginning of their long flight across the big Pacific, an ocean so wide, so fraught with perils, that no aircraft had ever before attempted to negotiate it. Some eight thousand miles away over those great waters lay Panama, their goal. Would they reach it ahead of their rivals? Would they reach it within their schedule of ten days?

To these two queries in their minds, our stout-hearted, young friends answered doggedly and determinedly, "Yes!" Fortune might frown upon them, it is true; but if so they would face her smilingly, with confidence, with that pertinacity for which Americans are famous, and try to make her look pleasant, too! They felt that they must win; that they would win. And yet they left Port Darwin handicapped by being fully three hours behind their rivals.

As they wheeled over the town they waved a last farewell to the hundreds below, whose forms they could just make out in the fast-gathering darkness. Then, turning off straight east, they flew over the dark-green canopy of eucalyptus forests of fertile Arnhem Land, and crossed the Gulf of Carpentaria in the full darkness of the night. When they passed over Cape York peninsula, Tom was at the throttle, and the younger boys had been asleep for a number of hours. They had now left the whole continent of Australia behind them, and were facing the broad wastes of the Pacific.

Their perils had begun in earnest. Should anything happen to cause them to be forced down, there was nothing but a vast basin of water miles deep to catch them, and there would not be one chance in a thousand that they would survive. This, surely, was no place and no time for engines to fail or steering apparatus to go wrong. Yet each flyer was ready for such a mishap—attested by the mute evidence of an inflated rubber tube about his waist. Even Bob and Paul slumbered on the airy contrivances.

Fortunately the weather was ideal. It is true that headwinds blew mildly and insistently, causing some bumpiness, but the night was calm and starry, and with the engine running close to full-out, they saw that they were making up lost time very fast.

When morning broke, and Paul took the throttle, fair skies looked down upon their skimming bird, and the sea was bathed in brilliant sunshine. Bob wirelessed Sydney their position about noon. He made no attempt to get Apia, because he knew there was no telegraph or radio station there.

Flying low, early in the afternoon they passed close enough to the Vanikord islands to see hordes of natives watching them from the coral shores. Numerous smaller islets, gems set in the ultramarine blue of the sea, were also passed within the next hour. Gulls, ospreys, and other swift-winged seabirds sailed about these pretty outcroppings of the mighty deep, and sometimes the creatures came after the Sky-Bird with shrill cries of challenge, only to be quickly left behind.

Once more the shades of night fell, and once more John took the destinies of the airplane in hand. For a time Bob and Paul worked on reports, then played with Grandpa, who in such tedious spells of flying as this was a never-ending source of entertainment to all. Nine o'clock found them in their hammocks, hoping that when they opened their eyes again it would be to see the welcome shores of their destination.

Nor in this hope were they to be disappointed. It seemed they had no sooner fallen asleep than they were aroused by a hand shaking them and the voice of John saying: "Come on, you sleepy-heads! Rout out here and have a look at what's ahead!"

Having their clothes still on—so that they might be ready for an emergency at any time of the night—the two chums were up to the windows about as soon as John himself. The latter had raised two of these a short time before, and the boys shoved their heads through to take a look.

It was broad day. Light, fleecy clouds covered the heavens to the southeast, but in the blue between a huge rift the sun shone down benignly. And in its bright rays they could count nine islands and islets, sprinkled here and there like emeralds in a sparkling sheet of mother-of-pearl. It needed only a glance at the chart to tell them that these were the Samoan group, and a little searching also told them that the nearest large one was Upolu.

In less than another hour they were circling above the beautiful island of their choice, directly over the little town of Apia, which nestled in the center of a luxuriant forest of palms and other tropical trees. A number of boats and sailing vessels were in the harbor, and on board these as well as on the ground hundreds of people were looking up aloft and waving a welcome.

Now our flyers saw what they really were most concerned about—a T made of white stones in an open spot by the beach. And in that field they also saw something else they were very glad to witness. This was the airplane of their rivals.

They had caught up with them at last!



CHAPTER XXVII

PAUL VERSUS PETE

There was a wild scamper of natives as our flyers came down upon the smooth, hard sands of the beach. In this operation they had to use the utmost care to avoid striking the machine of their contemporaries, but it was accomplished without mishap, and the Sky-Bird came to a stop about seventy feet from the Clarion.

They were immediately surrounded, at a very respectable distance, by a cordon of Samoans. These were splendid-looking fellows. Their dusky bodies were strong and stalwart, and their faces were intelligent-looking. It was plain to be seen that they had not the slightest hostile intentions toward the aviators. On the contrary their features expressed clear friendliness, although it was obvious that their experience with the Clarion was still too fresh to eradicate their natural timidity of such a strange thing as an airplane.

Our friends were very stiff and cramped from their long ride from Port Darwin. It seemed so good now to be able to stretch their limbs, to feel solid ground once more under their feet, and to see the blue sky all around their heads!

The morning was hot, but a cool breeze blew inshore, giving a delightful freshness to the air. Near at hand were rows of native huts, made of poles and bark, and back of these loomed fine groves of cocoanut trees and other tropical vegetation in the richest profusion. Even the elevations of this volcanic island had their barrenness alleviated by growths of greenery which seemed entirely to cover them.

No sooner had the boys sprung out of the machine than three white men approached them. These introduced themselves as Mr. Plusson, in charge of the local mission; Mr. Hart, a British trader; and Mr. Shoreman, the American trader who had been engaged to look after their fuel at this airport. These gentlemen expressed the liveliest cordiality in their welcome, and Mr. Plusson plead so hard for them to accompany him to his home and join him and his wife at breakfast that they consented.

They learned that their rivals had arrived about twenty minutes before. Ever since the dastardly attempt of Pete Deveaux and his crowd to wreck the Sky-Bird in the Indian Ocean, our flyers had been greatly incensed at them, or rather at Pete Deveaux himself, for they had no doubt but that it was he who had instigated the attack. Paul Ross was particularly inflamed at the French aviator's act, and had more than once declared since, that the first time they met Deveaux again he was going to thrash him until he begged for mercy. This was rather a bold statement for Paul to make, since he was but a youth of eighteen while Pete Deveaux must have been close to thirty; but the lad was strong and skillful with his fists, in addition to which his resentment was just. When justice is on one's side it goes a long way toward giving that person staying powers in any contest against wrong.

For these reasons, when Paul now declared that he could not bear to wait another minute before taking Pete Deveaux to account, his chums made no attempt to dissuade him, except in the matter of time. John pulled him aside, so that explanations would not have to be made to their new acquaintances, and asked him to defer the matter until after they should have had breakfast, to which Paul reluctantly agreed.

When they once more reached the field, it was to see their rivals also just arriving. Without further ado, Paul walked straight up to Pete Deveaux and said; "Deveaux, why did you drop those rocks down on us back there when we were overhauling you between Colombo and Singapore?"

The Frenchman's face paled visibly. He did not like the look in Paul's eye, nor the stern countenances of his friends. But he hoped to bluff his way through.

"Why accuse me of anything like this?" said he, trying to look surprised and hurt. "We had nothing to do with those stones falling. Their weight broke the catch off of the glass trap, and they went through before we could stop them; didn't they, guys?" He turned to his three flyers for support.

Crossman, Torrey, and Lane nodded their heads.

"Sure," averred Crossman.

"What did you have those stones on board for?" demanded John.

The Clarion men were silent. Their leader was the first to reply.

"We got some kola nuts from the natives at one of our stops, and wanted the stones to crack them with," stated Deveaux.

"It's a lie!" accused Paul. "Stones do not accidentally fall as straight as those did. Pete Deveaux, you and your crowd did the best you could to wreck us, and I'm going to take it out of your hide right now!"

"Oh, you are, are you?" sneered the French aviator. "It seems to me I'll have something to say about that, you young whippersnapper! If these friends of yours will keep out of this, I'll promise my boys will keep out, and I'll give you all the show you want."

"Fair play; that's right!" cried Mr. Shoreman, stepping forward. He had heard enough to convince him that nothing but a fistic settlement of the controversy would be adequate, and, with the help of several white traders and sailors, he formed a ring.

Like lightning the word went out, and scores of natives came running up to see the encounter. An affair of this kind just suited their primitive instincts; it was even a greater treat than seeing an airplane land upon their fair island.

So by the time that Paul and Pete Deveaux had thrown off their coats, a great ring of natives surrounded them, and in its front were numerous whites from the ships in the harbor.

Pete Deveaux was inwardly very nervous, although he was careful not to show it. Had Paul not been so much younger, Deveaux would probably have made some excuse to back out of the fight. As it was, he had a sneaking hope of getting the better of Paul, now that the youth's friends had agreed not to interfere. He also hoped to injure the boy so badly in the encounter that he could not take his turn operating the Sky-Bird for the rest of the journey; at least, cripple him enough to delay his party in getting away from the island.

With these evil intents the French flyer conceived still another. He stepped aside and whispered something in Chuck Crossman's ear, then came back and faced Paul.

Mr. Shoreman gave the signal, and Pete Deveaux feinted and shot his other fist savagely at Paul's eye. But the boy was wary, dodged the blow, and struck his adversary a hard one in the chest. For a moment Deveaux was staggered; but he quickly recovered, and once more sprang forward.

Missing with his right, he succeeded in hitting Paul in the shoulder with his left. Wheeling like a flash, Paul shot out a fist before the Frenchman could recover his guard, and struck him a smash under the ear which sent him reeling back into his friends.

Pete Deveaux was now thoroughly alarmed. He had not expected such science, nor such force, on the part of his opponent. He approached Paul with much more caution, amid the howls of the natives, and decided to let him take the offensive.

Paul was willing. Encouraged by his success thus far, and bent upon ending the fracas as soon as possible, he met his adversary with a heavy swing which just cleared the man's ear. Deveaux struck, but missed also. Pressed backward, he clinched to save himself, and in this position, where nobody could see his movements, he viciously tried to put some short jabs into Paul's abdomen.

Fortunately for himself Paul succeeded in breaking away before he was doubled up by the blows, one of which had landed with sufficient power to make him utter an involuntary smothered exclamation of pain.

"No more of that, Mr. Deveaux!" warned the referee suspiciously, as Paul shoved his opponent back. "Keep out of the clinches! Fight fair!"

"Fair! Fair!" yelled the sailors; and the natives took up the cry in their own language.

Paul now advanced, and Pete Deveaux retreated. The latter was really frightened. Something was beginning to tell him that in this youth of eighteen he had met his superior.

"I think we'd better quit, Ross, before we hurt each other," suggested the French flyer cravenly. "This flight business of ours won't stand such delays as this. We can have this out when we land in Panama."

"No, we can't have it out in Panama!" cried Paul. "Stand up if you're a man and settle this thing right now. Watch out; I'm coming!"

By this time Pete Deveaux had retreated to the lower end of the improvised ring. He saw that he was cornered; that he must fight once more. Lunging forward like a trapped rat, he struck a wicked blow for his opponent's head.

Paul parried it, and as swift as a stroke of lightning his right hand streaked out and caught Deveaux under the jaw. The Frenchman reeled backward a few steps, and toppled over, full length upon the ground. What a cry went up from the onlookers! By this time the sympathies of every one, except Deveaux's own comrades, were with the youth. No one, even a half-civilized savage, at heart likes a coward.

For a few moments Pete Deveaux was dazed. But after his cronies had helped him to his feet, and started away with him, he still had enough spite left to shout back, as he shook a fist: "We're not done with you fellows yet!"

Paul was now the recipient of congratulations from all sides. Everybody wished to slap him on the shoulder or shake hands with him, it seemed, and the native populace gave him so many cocoanuts, bananas, and pineapples that he was literally hemmed in with fruit, and John, Bob, and Tom had to open up a pathway before he could get out of his sweet-smelling barricade.

Our flyers put as much of the gifts in the cabin of the Sky-Bird as they could find room for, including an abundance of nuts for the happy Grandpa, and then they turned their attention to the pressing business of overhauling the engines and storing fuel.

While they were thus engaged, the Clarion's motor was heard to start; and a few moments later she arose and took off to sea.

"Humph!" ejaculated Tom, "those fellows have beat us to it again."

"They ought to; didn't they arrive ahead of us?" asked Tom.

"We'll be out of here in fifteen minutes more," stated John.

But the words were no more than out of his mouth when Paul, who had been inspecting the rear end of the machine came dashing excitedly forward, crying:

"Fellows, hob is to pay! Those rascals have cut the wire braces that support the tail-skid, and it's lopping away over!"



CHAPTER XXVIII

A MIX-UP IN DATES

Paul's announcement threw his friends into a state of consternation. As they viewed the wire braces, neatly cut with a pair of nippers, they recalled Pete Deveaux's act of whispering in the ear of one of his party just preceding the recent fight, and realized now its full import. This fellow had slunk out of the crowd, slipped over to the unguarded airplane, and performed the unprincipled trick without any risk of being caught at it.

Since there was no chance for immediate redress from the guilty party, who were almost out of sight to the eastward, all our flyers could do was to bend every effort to make repairs as fast as possible. After considerable skirmishing around, they managed to secure some wire from one of the vessels in the harbor. The severed strands were then removed and new pieces cut to length.

It was found that the weight of the machine upon the unsupported skid, had cracked the skid past repair; so they had to whittle out another from some tough wood, which the natives brought them from the nearby forest, before they could connect the new wires and were ready to start.

Finally they took off at a few minutes past noon, more than three hours behind their rivals. It was disheartening, to say the least—all the more so on account of the fact that their delay had again been caused by the sinister acts of the other crew. They made up their minds that if they should meet Pete Deveaux and his crowd at another stop, something worse than a single fistic encounter would take place!

As they soared away toward Nukahiva, with Upolu growing constantly dimmer, John, who had been studying the schedule, turned to his companions and asked:

"Do any of you fellows know what date this is?"

"Let's see," mused Bob, at the throttle; "we left Port Darwin the evening of the 26th; the evening of the 27th we were still at sea, and the next morning—the 28th—"

"You're ahead of time just one day," laughed John. "This is the 27th of the month."

"How do you make that out?" asked Bob. "Didn't we leave Port Darwin on the 26th?"

"Yes," admitted John.

"And the following evening we were at sea?'

"Granted. That was last evening—the 27th."

"Then any dunce can see that to-day is the 28th," said Bob witheringly.

"That's what I say, too," supported Paul.

But John only laughed harder, and this time Tom joined him.

"John's right," said Tom; "to-day is the 27th."

"It can't be," protested Bob. "You own up that yesterday was the 27th, don't you?"

"I certainly do," chuckled John; "but you forget one thing, young man: that same evening, all in a moment's time, we crossed the One Hundred and Eightieth Meridian—the date-line of the world—and while it was Thursday, the 27th on the west side of this line, it became Wednesday, the 26th the instant we crossed over to the east side."

"Oh, sure!" exclaimed Bob and Paul, feeling very silly. And the latter added: "That's where we gain a day in our lives—and to think that Bob and I were asleep at that auspicious moment!"

"I know an old maid who swears she is fifteen years younger than she really looks," commented Tom. "I think she must have done a lot of globe trotting, and always east!"

"There's no danger of the fair sex ever circling the globe in a westerly direction," laughed John, "for that would make them one day older every time."

The day could not have been better. Hardly a cloud was to be seen on the horizon, and the regular trade-winds blowing westward were soft and steady, and they were making excellent time.

Grandpa frisked about, perching on this object and that, and occasionally running back into some secret nook where he had hidden his supply of nuts. With one of these in his paw he would jump up on something, crack it in his powerful small jaws, and look very wise and serious as he picked out the meats with his slim fingers.

Finally the monkey had his fill, and hopped up into Tom's lap. He began to play with Tom's hair, smoothing it down pretty soon with the flyer's comb, which he discovered in a pocket. So handy was Grandpa with this utensil that the others went into peals of laughter. Tiring of this, the monkey's eye caught sight of several freckles upon the back of Tom's hand. He tried in vain to pick the freckles off; then he became excited, for he could not understand why they would not lift up. He chattered scoldingly at everybody; then tried again. Failing, he sprang down and went to a far corner, in a fine sulk. Evidently he thought Tom was playing a trick on him, and had glued the freckles down someway just to tease him; for Tom, it must be admitted, was greatly given to bothering Grandpa in some such manner.

Shortly before ten o'clock the following morning all hands were up to take a look at their next stopping-off place—Nukahiva, the main island of the Marquesas group, the place where they hoped to find a supply of helium-gas awaiting them.

A fine island this—as fine a volcanic upheaval as one will find anywhere. Sheer walls of cloud-capped rock 6,000 feet high, some literally overhanging the crystal-clear water, and all embossed and engraved with strangely patterned basalt. There are pillars, battlements, and turrets; so that, with half-closed eyes, it seems you are approaching a temple, a medieval castle, or a mosque of the East. And the valleys—deep, choked with the most rampant growths of luxuriant vegetation, in the heart of which silvery streams gurgle their way tortuously along—fade away into mysterious purple mists. Small wonder that this gorgeously beautiful island should have been the home for a century of one of the finest races of primitive people the world has ever known! Sad indeed is it that to-day the Marquesans are rapidly dying off from consumption and fever introduced into their fair domain by civilization itself.

Nestling in a good-sized valley near the harbor our flyers saw scores of native houses, as they drew nearer. These were constructed of yellow bamboo, tastefully twisted together in a kind of wickerwork, and thatched with the long tapering leaves of the palmetto. Here, too, was the big white T of their hopes.

In a short time they had safely landed, one hour behind schedule. Their rivals had left an hour and ten minutes before. But joy of joys! here were four tanks of helium, and with a filling of this they would show those fellows how to fly!

As fast as they could work, our friends overhauled their machine and put it in shape for the long trip to San Christobal. They would have given almost anything to have joined the many natives they saw swimming in the cool waters of the harbor, but felt that they could not afford to waste a single minute.

At twelve-thirty, with the sun at its zenith, they once more took to the air. This was Thursday. By Friday evening they should be at the Gallapagos Islands—their last stop before Panama. What a cheering thought it was!

Heading just a trifle north of east, they ran almost full-out. It was easy to note the difference in the behavior of the Sky-Bird since her helium tanks had been fully charged. She sped along as she had in the very beginning of their journey—like a long bullet fired from some gigantic cannon. How the engine did sing! The wind rushed by them like a hurricane, and they had to shout in order to be heard when they had anything to say to each other.

Satisfied that all was going right, Tom and John soon turned in, for they were very sleepy. When the operating crew awoke them it was dark. Bob then got into wireless communication with Panama, and delivered a message for Mr. Giddings. Following this, he and Paul also took to the hammocks.

When the two youths awoke it was morning, and the Sky-Bird was not behaving as well as when they had retired. Looking outside they saw the reason for this. The entire heavens ahead were hidden under dun-colored clouds which in places seemed to be gathering themselves together into formidable leaden arrangement. The gentle trade-winds had developed into a stiff wind. Down below, the sea was covered with whitecaps, while in the distance the water was swinging into immense swells with foaming crests.

John and Tom both looked worried. The two younger boys felt more uneasy when they noticed this.

"I guess we're in for a pretty hard storm," said John, as he gave the throttle up to Paul. "Tom and I will stay up a while and see how things turn out. The Sky-Bird's down to about a hundred an hour now. Better keep her there, Buddy. That's fast enough in a blow like this."

A few minutes later a fork of lightning split the sky ahead. This was followed by another off to the right, then by one off to the left. Then they heard the rumble of thunder, and a heavy gray haze slowly began to engulf the sea, rapidly approaching.

"That's rain," cried Paul. "Say, John, if you're not too done out maybe you had better take the stick again; I'm afraid I won't be equal to what's coming."

His brother complied. John did not wish to frighten his comrades, but the truth is he knew this would be the worst storm he had ever faced in his four years of flying.

"We'll try to get above those clouds," he said quietly. He did not like to tell them just what he thought—that if they did not get above the clouds without delay they would either be struck by lightning or torn to pieces by the terrible whirlpool of winds which he knew those churning black masses ahead contained.



CHAPTER XXIX

A FLYING RESCUE

John turned the Sky-Bird upward at as stiff a slant as he felt would be safe for them in that high wind. At nine thousand feet they emerged above the first layer; but eastward the clouds appeared to terrace up gradually, and in the distance there extended another great wall, towering several thousand feet higher.

Some of the rain was now beginning to reach them. It came pattering down upon the roof; and under the strong impulse of wind and their speed, it struck the glass windows in front with a smack like buckshot. The moisture on the panes made it difficult to see out.

"Take a reading with the anemometer, Tom," ordered John, straining his eyes hard ahead.

This little instrument was something like a miniature windmill. Its four wings were supplied with cups which, as Tom held the instrument out of the window facing the wind, caused the spider to revolve. The latter was geared to a small dial, over the face of which passed a hand, much like a clock, indicating the speed of the wind.

"She's blowing fifty miles an hour, and gaining every minute," announced Tom. "That's the hardest wind we've been in yet."

"If we stay down here it will be blowing sixty within ten minutes," was the pilot's grim response.

Just then there was a blinding flash of light a little way ahead of them, accompanied by such a terrific crash of thunder that their ears rang.

"Gee!" cried Bob, "that was a close call! I'll bet that bolt came within a rod of striking us."

"A miss is as good as a mile," shouted John cheerfully. He and the others found that they would have to yell in order to be heard, so great was the noise from engine and storm.

Zip! went a zigzagging livid streak across their range of vision. It seemed to be running straight for them, and instinctively they dodged—all but Tom and John. These old veterans continued to gaze coolly straight ahead as though nothing had happened. Crash-h! went a clap of thunder. It seemed as if the whole heavens were being turned topsy-turvy. Even the airplane, usually so steady, heaved and rode like a rocking-horse.

The two younger members of the party were not to be blamed for feeling pretty well frightened by this time. It was one thing to be cutting through the fleecy white clouds of a calm day, and quite another to go stabbing through murky black ones which were rolling angrily, ejecting both wind and rain, and spitting out vicious roars and jagged streaks of pale-blue flame. One moment they would be in gloom; the next instant a cloud would be rent asunder with a ripping, tearing sound, and the whole turbid, boiling sky-universe would be bathed in the ghostly light. What a weird, fantastic, chaotic world they were in!

But it was only for a few minutes that they were in the worst danger. Soon, to their infinite relief, they had reached their "ceiling." They were now 15,000 feet up—almost three miles,—and below them lay the vast sea of troubled cloudland, dark and forbidding, rolling tumultuously like an ocean of curdled ink. It was a novel experience to be running in the clear air over all of this infernality of sounds and sights, while above them the blue, star-studded heavens looked down upon them calmly and peaceably.

For almost an hour the furious storm continued in the lower regions. Then it began slowly to subside. First the lightning stopped, then the thunder. The banks of clouds took on a lighter hue, and began to drift apart; a pinnacle here and a crag there were swept off by the winds, until the masses of nimbus became flattened out into patches of sun-flecked foam as beautiful as fresh-fallen snow.

The anemometer spun slower and slower as the gale decreased in violence, and presently the airplane was gliding along with its normal smoothness. Here and there, between the patches of white cloud, they caught glimpses of the ultramarine sea, thousands of feet below them.

It was so cold up here, even with the windows closed, that all the boys were shivering in their warmest wraps. The air, too, was so rarefied that it was with considerable difficulty that they could breathe, for they had been in it for some time. Not one flyer in a hundred can live at an altitude of twenty thousand feet, as he bleeds at the nose and mouth; and our aviators were up to within five thousand feet of that height. It was now time to descend.

John shut off both engines, and they began to volplane down in a great stillness, sailing like an immense hawk. Lower and lower they went—fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten thousand feet. Now they were gliding through clear, thin air; now cutting a hole through a heavy cloud so impregnated with moisture that it sweat over the glass and the boys would have to wipe a sleeve across hastily to improve the vision. Eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two!

That was low enough. All this time the propeller had been spinning from the rush of air alone. Now John threw in the clutch; the revolving propeller shaft grabbed the crankshaft of the engine, and once more it began its rhythmic purr. Just a little upthrust of the tail-elevators and ailerons brought them again into the horizontal in a huge swoop. Nothing could have been prettier. They had escaped the terrible tornado, leaving it still galloping westward far behind them, and were once more in normal position for continuing their flight toward the goal!

Below them, for miles around, they could once more see the ocean uninterruptedly. Its mountainous waves and deep gorges of a short time previous had probably swallowed up many an unlucky ship that morning; but its temper was expended, and all it could do now was to sulk in long, even billows which every moment became flatter and flatter.

How had their rivals fared? This question was in the minds of every one of our flyers as the Sky-Bird continued swiftly on her course. In their hearts was a vague feeling that perhaps Pete Deveaux and his crowd might not have come out of the storm as lucky as they, for not one airplane out of a score could have outlived it. Their own escape had been almost miraculous. But for the good generalship of John they surely would have met with mishap.

So now, as they went along, a sharp lookout was not only kept for their rivals in the sky ahead, but anxious looks were cast over the expanse of white-capped waters. Calculations told them that by this time the other airplane could not be far ahead.

Less than ten minutes later, Tom espied a small object far away on their port quarter. It was bobbing about on the waves, rising and falling. Bob seized a pair of glasses, and took a long look. He turned around with his face full of excitement.

"Heavens, fellows!" he cried; "that object looks like an airplane!"

All took a look. Then they, too, were excited, There could be no doubt about it—the object was a wrecked airplane. And as it was extremely unlikely that there were other machines in the vicinity than their own and that of their adversaries', they were quite sure that it must be the remains of the Clarion.

John turned the Sky-Bird in the direction of the floating thing, and soon they saw what seemed to be the form of a human being clinging to one of the wings. John threw in both engines in an effort to get all possible speed out of the craft.

In a little while they were close enough to see that the wreck was really the Clarion. But what a sad-looking sight was the former handsome craft! Her tail had been wrenched off, and only half of one of her long wings could be seen. Out upon the other, on hands and knees, clinging desperately to the aileron brace, was the hatless, water-soaked figure of a man. As they came closer still they could see him waving his hand frantically at them.

With a glass, Paul saw that this person was Oliver Torrey. Anxiously his eyes roved over the wreck in quest of other survivors, but none could he discern. Irony of fate! had all of the others been drowned?

John brought the Sky-Bird down to within seventy-five feet of the sea as they approached. Tom seized the speaking trumpet, and as they swept over the Clarion he bawled out: "Hang on, Torrey! We'll stand by, and save you if we can!"

But they were facing a herculean task, and realized it. They could not light upon the water. Nor could they stop in midair. How in the world could they effect the hapless flyer's rescue?

John circled at reduced speed while all of their minds were busy trying to work out the problem. In the meantime Torrey's frantic pleadings for them not to go away and leave him to his fate filled their ears. It was a trying, nerve-racking situation.

Bob Giddings struck upon the first idea.

"Why can't we trail a rope for him to catch?" he asked.

"He's probably too weak to climb a rope," objected Tom.

"I'll tell you what we can do," said Paul, with a happy thought. "We can take this coil of rope we have here and make a narrow ladder of it! That will be easy for him to catch, and easy to climb."

All agreed instantly that this was the only hope of rescue. So John kept the Sky-Bird slowly wheeling, while his three mates cut and tied until they had formed a narrow rope ladder about fifty feet long. One end of this they securely fastened in the cabin, while they let the other drop down through the glass trap in the floor.

To their dismay the rush of wind carried the light ladder out so horizontally behind that they saw they could never get low enough with safety for Oliver Torrey to reach it! What could they do now? It seemed they were destined to failure; that Torrey must be left to the cruel and hungry waves.

"I have it!" cried Bob. "We'll fasten Grandpa near the lower end of the ladder. His weight will be sufficient to keep it down straight."

This was a splendid scheme, surely. Accordingly, the monkey, wondering what new form of teasing was about to be imposed upon him, was fastened about three feet from the bottom end of the ladder, and Grandpa and his strange trapeze was then slowly let down until all of the ladder had been paid out. The crew were glad to note that it now hung almost perpendicularly.

Now the success of everything depended upon John. He must be skillful enough to bring the ladder across Torrey's position in just the right place for the flyer to grasp it as it swept past.

They shouted to the man below to stand up if he could, and comprehending in an instant his part of the program, he struggled to his feet, spreading them wide apart to brace himself, for the wrecked airplane was rocking somewhat from the action of the waves.

The first time John brought the Sky-Bird by he was too high; Torrey could not reach the ladder. The second time a sudden gust of wind blew the ropes too far to one side at the critical moment. The third time the machine itself was a trifle too far to one side. But on the fourth attempt success met their patient efforts; Torrey's hands seized the bottom rung of the ladder, and a few minutes later he had climbed up into the cabin and sunk weakly upon the floor. Paul then brought in the ladder, laughing nervously, and released Grandpa, who had not relished his part of the proceedings in the least, to judge from his excited chattering, most of which was bestowed upon the rescued man.



CHAPTER XXX

AN ALARMING DISCOVERY

One of the first questions our flyers asked of Oliver Torrey, after they had helped him remove his wet clothing, was:

"Where are your friends?"

The Clarion flyer shook his head sadly. "They're done for—drowned. I'm the only one left of our crew. That was an awful storm, boys! I don't see how you ever survived it."

"We did it by flying over the greater part of it," said Tom. "How did it happen to get you fellows?"

"Pete and Chuck were operating," explained Oliver Torrey. "Sam and I both wanted to get above the tornado, but they said they thought it wouldn't amount to much. When they saw how bad it really was, it was too late. A whirlpool of wind struck us at three thousand feet, Pete lost control, and we went into a nose-dive from which we never recovered. When we struck the sea the force crushed in the front of the cabin, stunning Pete, and before any of us could grab him the waves had washed him out of our sight. Chuck, Sam, and I managed to get out and climb up on the fuselage; but the seas were running so high that half of the time we were buried in water. Coming out of one of these deluges, I looked around and saw that I was alone. Then the storm passed, and things looked better for me. But I was just about ready to give up when I saw the Sky-Bird coming."

Oliver Torrey paused a moment, wiped his haggard face, and then continued, as he looked earnestly at his rescuers:

"Boys, I never can thank you enough for saving my worthless life. It's awful to think that we guys let Pete Deveaux coax us into doing all those dirty things to hold you back. I guess we deserved this punishment. If I ever get back to Panama I'll certainly make what amends I can by telling the whole disgraceful story to the world."

Tom stepped in front of the Clarion flyer, and shook his finger in his face. "Torrey," said Tom, "I think at heart you are all right; but listen! Mr. Wrenn, who hired you fellows, is a straight man through and through. If this story gets out it will be published broadcast, and people will think he abetted your crimes against us. So, for his sake——"

"I see; I hadn't thought of that," ejaculated Torrey. "I will keep still; as far as the public'll ever know, they'll think this was a fair and square contest—and so it was on your part."

It must be remembered that John and Tom had had no sleep since the day previous. They were so tired by now, especially John, that they were very glad to retire to the hammocks, leaving Paul and Bob to take care of the Sky-Bird. Oliver Torrey was also exhausted, and accepted with alacrity Paul's invitation to him to jump into the spare hammock. Within five minutes the two youths were the only ones awake.

It seemed good to the boys to feel that soon they would be at San Cristobal, their last stop before the final hop. They flew along with the throttle wide open for the next hour, eager to make up for the delay caused by the storm and the rescue of Torrey. Then they reduced the speed a little, to make sure they would not overheat the engine, but still they made good time.

Shortly before six o'clock that afternoon they sighted a blue haze which a little later developed into a group of several islands. These they knew, by consulting their chart, were the Gallapagos, the home of the largest land-turtles ever known, monsters so enormous that one of them could walk off with two half-grown boys on his broad back.

There are over two thousand volcano cones in these islands, and soon our friends were almost in the midst of them. On all sides and at all distances were rugged peaks one hundred to two thousand feet high, rising sheer from a rose-pink sea over which the declining sun played ravishingly. Along the shores pelicans soared above the shallow inlets, watching for unwary fish. Tiny birds darted in and out among the cliffs. Down in the crystal depths of the sea, over shelves of coral, vague shapes hovered and passed and repassed—sharks, dolphins, turtles, and grunts, even the ghastly devil-fish.

All life seemed confined to water and to air; never was dry land so desolate-looking as those myriads of barren volcanic cones. Yet one of these islands was peopled with human beings—San Cristobal.

Which one was it? The easternmost of the group, said the chart.

Circling that way. Bob gave a yelp like a pup which sees his younger master after he has been away all day.

"I see Dalrymple Rock!" he cried, with the binoculars to his eyes. "I see Wreck Point, too, and a bay between 'em, with houses on the beach. That looks like our number, all right. What more do you want, Paul?"

"Nothing," laughed Paul,—"except our landing field. Find that, wake up the other fellows, and I'll be satisfied."

In a moment Bob pointed out a flat field marked with the welcome white T, then he aroused John and Tom while Paul was bringing the Sky-Bird down. From a rickety old pier, also from the shores where they had gathered, a crowd of curious natives rushed forward to witness the landing of the most startling object they had ever seen. They were a mixture of South Americans, mostly Ecuadoreans, and not until our friends stepped out of the cabin did they summon up enough courage to get very close to the machine.

Among them was the owner of the island—a good-looking young Ecuadorean, highly educated, who was to look after their interests in the matter of fuel,—and the chief of police (presumably "chief," because there is only one representative of the law in the Galapagos).

The owner of San Cristobal informed the flyers in excellent French,—which all of them except Oliver Torrey could speak,—that he was delighted to welcome the first airplane crew to his little domain; that weeks ago the ship had brought gasoline and oil, which was now awaiting their pleasure in the little nearby shanty; that he and his police officer and the peons were eager to serve them in any way they could; and would the brave American aviators favor him and his police officer by joining them at the hacienda for dinner that evening?

Our friends graciously accepted this invitation, upon finding that their host would appoint a watch for the airplane. They then went with him to his pretty hacienda in the valley—a green, undulating country, dotted with grazing cattle and horses, patches of sugar-cane, coffee bushes, and lime trees, stretching away to a cloud-capped range of mountains.

Situated upon a hillock, in the midst of this entrancing valley, and surrounded by the peons' grass houses, was the owner's home. Here the flyers partook of an excellent repast, garnished with the best the island could afford, including tender wild duck from the surrounding lagoons and savory turtle soup. Then followed songs by their host, and jolly college melodies by themselves, accompanied by the sweet strains of a guitar in the hands of the police officer.

Out in the compound, the peons also celebrated the occasion. There were great oil flares, thrummings of guitars, gyrating dancers in bright-hued ponchos, merry cries, the laughing of children, the barking of dogs.

Everybody seemed thoroughly happy and contented. And, after all, what else matters? That is the Ecuadorean point of view, and who shall say it is a bad one?

It was difficult for the boys to remind themselves that here they were precisely on the equator, so positively chilly was it. And yet they were. It was the third time which they had touched that imaginary girdle of the earth in the past week or so; and it was to be their last crossing. How inspiring the thought that they were now within one hop of their goal; that sometime on the morrow they would probably reach Panama well within their time limit of ten days!

The fact is, they had only 650 miles ahead of them—a distance which could easily be covered, barring accidents, inside of five hours, and they had until one o'clock the following day in which to reach their destination. When they realized this, and were pressed most insistently by the owner of the island to spend the night, under the shelter of his roof, where there were two spare beds, the tired, bed-hungry flyers decided to remain over, Oliver Torrey going to the house of the police "chief." Torrey was really in no physical condition, as it was, to continue the flight immediately, for he had suffered a chill as the result of his exposure, and felt very weak.

Next morning they were up at the break of day, and at once began the task of refilling the tanks of the Sky-Bird and giving her machinery a general overhauling. Torrey felt much better, and assisted in these operations. His gratitude to the boys for deciding not to divulge the duplicity of the unfortunate crew with whom he had been connected was very great, and he spared no effort to help them on toward success—which goes to show that this fellow was not at all bad at heart but had simply gotten in with a bad crowd.

It was a good thing that the flyers went over their engines. John found a loose coupling in one, and a stretched fan belt in the other. Had they gone on in this condition trouble would have been sure to visit them. It was small wonder, however, that something should not be out of good working order, for these faithful pieces of mechanism had been given the hardest kind of usage day in and day out, each in its turn, and sometimes working together, in this long flight around the earth. Their final test had been the storm. More than once the boys had marveled at the remarkable efficiency of their motive power. What a tribute to the mechanical genius of modern man had these engines paid! They were almost human in intelligence, more than human in their untiring zeal.

The repairs were not difficult to make; the belt was cut and fastened again with a leather lace borrowed from the police "chief's" shoe, and the careful use of a wrench and other tools out of their kit finally fixed the loose coupling. But these operations had consumed unlooked-for valuable time, and when they had had breakfast with their friends and were ready at last to go, they found that the watch of their host indicated the hour of nine.

Setting their own watches to this local time, as had been their custom in all towns upon arriving or leaving, our flyers once more thanked their entertainers for courtesies extended, wished them good-bye, and got in their machine.

As they taxied swiftly down the course, the rush of wind from the big propeller sent more than one Ecuadorean's wide-brimmed hat flying from his head, and to the enjoyment of all, a native who was perched precariously upon an up-ended cask was blown heels-over-head backwards.

No sooner had they straightened out upon their northeasterly course than Bob sat down to his instruments and called up the Panama wireless station. In about ten minutes he got it, and told of their position and the accident to the Clarion. They all knew that when the news of this catastrophe reached the American newspapers there would be the greatest excitement, and that Mr. Wrenn would not only be grievously disappointed but horrified at the fate of the three members of his crew.

They now had just four hours in which to reach their goal. That meant they must travel at an average rate of better than 160 miles an hour. Since they had gone considerably faster than this when the occasion had warranted it in the past, they felt no anxieties now. John, who was at the throttle, opened the Sky-Bird up to 165, and at this gait they skimmed swiftly along over the blue-green waters of the big Pacific.

"This speed ought to bring us in by twelve-thirty—a good half-hour ahead of our limit,—so there's no need of rushing matters," said John, to which sentiment his comrades agreed.

By eleven o'clock all were keenly on the look-out. Each flyer coveted the honor of being the first one to see the coastline of Central America, the resting-place of Panama.

Paul, with the binoculars to his eyes, was the one to win. It was just exactly 11:25 when he shouted in true mariner's style: "Land ho, my hearties!"

Taking the glass, one by one his comrades gladly echoed the announcement.

But suddenly Bob's face turned chalky. "Jiminy, fellows," he cried, "what boneheads we are! We have been figuring on San Cristobal time all the while. Panama's close to an hour ahead!"

"And we've only got thirty-five minutes in which to land!" said Tom. "Huckleberry pie! Boneheads we are! Boneheads, boneheads! I repeat it—boneheads, boneheads! It's all off now."

Tom actually wrung his hands in his misery, and the others felt just about as humiliated and disgusted with themselves.

"Here's where our prize goes a-flickering," groaned Paul. "We never can make Panama in thirty-five minutes!"

"I don't know about that," declared his brother grimly. "Here goes for the effort, anyhow. I'll make the Sky-Bird fly as she has never flown before!"

With that he brought the throttle wide open, and two minutes later threw the second engine into commission.



CHAPTER XXXI

THE FINISH

They were not beaten yet! The wind whistled, shrieked, and roared as it swept aft along the smooth body of the Sky-Bird. The propeller whirred, and the engines purred like two huge twin cats. So great were the noises combined that the voice was completely overwhelmed, and no effort was made by the flyers to talk with one another.

With their pulses beating wildly and hearts thumping in accord, they watched the hazy streak on the horizon line ahead rapidly develop into the unmistakable rugged form of land. As they drew closer, they could even see the glint of water on the other side, and knew without the shadow of doubt that what they were looking at was the long belt of earth connecting the two Americas—the Isthmus of Panama itself. And down their backs ran a new thrill at the recognition.

Larger and larger loomed the brown and green strip in advance. Presently, amid the checker-board of nature's colorations, they could make out a bay and on a tongue of land a considerable collection of buildings. It was Panama City! Five minutes later they could even distinguish the American flag—how glorious the sight!—fluttering at the staffhead of the courthouse, and could see the streets and ships in the harbor thronged with people who were evidently waiting to welcome them.

The excitement of the throngs increased as the airplane drew closer. People jumped up and down, yelled, and waved their hats. It had been only a few minutes before that Bob had received the radio admonition from the Panama station; "Town gone wild; but hurry in. You only have six minutes left!"

Now they were circling high over the heads of the populace, with one engine shut off and the speed of the other much reduced. In graceful, pretty circles the Sky-Bird began to spiral her way downward, John's eyes fastened upon the big white T of the familiar airdrome. As they came down, people in the outlying districts rushed madly toward the field, and the streets everywhere were choked with the concourse pouring toward the center of attraction.

Scores of others had previously posted themselves in the airdrome; but all were kept back by a cordon of ropes and a guard of Zone policemen. Inside of the barrier were a favored few Government officials and distinguished personages, newspaper men, photographers, and Mr. Giddings and Mr. Wrenn themselves. Colonel Hess, the judge of the contest, was also present, ready to receive the flyers' affidavits of stops.

As the flyers stepped out of their machine many a camera clicked, and the air was filled with the cheers of the multitude.

Colonel Hess stepped quickly up. In one hand was a watch; the other was extended.

"My heartiest congratulations, boys!" he exclaimed, as he received their paper. "You have arrived just in the nick of time. Panama time, it is now exactly fifty-nine minutes after twelve!"

They had won by one minute! The flyers were so tickled that they also felt like cheering. But they were sobered instantly when Mr. Wrenn came forward and they saw how sorrowful he looked in spite of the brave smile with which he greeted them.

"Young men," said the publisher of the Clarion, "as the loser in this contest I also wish to congratulate you. We have suffered a heavy blow ourselves, but you deserve full credit for the good work you have done, and I am not the kind of a contemporary to withhold compliments so fairly earned. I trust my men conducted themselves as true sportsmen, poor fellows."

Noticing that Oliver Torrey was on the point of making reply, John gave him a warning look, and a moment later pulled him aside and said in a low voice: "Mr. Wrenn should not know that you fellows did not conduct yourselves otherwise than fair in this race. That would make him feel all the worse. Keep mum to everybody about this, and we'll do the same."

Oliver Torrey nodded—tears in his eyes as he saw how desirous the Sky-Bird's crew were of protecting his own interests as well as the good name of his former associates. What fine fellows they were! How he wished he could have been allied with them on this cruise, instead of with Pete Deveaux and his bunch!

The hardships and perils of the past ten days were forgotten in the excitement of the present. Our flyers hardly knew what they were doing, so great was their joy. They shook hands with scores, hearts swelling with those emotions invoked by achievement and the glamor of the moment. It was—and always will be, perhaps,—the supreme hour of their lives.

Almost reverently they looked over the Sky-Bird. Through every possible climatic rigor the airplane had passed, and practically without any attention. Not once, from the time they had left this very airdrome until they had reached it again, after traversing close to 25,000 miles, had she been under shelter or sulked on them through deficient construction. Given a few days to overhaul her engines, they felt they would be quite capable of repeating their world record-breaking achievement, if it were necessary.

These reflections were of brief duration, however; for the crowd, having forced its way past the barriers, and having satisfied its curiosity over the machine, directed their attention to the flyers. Brimming with enthusiasm, they lifted every one of them shoulder high, laughing and cheering, and conveyed them to an extemporized platform made from a large box. From this elevation, each flyer in his turn was called upon for a speech. The boys made these quite brief, but were vociferously applauded; and then the two famous publishers were asked to contribute. Following came the governor of the Zone, who very eloquently expressed the pride the little Republic felt in starting off and witnessing the finish of this memorable event, and he said the keys of Panama were at the disposal of the young aviators until they should feel it incumbent upon them to leave for the States.

For three days our friends remained, and during that time they were the almost constant recipients of honors from civic clubs and associations of the city, as well as from the English-speaking citizenry in general. They were entertained at dinners, at the theater, and at sporting events out-of-doors—and not a penny were they allowed to spend themselves.

To the aviators it all seemed like a festival snatched from the covers of "Arabian Nights." Had genii and fairies, elfs and goblins, appeared before them bearing gifts of gold and jewels they would hardly have been surprised, so unreal did everything appear to their tired minds; and tired bodies only grew more tired under the stress of the social demands.

Strange indeed were their feelings when, upon looking at back files of newspapers, they read the history of their exploits, recorded with a degree of detail which must have taxed the imaginative resources of editorial staffs to gray hairs; and saw picture after picture taken with their own camera and sent across many a continent in the form of undeveloped film, now to bring before their eyes once more the realism of the moment when they were taken. There were photographs of themselves collectively and individually in many a place now far distant; views of the machine at rest, and of parts of it among the clouds and above them; two views of the fight with the condors; several of Grandpa in various amusing positions; many pictures of foreign places and of natives; illustrations showing the battle with the devil-fish; storms as seen from below, and storms as seen below when flying above them. Even pictures of the wreck of the Clarion, and of Oliver Torrey climbing up the rope ladder, were not missing.

Before the flyers left Panama, Paul received many offers to sell Grandpa to various admirers, but no amount of money could have induced him to part with this faithful little mascot. Oliver Torrey particularly felt that he owed a great debt of gratitude to the monkey.

When the party finally reached New York City, after a non-incidental flight of one night and the major portion of a day, they were given another ovation—one which far outrivaled in volume the one they had received at Panama. The mayor and city officials wished to fete them, but the boys were too exhausted to stand more of such doings; they wished to get home as soon as possible, hide from everybody but those in their immediate families, and just rest—rest—rest. They didn't think they would even care to see their dear old Sky-Bird again for several months.

It would be hard indeed to comprehend the feelings that surged through the flyers as they landed the airplane in the fair-grounds of their own native town—Yonkers—and were greeted by hundreds of familiar faces and voices, to say nothing of the hand-clasps of many old-time friends.

But, after all, the reunion with their own relatives was the cause for the greatest thanksgiving, as we may assume. Both Paul's and Bob's mothers had prepared the choicest of dinners for their famous sons, and that evening the Ross and Giddings families were the happiest and merriest ones in town.

Mr. Giddings and Mr. Wrenn both realized more out of the advertising than the contest had cost them. The former met his agreement by giving each of his flyers five thousand dollars, and his business rival did likewise by Oliver Torrey. Later on, Bob and the Ross boys sold their patents on the Sky-Bird to a large airplane manufacturing company for a sum which promised to make them independent for the rest of their lives.

THE END