Front matter (continued 2)

“Oh, you poor dears,” exclaimed Peggy, “and if you don’t get there at that time?”

“We can’t go, that’s all,” said Jess, tragically clasping her gloved hands.

“Bother the luck,” muttered Jimsy, with masculine grumpiness. “Found out what’s the trouble, Roy?”

“Yes,” was the response; “one of your gears is stripped. I’m afraid that there’ll be no Washington trip for you folksies.”

The tears rose in Jess’s fine eyes. Jimsy looked cross, and an abrupt silence fell.

It was Peggy who broke it with a suggestion.

“There’s a train leaves Central Riverview junction at six, isn’t there?”

“I believe so,” rejoined Jess, in a doleful voice; “we took it one night, I remember, when we missed the through cars from Sandy Bay.”

“It’s five now,” nodded Peggy, examining the dial of a tiny watch, one of the last presents her father had given her.

“Fat chance of getting this old hurdy-gurdy fixed up in time to make it,” grumbled Jimsy.

“You don’t have to,” cried Peggy, with a note of triumph.

“Don’t have to!”

It was Jess who echoed the remark.

“No, indeed. Our aerial express will start for the junction in a few minutes, and––”

But the rest was drowned in an enthusiastic shout. Jess threw her arms about her chum and fairly hugged her.

“You darling. We can make it?”

“We must,” was the business-like rejoinder. “Roy, you get the Butterfly out and fill the lubricator tank. We’ve got enough gasolene.”

Roy and Jimsy, arm in arm, hastened off to the shed. The two girls followed more leisurely. It was not long before everything was in readiness, but fast as they worked it was nearly half an hour before preparations were all complete.

Then they climbed in and Peggy started the engine. But the next instant she shut it off again.

“The second cylinder is missing fire,” she pronounced.

Roy bent over the refractory part of the motor and soon had it adjusted. Then the motor settled down to a steady tune, the regular humming throb that delights the heart of the aviator.

“All ready?” inquired Peggy, adjusting her hood and goggles and turning about.

“Right Oh!” hailed Jimsy.

“Now, boys and girls, prepare for a long run,” warned Peggy; “with this load it will take a long time to rise.”

The aeroplane was speeded up and soon traversed the slope leading from the back of the shed to the summit of the little hill at the rear of the Prescott place. As it topped the rise Peggy turned on full power. The Golden Butterfly dashed forward and then, after what seemed a long interval, began to rise. Up it soared, its motor laboring bravely under its heavy burden. In the dusk blue flames could be seen occasionally spurting from the exhausts. It would have been a weird, perhaps a terrifying sight to any one unused to it—the flight of this roaring, flaming, sky monster, through the evening gloom.

“We’ve got half an hour to make the twenty miles,” shouted Roy, from his seat beside his sister. Peggy set her little white even teeth and nodded.

“I’m going to make for the tracks and follow them. That’s the quickest way,” she said.

It seemed only a few seconds later that the red and green lights of a semaphore signal flashed up below them.

“Bradley’s Crossing,” announced Roy.

Swinging the aeroplane about, Peggy began flying directly above the tracks.

“No sign of the train yet—we may make it,” said Jimsy, pulling out his watch. It showed a quarter to six, and they had fifteen miles to travel, or so Roy estimated the distance.

“Let her out for a mile-a-minute,” he exclaimed.

Peggy only nodded. She was far too busy getting all the work she could out of the motor. An extra passenger makes a lot of difference to an aeroplane, and the Butterfly was only built to accommodate three. But she was answering gallantly to the strain.

On she flew above the tracks, every now and then roaring above some astonished crossing keeper or track-walker.

Suddenly, from somewhere behind them, they heard a long, moaning whistle.

“The train!” shouted Jess.

In her excitement she gripped Roy’s arm tightly and peered back.

All at once, around a curve, the locomotive came into view—black smoke spouting from its funnel and a column of white steam pouring from its safety valves.

“She’ll beat us,” cried Jimsy, despairingly, as the thunder of the speeding train grew louder. The setting sun flashed on the varnished sides of the cars.

The engineer thrust his head out of the cab window and gazed upward. His attention had been attracted by the roaring of the motor overhead.

He broke into a yell and waved his hand as he saw the flying aeroplane dashing along above him. The next instant his hand sought the whistle cord.

“Toot! toot! toot!”

The occupants of the aeroplane waved their hands. To their chagrin, however, they saw that, overloaded as the aeroplane was, the train was gaining on them in leaps and bounds. Its windows were black with heads now as passengers, regardless of the danger of encountering some trackside obstacle, leaned out and gazed up at the Golden Butterfly roaring along like some great Thunder Lizard of the dark ages.

“Don’t they stop anywhere between here and the junction?” gasped Jimsy.

Roy shook his head.

“It’s a through train from Montauk,” he said; “they make all the speed they can.”

“Two minutes,” cried Jess, suddenly; “we won’t do it.”

But Peggy had suddenly swung off the tracks and was cutting across country. She had seen that the track took a long curve just before it entered the junction. By taking a direct “crow flight” across country she might beat it after all.

And she did. As the train came thundering into the station and stopped with a mighty screaming of brakes and hiss of escaping steam, the aeroplane came to earth in the flat park-like space in front of the depot.

“Tumble out quick!” shouted Roy, “she only stops a jiffy.”

Jess and Jimsy lost no time in obeying.

“Good-bye, you darlings!” cried Jess, as she sped after her brother toward the station.

“We’ll get our tickets on the train!” shouted Jimsy, as they vanished.

“All ab-o-a-r-d!”

The conductor’s voice ran peremptorily out. He had seen the race between the aeroplane and the train, but even that could not disturb a conductor’s desire to start on time.

As the wheels began to revolve, Jimsy and Jess swung on to the steps of the rear parlor car. As they did so the passengers broke into an involuntary cheer. The shouts of approval at the up to date manner in which the young folks had “made their train,” mingled with the puffing of the locomotive as it sped off.

Among the spectators of the sensational feat had been a broad-shouldered, bronzed man in a big sombrero hat, who sat in the same parlor car which Jimsy and Jess had entered. He looked like a Westerner. As the train gathered headway he suddenly, after an interval of deep thought, struck one big brawny hand upon his knee and exclaimed to himself:

“It’s the very thing—the very thing. With a fleet of those I could develop the Jupiter and astonish the mining world.”

He rose, with the slowness of a powerful man, and made his way back to where Jimsy and Jess were sitting. Raising his broad-brimmed hat with old-fashioned courtesy, he addressed himself to Jimsy and was soon deep in conversation with him.

CHAPTER X.

THE RIVAL AEROPLANE.

In the meanwhile, the exciting race against time had resulted in overheating the Golden Butterfly’s cylinders, and a stop of an hour or more at the junction was necessary. Thus it was quite dark when the young Prescotts were ready to make for home. A small crowd had gathered to see them start, for there was a little community of houses scattered about the junction.

They decided to go the way they had come, namely, to follow the tracks to the crossing and then turn off for home. It was their first experience in night piloting, and when they were ready Peggy switched on the tiny shaded bulb that illuminated the compass. This done, she started the engine, and the Golden Butterfly shot into the air under its reduced load with an almost buoyant sense of freedom.

The crossing was reached in several minutes less than it had taken them to reach the junction on the going trip. Peggy turned off as she marked the glowing lights beneath her, and presently the Golden Butterfly was skimming along above dark woodlands and gloom-enshrouded meadows. There was something awe inspiring about this night flying. Above them the canopy of the stars stretched like a mantle spangled with silver sequins. Below, the earth showed as a black void.

They were flying slowly to avoid overheating the cylinders again. Suddenly a bright glare shot up against the night from below, and a little ahead of them. It died down almost instantly, only to flash up once more.

“Gid Gibbons’s forge!” exclaimed Roy. “Let’s fly over by there and see what he’s doing.”

“All right,” agreed Peggy; “ever since my visit there I have felt a great interest in Mr. Gibbons. But we’ll have to make haste, there’s some wind coming before long.”

The girl was right. A filmy mist, like a veil, had spread over the stars, dimming their bright lamps, and a wind was beginning to sigh in the trees under them.

But they had not reached Gid Gibbons’s place, or rather a location above it, when an astonishing thing happened. From the ground a red light and a green light set at some distance apart began to rise. Up and up they climbed through the night in long, swinging circles. Between them was dimly visible the dark outlines of some fabric.

“An aeroplane!” cried the boy and girl, simultaneously.

“Fan Harding’s aeroplane!” cried Peggy, an instant later.

“And—oh, Roy—it can fly!” she added, admiringly.

“No doubt of that,” was the rather grudging reply, as the red and green lights soared up and up.

“Keep clear of it, sis, we don’t want a collision,” warned Roy.

“Oh, I’d like to get close and see it,” breathed Peggy. “I never would have credited Fan Harding with being able to do it.”

“Nor I,” exclaimed Roy, his dislike of Fan Harding giving place to admiration—genuine admiration—of the other’s ingenuity.

“Well, he’s beaten me out at my own particular specialty,” he exclaimed presently, after an interval in which the lights had climbed far above the Golden Butterfly. “That’s a better machine than ours, Peg.”

“I guess we’ll have to admit that,” rejoined the girl, with a sigh. “I wonder if he’ll enter for the prize?”

“Of course. With a craft like that he’d be foolish if he didn’t. Odd that he’s trying it out at night, though.”

“I suppose he wants to keep secret what it can do and then spring it on an astonished world,” rejoined Peggy. “Good gracious!” she broke off hurriedly.

The aeroplane had given a sudden lurch, and at the same instant a sharp puff of wind struck them both in the face. Peggy’s hands fairly flashed among her levers, and she averted what might have been a bad predicament.

Involuntarily, at the same instant, Roy had glanced up at the other aeroplane to see how it was faring. To his astonishment the lights did not seem to waver.

“Wow, Peg!” he cried, “that puff didn’t even bother Fan Harding’s craft. It was uncanny to see her weather it.”

“There’s something uncanny about it altogether,” sniffed Peggy; “it’s a regular phantom airship.”

“That’s just what it is,” agreed Roy, “but I’m afraid it is a substantial enough phantom to carry off that $5,000 prize.”

Another puff prevented Peggy from replying just then. Once more the Golden Butterfly careened violently, and then, under Peggy’s skillful handling, righted herself. But this time the puff was followed by a steady rush of wind.

“Better turn, Peg, before it gets any worse,” advised Roy; “we’re off our course now.”

“I—I tried to,” exclaimed Peggy, desperately, “but the wind won’t let me. I don’t dare to.”

“We must,” exclaimed Roy, with a serious note in his voice; “if this wind freshens much more we won’t be able to turn at all.”

He leaned forward and took the wheel from his sister. But the instant he tried to steer the aeroplane round, the wind, rising under one wing tip, careened her to a perilous angle.

“No go,” he said; “we’ve got to keep on going.”

“But where can we land?” asked Peggy, a little catch in her voice.

“We’ll have to take chances on that,” decided Roy. “It would be suicidal to try to buck this wind.”

The breeze had now freshened till it was singing an Aeolian song in every wire and brace of the Golden Butterfly. Brother and sister could feel the stout fabric vibrate under the strain of the blast.

The aeroplane was moving swiftly now. But it was the toy of the wind, which grew stronger every minute. The dark landscape beneath fairly flew by under them. Neither of them thought to look back at the red and green lights in the sky behind them.

All at once, Roy, who had leaned over his sister’s shoulder and glanced at the compass, gave a sharp cry.

“We’ve got to turn, sis,” he said, in a tense, sharp voice.

“What do you mean, Roy? Are we in any very serious danger?”

The girl’s voice shook nervously in response to the anxiety expressed in her brother’s tone.

“Danger!” echoed Roy. “Girlie, we are being blown out to sea!”

Blown out to sea! The words held a real poignant terror for Peggy.

“Oh, Roy, we must do something!” she cried, helplessly.

“Yes, but what? We can’t, we daren’t turn about. The machine would tip like a bucket. No, we must keep on and trust to luck.”

Peggy shuddered. Hurtled along in the wind-driven darkness, brother and sister sat in silence, waiting for the first warning that they were approaching the sea.

In the blackness it was impossible to see anything ahead, and the starlight, which, dim as it was, might have helped, had been overcast by a filmy covering of light clouds.

Once or twice as they were hurried helplessly along, the propeller beating desperately against the wind, they saw, far below them, the cheerful lights of some farmhouse. Further off a glare against the sky indicated the lights of Sandy Bay.

How they wished that they were safe and sound at home, as they were blown onward by the wind, going faster and faster every minute.

Roy, his pulses beating hard, and every nerve at tension, had taken the wheel from his sister, even at the risk of careening the aeroplane when they shifted their positions. Every now and then he tried to turn ever so little, but each time a tip at a dangerous angle warned him not to attempt such a thing.

All at once Peggy uttered a shrill cry.

“Oh, Roy! The sea!”

Above the screeching of the wind and the hum of the motor they could now hear another sound, the thunder of the surf on the beach.

Straining his eyes ahead Roy could see now the white gleam of the breakers as they broke in showers of spray on the seashore. A real sense of terror, such as he had never felt before, clutched at his heart as he heard and saw.

But controlling his voice, he turned to Peggy.

“Be brave, little sister,” he said; “we’ll pull through all right.”

Peggy said nothing in response. She dared not trust her voice to speak just at that moment. White faced and with staring, fixed eyes, she sat motionless and silent, as the Golden Butterfly was driven out above the roaring surf and the tossing waves. To her alarmed imagination the sea seemed to be reaching up hungry arms for the two daring young aviators.

Suddenly she was half blinded by a brilliant flash of light which bathed the aeroplane in a flood of radiance. The next instant it was gone, but they could see the great shaft of radiance sweeping around the compass.

“It’s the light!” cried Roy. “The Rocky Point light!”

CHAPTER XI.

IN DIREST PERIL.

“Oh, if we could only work round and land on the point,” exclaimed Peggy. “There’s a fine, smooth field there; in fact, it’s all bare ground, without rocks or trees.”

“Yes, and Jeff Stokes is wireless operator there, too,” rejoined her brother. “Hullo,” he exclaimed an instant later, “the wind is shifting a bit. I almost got her head round that time.”

“Then there is a chance, Roy!”

“Yes, sis, but don’t count too much on it.”

Like a skillful jockey handling a restive horse, Roy worked the Golden Butterfly about on the shifting air currents. If once he could turn her nose toward the land he was sure that he would be able to make the ground by driving the aeroplane down on a slanting angle.

Once or twice, while he strove with hand and brain against the elements, he caught his breath with a gasping intake—so near had they come to overturning. But, thanks to the wind eddies of the point, it was possible, after a deal of breathless maneuvering, to get the aeroplane headed for the land.

The instant he found himself in this position Roy threw on all his power and then, “bucking” the wind, like a ship beating up to windward, he rushed down through the night upon the point. As he did so the rays of the slowly revolving light flashed brightly upon the laboring aeroplane. In the radiance it looked like some struggling night bird beating its way against the storm and darkness.

As Peggy had said, the point was clear of rocks or brush, and a landing was made without much difficulty once the aeroplane had been turned. Just as a ship can face the waves with comparative security, so an aeroplane, being driven into the teeth of a gale, is secure so long as she does not “broach to”; in other words, get sidewise to the blast. It was touch and go with the Golden Butterfly for several minutes, though, during that struggle with the elements, and two more thankful young hearts rarely beat than Peggy’s and Roy’s as they stepped from the machine and made it fast by pointed braces provided for the purpose.

Hardly had she touched the ground before a door in the lower part of the lighthouse opened and the form of Jeff Stokes emerged. He told them that the struggle with the wind had been seen by the light-keeper and himself, and he was warm in his congratulations of the daring young aviators. The light-keeper, a grizzled man named Zeb. Beasley, followed close on Jeff’s heels.

“Come right into the house and hev some supper,” he said warmly. “It’s only rough fare, but you’re welcome. My misses will be glad to have you.”

Truth to tell, both Peggy and her brother were almost famished and worn out after the tension of the struggle with the wind. This being so, they were glad enough to accept the light-keeper’s kind invitation.

Peggy’s first action, however, was to hasten to the ’phone in the lighthouse and call up their aunt. Miss Prescott, who had been badly worried over their prolonged absence, was much relieved to learn that they were safe and sound.

Mrs. Beasley, a motherly woman of middle age, took charge of Peggy while Jeff Stokes entertained Roy. Jeff said that he liked the life at the light, lonesome as it grew sometimes. When he felt blue he used to relieve the monotony by talking, by means of invisible waves, with other operators. He wiled many a weary hour away in this manner, he said.

Suddenly, in the midst of their talk, he excused himself and hastened to the small room in which his instruments were. The place, filled with shiny, mysterious apparatus and networked above with wires, was as neat as a pin.

“Some one’s calling,” Jeff explained.

His quick ear had caught the faint “tick-tick” hardly audible to the untrained ears, which told him that a message was vibrating through the night. Slipping over his head a metallic apparatus, not unlike the telephone receivers worn by “Central,” Jeff began listening intently. Drawing a pad toward him, he was soon writing down the message as it was ticked off. Presently it was completed, by which time Peggy was one of his audience.

“‘Steamer Valiant, Captain Briggs, of London, wishes to be reported as passing Rocky Point, bound for Boston,’” read off Jeff. “Hum—nothing very exciting there.”

“What are you going to do now?” asked Peggy, as Jeff, the message in his hand, turned to another table, one on which were arranged some ordinary telegraph instruments.

“Send it by ordinary wire telegraphy into the head office in New York,” he said.

“Why not send it by wireless?” asked Peggy.

“Too much chance of delay and getting cross currents,” explained Jeff. “We found that for quick transmission of ordinary business, that the wire is best, unless the atmospheric conditions are just right.”

Suddenly, one of the telegraph instruments began to crackle and click loudly.

“Phew!” said Jeff, listening intently; “here’s something that will interest you folks.”

“What is it?” asked Peggy, eagerly.

“It’s—wait a minute till I catch the last––” Jeff listened a few seconds more and then faced about. “Why, that message was a despatch from the Sandy Bay correspondent of the New York Planet to his paper,” he said. “It was an article telling that Fanning Harding has completed a successful aeroplane which made a wonderful flight to-night in a stiff wind. He says that Harding has formed a company and means to manufacture similar craft. Then there was a lot of taffy about what a fine young fellow Harding is, and how bright, and so on. Wonder if it’s true?”

“I can vouch for that,” said Peggy. “I’ve seen his factory. It’s out by Gid Gibbons’s shop.”

“So that’s where Gid is getting all his money,” exclaimed Jeff. “I saw him spending it like water in Sandy Bay the other day. Hester’s got a lot of new dresses and hats, too.”

Peggy’s heart beat a little faster. This sounded like a corroboration of her suspicions. Where could such a man as Gid Gibbons be getting such large amounts of money as he seemed to have recently? But before she could ask any more questions Mrs. Beasley announced supper. Speculation was rife in Peggy’s mind as they sat down to the broiled sea bass, freshly caught, home-grown potatoes and string beans and other good things which the light-keeper had designated as “rough fare.” Peggy was fain to admit afterward, and so was Roy, that never had she enjoyed anything so much as that meal in the old lighthouse with the wind roaring about it and the rough, kindly faces of their entertainers smiling on them.

Good-natured Mrs. Beasley soon after arranged sleeping accommodations for her young guests, and that night the young aviators slumbered peacefully, while above them the great revolving light swept steadily in slow circles, warning vessels passing up and down the Sound of the dangerous proximity of Rocky Point.

The next day dawned bright and fair. The sea lay like a sheet of blue glass, with scarcely a ripple to mar its polished surface. The last trace of the wind had died down.

“We’ll have no more breeze till sundown,” announced Mr. Beasley at breakfast. Like most men of his profession, he was an earnest and accurate student of the weather. After breakfast Jeff Stokes, who had been on duty all night, was relieved by his assistant, a young man who boarded in the village and rode over to his duty on a motor-cycle.

“Well,” said Roy, after they had thanked their good-hearted entertainers warmly, “I guess it’s time for us to be getting home.”

But Peggy had noted a wistful look in Jeff Stokes’s eyes as he stood by the side of the aeroplane, which an examination had already shown to be none the worse for its buffeting of the night before.

“Would you like to try a little flight, Jeff?” she asked.

“Would I?” echoed the youth; “will a duck swim?”

“Yes, I believe so,” laughed Roy, “and so can a certain young wireless operator fly.”

“Gee, Roy, you mean it?”

“Of course, if you’re not scared.”

There was a mischievous twinkle in Roy’s eye as he bent over the engine.

“How would you like a ride, Mr. Beasley?” asked Peggy presently, while Roy adjusted the engine.

The weather-beaten old fellow fairly threw up his hands.

“Land of Goshen, miss!” he exclaimed, “I’ve lived on the earth and sea, man and boy, for fifty years, and I ain’t agoin’ ter tempt Providence by embarking in a sky clipper at this late day.”

“You bet you ain’t,” put in Mrs. Beasley with deep conviction. “Why, if you ever done such a thing we’d be like to be read out of church—not but what it’s all right for young folks if they know how to manage the contraptions.”

“Now, then, Jeff, if you are ready will you get in?” said Roy presently.

The slender young wireless operator hopped into the chassis with alacrity. But his face was a bit pallid from excitement at the idea of the new method of locomotion he was about to test.

Last good-byes were said, and the motor began to whirr like a gigantic locust. There was a grinding and buzzing as the gears meshed and the aeroplane began to scud off.

“Fer all ther world like some big, pesky grasshopper,” declared Mrs. Beasley, as it scudded off across the smooth turf.

But if the good lady was astonished, then it was nothing to her amazement when a moment later the Butterfly soared up into the air, lifting as gently on the windless atmosphere as a bit of drifting gossamer.

Up and up it swept in graceful hawk-like circles.

“Dear Suz!” shrieked Mrs. Beasley presently, “if they ain’t agoin’ out ter sea!”

“Just what they air,” shouted her husband, shading his eyes with a wrinkled hand. “I never thought ter have lived ter have seen such a thing!”

Roy had been unable to resist the temptation to take a little spin out above the glassy, scarcely heaving water. The gulls, soaring above it, viewed with amazement the invasion of their realm by this buzzing, angry looking monster. They flew about it shrieking.

“Goodness, I hope they don’t attack us,” exclaimed Peggy.

“Not likely,” was Roy’s response. “They think we are some kind of big bird, I guess, and want to have a game with us.”

As they swept on, all agreed that never had they felt such a feeling of exhilaration as came to them as they swooped and swung above the glistening blue water, for all the world like some huge bird. Once or twice motor boats went by beneath them, and the occupants looked up at first in wonderment and then in enthusiasm at the sight the Golden Butterfly and her three young occupants presented.

But all at once the steady song of the engine began to grow different. It “skipped” and sputtered and coughed. Blue smoke rolled from the exhausts. The aeroplane began to waver and sag.

Jeff Stokes turned rather pale.

“What is the matter?” he gasped, steadying his voice as much as he could as the aeroplane began to drop steadily down toward the water beneath them.

“The gasolene’s given out,” rejoined Roy in a voice which was full of anxiety.

“Oh, Roy, what shall we do?”

Peggy gasped as the aeroplane, its propeller beating the air more and more feebly, began to descend with greater rapidity.

“We’ll have to volplane to some land if we can, and if we can’t we must take our chances for it in the water,” was Roy’s grim reply.

CHAPTER XII.

WHAT HAPPENED ON THE ISLAND.

“Look,” cried Peggy suddenly, “isn’t that a small island below there? Maybe we can make that?”

“I’ll try to,” was the answer, as Roy gripped the steering wheel more firmly.

At the same instant the motor, with a gasp and a sputter, gave out altogether. But Roy knew how to volplane; that is, to reach the earth by swinging the aeroplane in circles so that her stability was maintained even with the power cut off.

He began to execute this maneuver now. The island which Peggy had indicated was a small spot of land some five miles off the shore. It was sandy and barren looking on one side, though at the further end from them there grew some trees and scrubby looking bushes.

If he could only keep the aeroplane from sagging down into the sea Roy was confident he could land at the place in safety. But it was still some distance off and the aeroplane was still dropping with much greater rapidity than seemed comfortable. Both Roy and his sister were expert swimmers, and the boy knew that Jeff was at home in the water. But at the same time, if they struck the surface of the sea, there was the chance that they might become entangled in the aeroplane and drowned before they had an opportunity to save themselves. So it was with a keen sense of apprehension that the boy exercised all the air craft of which he was master in bringing his sky cruiser downward.

“Oh!” cried Peggy suddenly as the Golden Butterfly gave a sickening downward drop like a stone plunging to vacancy.

But the empty “air pocket” which the craft had struck was a small one, and the next instant the atmosphere caught the broad wings and buoyed the aeroplane up from what seemed to be destined to be a disastrous fall.

The drop had, however, had one good effect. It had thrown the aeroplane almost on end, and in that manner drained a few last driblets of gasolene from the depleted tank into the feed pipes.

It was only a little fuel, but it was enough to cause the engine to resume operations for a couple of minutes. Taking advantage of this lucky accident, Roy drove forward, and as the propeller came once more to a standstill the Golden Butterfly sank down into a bed of sand which made her almost at once stationary.

“Well, we are—aerial Robinson Crusoes,” exclaimed Peggy as, having clambered out of the chassis, she stood surveying the little island which they had so fortunately landed upon.

“Yes, and if we don’t get some gasolene pretty quick we’ll be Crusoes in a mighty uncomfortable sense,” commented Roy, moodily gazing about at the surrounding sea, smooth as a sheet of glass and without the sign of a boat upon it. Far off on the horizon there hung a three-masted schooner, all her sails set, in the flat calm. But she was too far off to aid them even had she been able to.

“Tell you what we’ll do, let’s explore the island,” said Jeff Stokes suddenly.

“Of course,” cried Peggy, clapping her hands, “that’s what everybody does in story books when they are stranded on a desert island, and right after that they always find just what they want, even down to a silver-mounted manicure set.”

“I’d like to see a tin-mounted can of gasolene,” grunted Roy. Nevertheless after seeing to the engine of the aeroplane he was willing enough to set out with the others to explore this little spot of land in the Sound.

It was so small that it did not take them long to reach the summit of the low peak into which it rose in the centre.

“Oh, there’s a little hut!” cried Peggy, suddenly.

Sure enough, below them, and half overgrown with tall weeds and scrub growth, was a half ruined hut. It was doubtless the relic of some fisherman who had once used the island as headquarters. But it had, apparently, long lapsed into disuse.

Hardly had they spied it before Roy made another discovery. Drawn up in a miniature cove not far from the hut was a trim and trig white motor boat, seemingly, from her long narrow shape and powerful engines, capable of great speed.

Here was a discovery! A motor boat meant gasolene and companionship.

With a soft cry of joy Peggy was dashing forward toward the hut, from which they could now hear proceeding the hum of human voices, when Roy suddenly checked her. From the doorway there had suddenly issued the figure of Morgan, the Bancrofts’ butler. He gazed about him with a look of half alarmed suspicion on his flabby face. The young aviators instinctively crouched back behind a screen of green brush. They felt a suddenly aroused premonition that everything was not as it should be.

“H’its nothink,” said Morgan, addressing someone within the hut, after he had gazed about a little more without seeing anything to further alarm his suspicions.

“All right, if that’s the case come back in here,” came another voice from inside the hut.

“Giles!” recognized the astonished Peggy. But another and a greater surprise was yet in store for them when they heard another voice strike into the conversation. There was no mistaking the tones for any others than Fanning Harding’s.

“You chaps are nervous as kittens,” he was saying, “who on earth would come to this island? We are as private here as if we were in the South Seas. Now go ahead, Morgan, with what you were saying.”

“Well, what h’I says is this,” spoke up the English butler, “a fair diwision and no favoritism. You say you want a third? You ain’t h’entitled to h’it. H’it was h’only by h’accident that you found h’out h’our secret h’and h’I thinks you ought to be content with what you can get.”

“Very well,” was the rejoinder, “but as you fellows know, I’ve got you in my power. You daren’t make a move without consulting me. If you try any monkey tricks I’ll crush you so quick you won’t know what struck you. The police are still carrying on their investigation, and––”

But here the voices sank so low that the eager young listeners could hear no more. But their eyes shone as they exchanged glances. Somehow both Peggy and Roy felt that the conversation had related to the mysterious vanishing of the jewels. This at least appeared clear from Fanning Harding’s reference to the police.

“We’d better get back to the other side of the island before they come out and see us,” counseled Peggy. “If they were to find out we had been spying on them they might get frightened and spirit the jewels away from wherever they have them concealed, for I’m just as sure now that they are all three mixed up in it as I am that—that––”

“We have no gasolene,” put in Roy.

“But you have no proof and nothing to go upon,” objected Jeff Stokes who was, like most folks around Sandy Bay, familiar with the details of the strange occurrence.

“That’s just the trouble,” said Peggy, “and it is just as impossible to go ahead in the case as it is for us to fly without fuel.”

“Peg!” cried Roy, suddenly, “look at that!”

“That” was a ten gallon can of gasolene standing on the beach by the side of the motor boat. Evidently, to drag her bow up on the beach, they had lightened the craft so as to make the task easier, for several ropes, water jars and other bits of marine tackle lay about.

“If we could only get it,” sighed Peggy.

“Yes, if,” was the rejoinder from Roy, “but we can’t steal it, and, as you say, it might spoil everything if Fanning Harding thought that we had overheard any of his talk.”

“Look out!” warned Jeff Stokes in a whisper the next instant. The warning did not come a bit too soon. The door of the hut opened and the party which had been in conference inside emerged. They made straight for the motor boat, which Jeff Stokes had, in the meantime, recognized as one that was for hire at Sandy Bay.

“Come on, boys, we’ve got to be getting back,” urged Fanning moving quickly and preparing to shove the craft off.

“Wait till I chuck some of this truck in,” grumbled Giles.

He stooped and rapidly threw in the ropes and other gear scattered about. Then as Fanning Harding and the flabby-faced butler shoved the craft off he made a hasty scramble for the boat’s bow, leaping in as she floated free of the beach.

“H’I soy,” shouted Morgan, “you forgot the bloomin’ gasolene.”

“Better put back and get it,” growled Giles; “if you fellows had helped me a bit instead of givin’ advice it wouldn’t have bin forgotten.”

“Oh, we can’t bother with it now,” struck in Fanning, impatiently, “we’ve plenty in the tank to take us back. I’m not going to delay any longer.”

He spun over the fly wheel as he spoke and the motor boat began to cut rapidly through the water headed for Sandy Bay. As soon as it had gone a safe distance the three stranded young adventurers joined hands and executed a wild war dance of joy. By a means almost miraculous they had fallen across the very thing they needed.

“It’s just like the story books!” cried Peggy, delightedly.

They raced down toward the coveted can, which was half full of the precious fuel. Enough to get them ashore at any rate. Before returning to the stranded aeroplane they examined the hut, but found nothing in it but a few broken-down bits of furniture.

“Queer,” commented Jeff, “I half expected to find something.”

“Not likely,” laughed Roy, “they’re too foxy for that.”

“What do you suppose they came to the island for?” asked Peggy.

“To get a quiet place to talk where they would not be observed by any one who knew them, I guess,” rejoined her brother. “Oh, if only we could solve the mystery. It's tantalizing to be so close to it and yet with so many tangled ends left ravelled.”

“Be patient,” advised Peggy, “it will all come out in time. And now I’m as famished for lunch as the Golden Butterfly is, so lets fill up the tank and then head for home.”

“Second the motion,” laughed Jeff Stokes.

Half an hour later the Golden Butterfly once more rose, and without incident or mishap winged her way back to Rocky Point.

CHAPTER XIII.

JUKES DADE APPEARS.

The aviation field at Acatonick a few days before the big contests for juvenile aviators was alive with action and color. The spot selected was a flat, smooth field of some fifty acres on the outskirts of the town.

The grass spread a green carpet, thickly sprinkled with wild flowers, while at one side of the place was a row of green-painted sheds known as the “hangars.”

“Hangar is French for shed,” Peggy had explained to a group of friends from Sandy Bay whom she was showing over the grounds, “and I think that shed is a whole lot better word than ‘Ongar,’ which is the way you are supposed to pronounce it.”

One of the sheds—as in deference to Peggy we shall call them—was of a different color, and stood somewhat apart from the rest. It was also much larger and bore in consequential-looking letters over its door the words:

“Harding Aeroplane Company. Keep Out.”

And to see that this notice was enforced to the letter, Fanning Harding had installed a red-nosed watchman with a formidable club at the portal. Considerable secrecy, in fact, had been observed concerning his aeroplane. Several large boxes had arrived one night and been hustled as quickly as possible into the shed.

The shed assigned to Roy Prescott, happened, by an odd coincidence, to be next door to the Harding one. The second day of their stay at Acatonick, Roy, on coming down to the field from the hotel at which he and Peggy and Miss Prescott were stopping, was much surprised to be greeted by Fanning, with some effusiveness.

After a lot of preliminary hemming and hawing, Fanning broached to Roy once more the proposition of selling the Golden Butterfly.

“But I thought you had a fine type of aeroplane of your own,” said Roy, wondering at this renewal of Fanning’s offer.

“So I have,” was the rejoinder, “but now that I have established my business on a paying business basis I can handle another type. You know mine is a biplane model.”

Roy nodded. He had no liking for Fanning, but the other was so effusive that he felt it was incumbent on him to meet the other lad half way, as the saying is.

“I’d like to have a look at your craft sometime,” he said.

“Not much you won’t,” rejoined Fanning, quickly, “you’ll see her on the day she wins the big prize and not before.”

“You seem to have it won already,” rejoined Roy, rather contemptuously.

“Oh, yes,” was the confident reply, “I’m going to simply fly rings round you and the rest, so you’d better take up my offer now, for after the race your Golden Butterfly stock won’t be worth a penny.”

“I’m not so certain about that,” was the answer.

“Then you won’t take up my offer. I’ll raise it another two hundred.”

Roy smiled and shook his head. Something in his refusal angered the other lad.

“Well as you wish,” he said, strolling off, “but dad has been pretty lenient with you up to date. As you won’t meet us half way, though I’m going to advise him to force you to sell the Golden Butterfly.”

“How?”

“By foreclosing that mortgage without further delay.”

Fanning whipped the words out with a vicious intonation. All his mean nature surged up into his face as he spoke. Roy breathed a little quicker. But outwardly he was calm and cold as ice.

“That’s your privilege,” he said shortly, turning away, but that night he and Peggy had a troubled discussion about ways and means, and it became more than ever evident to them how much depended on winning the five thousand dollar prize.

There were several aspirants in the juvenile class on the grounds as well as fliers of more mature years, for Mr. Higgins had interested some other capitalists, and it had been decided to make quite an event out of the aerial meet.

On the day before the race, which meant so much to them, Peggy and Roy decided to take a practice spin across country in their ’plane. The capable looking machine excited much favorable comment when it was wheeled out of its shed. Several of the other competitors gathered about it while the engine was being tuned up. Among them was a surly looking chap with a dark, roughly-shaven chin and a pair of shifty eyes. He stood beside Fanning Harding, who was also in the crowd about the Golden Butterfly.

The Sandy Bay boy gazed on with a sneering look while our two young aviators got everything in readiness. This took some time for everybody was anxious to take a hand in the work, and it was quite a task to kindly, but steadfastly, reject these offers, well meant as they were.

At last everything appeared to be in good shape and with a buzz and a whirr the engine was tried out. It worked perfectly, and before the crowd had had time to cheer, the aeroplane shot up from the ground in front of its shed with hardly any preliminary run. Then came a belated cheer.

“That’s the craft that wins the big prize,” said a stout, good-natured looking man.

“Don’t you be so certain,” snapped out Fanning Harding, who stood close by, and to whom the words were gall.

“Why, what’s the matter with you, my young friend,” asked the jovial man; “you must be meaning to get it yourself.”

“That’s right,” was the confident reply.

“Well, don’t count your aerial chicks before they’re hatched,” was the merry rejoinder. A laugh at Fanning’s expense went up from the crowd. The boy flushed angrily and strode off in the direction of his hangar.

“Confound that young Jackanapes of a Roy Prescott,” he muttered, as he went; “he gets ahead of me every time. But I’ll fix him. Pop needs that land, and if Roy wins this race the Prescotts can pay off that mortgage and be on the road to riches. Well, I guess I’ll settle all that. But I’ll have to act quickly.”

“You seem to be sore on that Prescott boy,” came a voice at his shoulder suddenly.

Fanning turned quickly to find himself confronted by the unprepossessing individual who had stood at his side during the start of the Golden Butterfly, which was by this time almost out of sight in the eastward.

“Why, what do you know about it?” he asked, sharply.

“Well,” was the rejoinder, “being an observing sort of an individual I figured out that you were not best pleased at seeing what a fine aeroplane that kid has. Right, ain’t I?”

He coolly took from his pocket a disgusting-looking cigar stump and proceeded to light it, leering impudently into Fanning’s face the while.

“Well, may be you are and then again you may not be,” was the Sandy Bay youngster’s cautious reply; “but how does it interest you?”

“Because I haven’t any more use for him than you have, and if you make it worth my while I’ll give you a bit of information that will be of value to you.”

“What do you mean?” inquired Fanning, beginning to listen with more attention than he had hitherto shown.

“Just this, that I’m Jukes Dade, who used to work for Mr. Prescott years ago, but he discharged me for—for—well for a little fault of drinking I had. Come now, don’t you recognize me?”

“By George, I do,” exclaimed Fanning; “but it was so many years ago you were with Mr. Prescott that I hardly knew you. You have changed greatly.”

“I may have,” was the reply in bitter tones. “I’ve been through enough. But there’s one thing I ain’t never forgotten in all these years, and that is my resolve to get even on old man Prescott.”

“But he is dead,” put in Fanning, wondering at the baleful expression of hatred that had come into the man’s face.

“All true enough. I heard that some time ago. But if I can injure the son in any way, I’d like to do it. I’ve got a wrong to avenge, and if you want to pay well to have Roy Prescott put out of the race to-morrow I’m your man.”

“Hush, don’t talk so loud. Some folks over there are looking at us.”

“Oh, well, if you’re afraid to––”

“No, no, that isn’t it. I must prevent Roy winning that race to-morrow at all hazards. Come into my hangar and we can talk quietly.”

“Ah, that’s the talk,” was the rejoinder, and Jukes Dade chuckled with grim delight. “You want a little job of work done to settle our friend’s hash. Well, you’ve come to the right shop when you meet up with old Jukes Dade who has an axe of his own to grind.”

CHAPTER XIV.

A GIRL AVIATOR’S ADVENTURE.

In the meantime, Peggy and Roy, the former at the steering wheel and controls, were skimming through the air above the charming country surrounding Acatonick. The exhilaration of flying, the thrill and zest of it, were strong upon them as they glided along, and they made an extended flight.

“She is working like a three-hundred-dollar watch,” cried Roy joyously as the speedy monoplane flew onward.

“She’s a darling,” was Peggy’s enthusiastic response. “I’m sure that if nothing happens you’ll win that race to-morrow, Roy.”

“I hope so, little sister,” was the response, “for there’s a whole lot depending on it.”

“But just think. If you only do we shall be at the end of our troubles.”

“Not quite, sis,” Roy reminded her, “that affair of the missing jewels is still a mystery, and as long as it stays so some folks will always be suspicious of me.”

“Oh, Roy, don’t say such things. Nobody but the horridest of the horrid would––”

“Unluckily,” struck in the boy, “there are a lot of the horridest of the horrid in this world, and some of them are in Sandy Bay.”

He laughed and then went on more seriously:

“It’s a pretty nasty feeling, I can tell you, to know that you are unjustly suspected by several folks of—of—er—knowing more about an affair of that kind than you tell.”

“What can have become of the jewels?”

“Ah, that’s just it. Of course we have our suspicion, based really on nothing, that Fanning Harding knows something about them. But if he did why would he place that wallet on the porch of Jess’s home?”

“It’s beyond me.”

“And beyond me, too. I’m quite sure that nobody was about the place when the accident happened, and I could not have been unconscious more than a few seconds. Now who could have stolen the wallet in that time?”

“It will all come out in time. I’m sure of it, Roy, dear,” said Peggy, earnestly. “Perhaps it will turn out to be not such a mystery after all.”

“I don’t know,” was Roy’s rejoinder. “Mr. Bancroft has had some of the cleverest detectives in the country on the case, and a description of the jewels, some of which were heirlooms, has been wired everywhere broadcast. But up to date none of them have turned up at any pawnshops or other likely places.”

For some moments more they talked in this strain, when Peggy suddenly gave a cry and pointed below. They were passing over a tiny lake surrounded by steeply sloping banks, wooded with beautiful trees. It was an isolated spot, no human habitation being near at hand apparently.

“Oh, isn’t that pretty?” cried Peggy delightedly. “It looks as if it might have come out of a picture book.”

“And the sight of that water reminds me that I’m terribly thirsty,” said Roy. “I bet there are some springs by that lake, or if there are not maybe the water is good to drink from the lake itself.”

“Let’s go down and see,” said Peggy, with a bright smile, and setting over a lever and twisting a couple of valves she began to depress the aeroplane.

“There’s a good landing place off there to the right of the end of the lake,” cried Roy, indicating a bare spot where some land seemed to have been cleared at one time.

“All right, my brilliant brother,” laughed Peggy merrily. “I saw it at least five minutes ago. Hold tight, I’m going to drop fast.”

To any one less accustomed to aerial navigation than our two young friends, the downward plunge would have been alarming in its velocity. But to them it was merely exciting. Within a few feet of the ground, just when it seemed they must dash against the surface of the earth with crushing force, Peggy set the planes on a rising angle and the Golden Eagle settled to earth as gracefully as a tired bird.

“Well, here we are,” exclaimed Roy, looking about him at the sylvan scene as they alighted; “and now what comes next?”

“A hunt for the spring, of course,” cried Peggy, placing one hand on her brother’s shoulder and nimbly leaping from the chassis to the soft, springy ground. And off they set toward the margin of the little lake below them.

“Reminds me of Ponce de Leon’s hunt for a spring,” laughed Roy, who felt in high spirits over the fine way the Golden Butterfly had conducted herself.

“But he was looking for the Fountain of Eternal Youth,” said Peggy, quickly.

“Wonder if he’d have been any happier if he’d found it,” murmured Roy, philosophically.

“If he’d been a woman he would,” said Peggy.

“Would what? Have found it?”

“No, you goose, but have been perfectly happy if he had attained perpetual youth. Why, I think––Why, whatever was that?”

The girl broke off short in her laughing remarks and an expression of startled astonishment crept over her features.

“Why, it’s some one groaning,” cried Roy, after a brief period of listening.

“Yes. Some one in pain, too. It’s off this way. Come on, Roy, let us find out what is the matter.”

Without a thought of personal danger, but with all her warm girlish sympathy aroused, plucky Peggy plunged off on to a path, from a spot along which it appeared the injured person must be groaning. But Roy caught her arm and pulled her back while he stepped in front of her.

“Let me go first, sis,” he said; “we don’t know what may be the matter.”

Peggy dutifully tiptoed along behind, as with hearts that beat somewhat faster than usual they made their way down the narrow path which led them into the deep gloom of the deeper woods. All at once Roy halted. They had arrived on the edge of a little clearing in the midst of which stood a tiny and roughly built hut with a big stone chimney at one end. Although the place was primitive it was scrupulously neat.

Painted white with green shutters, with a bright flower garden in front, it was a veritable picture of rural thrift.

The boy hesitated for an instant as they stood on the opposite edge of the cleared ground. There was no question but that they had reached the place whence the groans had proceeded. As they stood there the grim sounds began once more, after being hushed for an instant. Now, however, they took coherent form.

“Oh, help me! Help me!”

Roy was undetermined no longer. Directing Peggy to remain outside till he summoned her, he walked rapidly, and with a firm step, up the path leading to the hut, and entered. It was so dark inside that at first he could see nothing. But pretty soon he spied a huddled form in one corner.

“Oh, don’t hurt me! I’m only a harmless old man! I have no money,” cried the cringing figure, as Roy entered.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” said the boy kindly; “I want to help you.”

He now saw that the form in the corner was that of an old man with a silvery beard and long white hair. From a gash on his forehead blood was flowing, and the wound seemed to have been recently inflicted.

“What is the matter? What has happened?” asked Roy, gently, as he raised the old man to a chair into which he fell limply.

“Water! water!” he cried, feebly.

Roy hastened outside saying to himself as he went:

“This is a case for Peggy.”

Summoning her he hastily related what had occurred and the warm-hearted girl, with many exclamations of pity, hastened to the wounded man’s side.

“Get me some water quick, Roy,” she exclaimed, tearing a long strip from her linen petticoat to serve as a bandage. Outside the hut, Roy soon found a spring, back of a rickety stable in which the old man had a horse and a ramshackle buggy.

When he returned with the water the poor old fellow took a long draught from a cup Peggy held to his lips and the girl then deftly washed and bandaged his wound. This done the venerable old man seemed to rally, and sitting up in his chair thanked his young friends warmly. Roy, in the meantime, had been looking about the hut and saw that it was furnished in plain, but tidy style. Over the great open fireplace, at one end, hung a big picture. Evidently the canvas was many years old. It was the portrait of a fine, self-reliant looking young man in early manhood. His blue eyes gazed confidently out from the picture and a smile of seeming satisfaction quivered about his lips.

“I’ll bet that’s a fellow who has got on in the world,” thought Roy to himself as he scanned the capable, strong features.

“Ah,” said the old man, observing the lad’s interest in the painting, “that picture is a relic of old, old days. It is a portrait of my brother James. He––But I must tell you how I came to be in the sad condition in which you found me. Have you a comfortable chair, miss? Yes, very well, then I will tell you what happened this afternoon in this hut, and will then relate to you something of my own story for I was not always a hermit and an outcast.”

CHAPTER XV.

THE HERMIT OF THE WOODS.

“My name is Peter Bell,” began the old man, “and many years ago I was like any other happy, care-free young man, who is the son of well-to-do parents. I had a brother named James Bell, who was much younger than me. We were very fond of each other and inseparable.

“Our home was on the Long Island coast and we often went boating. One day when we were out in my boat a storm came up and she capsized. I tried to save my brother who was a poor swimmer. But in the midst of my efforts the bulwark of the wave-tossed boat struck my head and rendered me insensible. It seems, however, I must have clung to the boat, for when I came to myself I had almost been blown ashore, and, striking out, I soon reached it.

“But to my horror I soon saw that people shunned me. In some way the story got about that I had saved myself at the expense of my brother’s life. Such stories are always readily credited among the majority of people in a small town and the tale spread like wildfire with exaggerations. Driven half wild by the general contempt which I met on every side I left home one night, and having a sum of money in my own right I decided to live the life of a recluse.

“I recollected this spot to which I had come on hunting expeditions in brighter days. Not long after, grief over my brother’s death resulted in my mother’s life coming to a close, and shortly afterward my father’s demise occurred.

“They left but little, but I managed to secure that portrait of my brother you see hanging up there and a few bits of favorite furniture associated with happier times.

“I have lived here ever since and have become reconciled to my fate. From time to time I used to advertise for news of my brother, offering rewards, but long ago I stopped that, and have no doubt that he perished in the storm, although for a time I comforted myself by thinking that he might, by some strange chance, have been saved.

“In some way a rumor has spread through the countryside that I have much wealth hidden here, and this afternoon four masked men entered the hut and when I protested, in reply to their demands, that I had no money, they struck me down and searched the house. Then cursing me for a fraud and an impostor because they found no gold they left, leaving me to my fate.”

“You have no idea who the men were?” asked Roy who, like Peggy, had listened with close attention to the old man’s story.

“Yes, I think they were young men of bad reputation from a neighboring village; however, I am not sure. I am certain that I recollected hearing the voice of one of them when I was in the market in that village some time ago.”

“Oh, then, you do go into town sometimes?” asked Roy.

“Oh, yes,” rejoined the hermit, “but no more than I can help. I have long since departed from the ways of the world and the habitations of men. But I gather herbs in the woods for miles about and sell them to folks in the villages.”

“I suppose that is why you have the horse and cart?” put in Peggy, who had been gazing out of the window and had noticed the tumbledown barn.

“Yes,” rejoined the old man. “I am not as active as I was once and my old bones will not carry me as far as they used to. So I drive old Dobbin when I have a journey of any length to make.”

The hermit would not hear of any help being summoned for him. He said that he was in no danger of a second attack, as the search of his little property had been thorough and had resulted in the rascals, who had invaded his haunts, getting nothing for their pains. Refusing some refreshment the old man offered, the young aviators soon after left the hut, promising to call in again in a few days and give the hermit an opportunity to see the aeroplane in which he was much interested. The old man asked them many questions about the races of the next day and seemed interested in hearing the details.

The Golden Butterfly they found just as they had left her, and clambering on board they were soon winging their way back to Acatonick where, as you may imagine, they had an interesting story of the incidents of the afternoon to relate to Miss Prescott that evening.

“I never saw such children for adventures in all my born days,” she declared, “but I have a letter here which I must show you. I am afraid it means that we shall have to leave the old home.”

She drew an envelope from her handbag which lay on a table of the hotel room and handed it to Roy. On opening it, he found that it contained a formal notice from the Sandy Bay Bank, that unless the accumulated interest and other moneys owing them were paid up within a week that foreclosure proceedings would be taken. The boy gave a disconsolate whistle as he finished reading the letter aloud and handed it back.

He had hardly done so when there came a rap on the door of the room. “I wonder who that can be so late?” thought Roy, getting up and going to the door.

A bellboy stood there with a note.

“A messenger just brought this from the aviation grounds,” he said. “Any answer?”

“Wait a minute,” said Roy, skimming hastily through the note. It was typewritten and signed:—James Jarvis, Superintendent of Arrangements.

“Dear sir: You are requested to report at the executive tent at once. An important meeting will take place affecting the competitors in the races to-morrow.”

This was what Roy read. Then he turned to the bellboy and told the lad to inform the messenger that he would be there as soon as possible.

“Queer though,” he said to Peggy and his aunt. “I didn’t know of any meeting that was scheduled to take place to-night. I guess it’s one that’s been called at the eleventh hour to make some arrangements.”

“That must be it,” agreed Peggy. “Shall I come with you?”

“No, thanks, sis,” rejoined the boy; “you’d better get to bed. It’s going to be an exciting day to-morrow for us all.”

The boy snatched up his cap and with a hasty good-bye, was off.

Downstairs in the lobby of the hotel he found the messenger awaiting him,—a shifty-eyed man with a blue chin. It was, in fact, Jukes Dade, who, in a different suit of clothes and with a clean shave and haircut, looked a trifle more presentable than he had earlier in the day when he made himself known to Fanning.

“This way, sir,” he said, with a fawning sort of bow.

“Out of this door is the quickest,” said Roy quickly, with a feeling that he would rather walk to the grounds alone than with such a companion.

“But we’re not going to walk, sir. The committee has sent an auto for you.”

“A car, eh?” said Roy; “well, that’s considerate of them. I’ll tell my sister. She might like to come along, too.”

The messenger shook his head.

“Sorry, sir; but we’ve got to pick up some other aviators on our way and every bit of room in the car will be taken.”

“Oh, very well, then,” said Roy, “lead on.”

The blue-chinned Dade shuffled across the lobby with a furtive air.

“Funny,” thought Roy. “I’ve seen that chap some place before, but to save my life I can’t place him.”

Cudgelling his brains to try to recall where he had met the man, Roy passed through the hotel lobby and out into the street. In the lamplight he saw a big car standing at the curb, shaking as its ungeared engine puffed and chugged. A chauffeur, with an auto mask and goggles on, sat on the front seat. Roy got in behind in the tonneau while the messenger took his seat by the chauffeur.

He said something in a low whisper to the driver and the next instant there was a grinding whirr as the gears were connected and the car rolled forward.

“Well, they’ve got a good fast car here,” thought Roy, as the machine sped along over the roads. “At this rate we ought to be at the grounds in––”

But what was this? Surely the road they were on was not the right one. Leaning forward he touched the chauffeur on the shoulder.

“This isn’t the road to the grounds,” he said.

“Oh, yes it is,” put in the messenger; “it’s a short cut, though. Isn’t it, Fred?”

The chauffeur did not speak but merely nodded his head.

Although by no means satisfied with the explanation, Roy made no immediate comment. In the meantime they had passed the outskirts of the little town and were now whizzing along an unlighted road bordered with big trees. On and on they went, and Roy, every minute, grew more uneasy. Where could they be taking him?

“Where are you going?” he demanded suddenly, his suspicion showing in his tone as he rose in the tonneau and leaned forward. “I want you to know that––”

But before he could utter another word the blue-chinned messenger did an astonishing thing. With a quick, imperceptible movement he produced a revolver and thrust its gleaming barrel up under Roy’s nose.

“Sit back and keep quiet,” he warned, “and you’ll be all right. If you make a holler you’ll get what’s in this barker.”

As he spoke the auto began to slow down, and presently a dark form stepped from the shadows of the trees ahead and stood awaiting its coming.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE ENEMY’S MOVE.

Roy’s first feeling was one of indignation at the fellow’s impudence.

“What do you mean by such conduct,” he blurted out angrily. “Take me to the aviation grounds at once, or––”

“That’s just where we are taking you away from, young fellow,” sneered the man behind the pistol. “Ah! Don’t move. I’m very nervous and if I get excited this pistol might go off. It’s very light on the trigger.”

As he spoke the auto slowed down almost to a standstill, and the man who had evidently been waiting for it, swung himself on the running board and joined the others on the front seat. Like the driver, he wore a motoring mask and goggles which effectively concealed his features, and yet to Roy there was something familiar even about the muffled up figure. Once the third man was aboard, the auto plunged forward once more at breakneck speed. It rocked from side to side on the rough road as it flew along. But the man with the pistol kept his weapon levelled at Roy throughout all its jouncings and joltings.

Like a wise boy, Roy had concluded that it would be worse than foolish to attempt any resistance to his abductors. So he sat motionless and silent as the car tore onward through the night. He had not the least idea where they were, nor for what place they could be bound. Nor had he yet had time to think over the reason for this bold kidnapping.

Now, however, it was plain that the object of the trip was to take him to some place and hold him prisoner till the aero race was over. It struck him with cruel force that, unless he could manage to escape, the object of the expedition seemed very likely to prove successful.

All at once the car struck a bump in the road with a violent wrenching thud. It leaped into the air like a live thing while a frightened shout burst from the throats of the men on the front seat. Mechanically Roy gripped the sides of the tonneau to avoid being thrown out like a missile.

The next instant, with a rasping grind and a sickening swaying and jouncing the car tore full tilt down the side of the road, which, at this point, was banked, and fetched up motionless and hub-deep in a pool of dark water.

“Don’t let the kid escape,” came a shout from the man who had boarded the car on the roadside, as the auto ceased to move.

But before the words had left his lips Roy had perceived that the water in the pond was not much more than knee high. Quick as a cat he was out of the tonneau before any of the others had time to collect their wits. As the man shouted his warning the lad struck out through the oozy ground, seeking, with every ounce of his strength, to shroud himself in the darkness at the pond edge before the pistol wielder could locate him.

But he had not gone more than a few steps when—

Bang!

A red flash cut the night behind him and a bullet whistled by his ear.

“Look out, you fool, you don’t want to kill him,” came a voice behind him.

“Gid Gibbons,” flashed through Roy’s mind. He was almost at a thick clump of alders now. As he heard the splashing of the bodies of the abductors, as they took to the water after him, he plunged into the coppice and pushed rapidly on into its intricacies.

Shouts and cries came from behind him, and suddenly a blinding shaft of white radiance cut through the blackness. They had turned on the searchlight of the car in a determined effort to locate their escaped prisoner.

As the light penetrated among the maze of alder trunks, Roy threw himself flat. While his pursuers hunted about, muttering and angrily discussing the situation, he crouched in his shelter, hardly daring to breathe. After what seemed an eternity of suspense he heard one of the men, whose voice he seemed to recognize as that of the pistol carrier, angrily declaiming.

“Aw, what’s ther use, ther kid is a mile off by this time, worse luck.”

“Hush, don’t talk so loud,” came another voice. “You don’t know who may be about.”

“Well, we’d better be getting that car out of the mud and making ourselves scarce,” came in the tones which Roy was certain were those of Gid Gibbons. “If there’s a hue and cry raised about this and they find that car stranded here they can easy trace us.”

“That’s so,” was the response in the voice of Jukes Dade. “Come on, boys, we’ll get her out of this confounded slough if we can, and get back to town.”

The voices died away as they retreated, splashing like water animals through the mud and ooze.

As silence fell once more Roy straightened up from his unpleasant situation and looked about him. The night was starry, and above his head he could see The Dipper. He knew that the outside stars of this constellation pointed to the North Star and he soon had the latter located. This gave him the points of the compass, and figuring that Acatonick must lie to the east of his present position, he struck out in that direction as nearly as he could.

He had no idea of the time, to his great chagrin, for in his haste to obey the forged summons to the flying track he had forgotten to bring his watch. In fact, in his hurry, he had slipped into an old coat, the pockets of which contained nothing more useful to him than a packet of chewing gum. He slipped a wad of this into his mouth to “keep him company” as he expressed it to himself, and grittily went forward.

The wood ended presently, and he found himself in a field with woods on all three sides, except that on which the swamp impinged. Little as he liked the idea of plunging into pathless woods, with nothing to guide him but the stars, as he glimpsed them through the trees, there was no help for it. Go on he must. Crossing the field rapidly he soon reached the border of the tangle and entered its black shadows. Keeping as straight a line as he could he hastened forward, and to his great delight, soon saw that the trees were beginning to thin out, and that beyond lay, apparently, open country.

“Hooray, I’m bound to strike a road before long now,” thought Roy gleefully and quickened his pace.

He had not gone more than a few paces, however, when through the trees he heard a strange sound. It was a clinking sound like the rattling of a chain.

The boy was bold enough, but the mysterious sound on the edge of that dark wood caused his pulses to beat a bit quicker. What could it be?

Gradually, as he stood still among the trees, the sound drew closer.

“Ghosts in story books always clank chains,” thought Roy, to himself. “Now if I believed in such things, I––”

He stopped short abruptly, as, from behind a clump of brush in the direction from whence the clanking had proceeded, there suddenly emerged a tall form all in white.

“Good gracious!” cried Roy, considerably startled by the sight of this sudden apparition. “I do believe––”

But at the sight of the white form he had involuntarily given a backward step. Without the slightest warning he felt the ground suddenly give way under his feet, and his body shot down through space.

Down, down he shot, a hundred mad thoughts twisting dizzily in his head.

All at once his progress was arrested. Before he could realize what had happened he felt a flood of icy cold water close over his head and a mighty ringing and roaring in his ears.

But Roy was used to diving, and he automatically, almost, held his breath till he shot to the surface again. Then he extended his hands and found that his fingers encountered a rough stone wall of some kind.

“I’m in an old well,” gasped the boy as the truth suddenly flashed across him. He looked upward. Far above him, as if seen through a telescope, he could see the glittering stars. They were reflected, also, in the agitated water about him.

Somewhat to his astonishment, for the thought of death itself had been in his mind as he hurtled downward, Roy found that he was unhurt. But his present position was by no means one to invite congratulations. At the bottom of an old well in the midst of lonely fields he might stay a long time before rescue would arrive.

And in the meantime,—but Roy bravely put such thoughts resolutely out of his head, and began to feel about him to see if it was not possible to find some rough places in the sides of the excavation by which he might clamber to the surface. But his fingers only encountered stonework set far too smoothly to be of any service to him.

Then he suddenly noticed what he had not observed before, and that was that a rope depended from above, trailing its end down into the water. It was too thin to bear his weight, but the boy thought he could utilize it to keep himself above the surface without effort.

Tying a loop knot in it he thrust an arm through the noose and found that he could sustain himself very comfortably. Then he began to shout. Loudly at first—and then more feebly as his voice grew tired. But no answering sound came back to him.

For the first time since he had found himself in his predicament cold fear clutched at the young aviator’s heart.

What if nobody heard him and he was compelled to remain at the bottom of the old well?

As this thought shot through his mind Roy noticed, too, that a deadly chill was beginning to creep up his limbs. He shivered waist deep in the chilly water as if he had an ague.

CHAPTER XVII.

A COWARD AND HIS WAYS.

Peggy awoke the next day with a feeling of distinct uneasiness. She and her aunt had sat up till after midnight awaiting Roy’s return, but, as we know, the lad was in a position from which he could not extricate himself. An attempt had been made to communicate with the aviation grounds, but an unlucky aeroplane had blundered against the telephone wire during an afternoon flight, snapping the thread of communication.

In spite of the late hour at which they had retired, however, Miss Prescott and her niece were up betimes. But early as it was they found the little town all astir. Excursion trains were already pouring their crowds into the place and the streets were fairly alive with humanity. Peggy’s first act on awaking was to gaze out of the window, beneath which some fine trees grew. Not a breath of wind stirred their leaves. The air was as clear and undisturbed as it was possible for it to be.

Donning a white duck skirt and a plain shirt waist, and dressing her hair in a becomingly simple style, Peggy hastened to the office of the hotel, and going to the telephone switchboard asked the operator to put her in communication with Roy’s room. But after several minutes spent in a vain attempt to obtain an answer Central had to inform the anxious girl that there was no reply.

Thinking that after his late absence of the night before Roy might have overslept, Peggy despatched a bellboy to his room. But the report came back that the room was empty and that Roy’s bed had not been slept in.

“See if you can get the executive office on the aviation grounds,” said Peggy to the ’phone girl. But although the wire had been repaired and communication was easily established, there was no news of Roy. Worse still for Peggy’s peace of mind, she learned now, for the first time, that there had been no meeting at the aviation field the night before.

“If your brother got a note to that effect it was a forgery,” said the official who answered the call.

Peggy fairly flew upstairs to her aunt’s room. Rapidly she informed Miss Prescott of what had happened.

“Oh, I’m certain now that that hateful Fanning Harding has something to do with it,” she almost sobbed.

“Hush, dear,” said her aunt, although in the gentle lady’s breast a great fear had arisen, “everything may be all right. At any rate, I do not believe that any one, no matter how anxious they were that you should not compete in the race, would dare to resort to such methods to keep Roy out of the contest.”

“I don’t know so much about that, auntie,” rejoined the girl. “I was in our hangar yesterday afternoon and I noticed a horrid looking man prowling about with Fanning Harding. If it had not been too improbable I should say that I knew the man’s face.”

“My dear!” exclaimed the good lady in astonishment.

“Well,” rejoined Peggy with conviction, “I’m almost sure that the man was Jukes Dade, a workman who once was employed in his laboratory and workshop by my father. He was a skillful mechanic, but dad had to discharge him because he drank fearfully. He swore at the time that he would get even with us in some way. But we never heard any more of him. Yet if that really was him with Fanning Harding yesterday I’m awfully afraid that there is some mischief stirring.”

“What you say, my dear, makes me also very anxious,” responded Miss Prescott. “Perhaps we had better communicate with the police at once.”

“Not yet, aunt,” breathed Peggy; “you see, Roy may turn up in time for the race, and if he does, everything will be all right.”

“But, Peggy––”

“On the other hand, if we spread an alarm that he is missing we shall be declared out of the contest.”

“I see what you mean, my dear,” was the response, “and I suppose that what you say is best. I feel positive, somehow, that we shall have news of Roy before long, and that no harm has come to him.”

But the morning wore on, and no word came. In the meantime, every available source of information had been canvassed thoroughly without result. Roy Prescott had totally vanished; or so it seemed.

Peggy, as in duty bound, spent all she could spare of the morning at the aviation field, putting the finishing touches on the Golden Butterfly. The big contest was not to be held till the afternoon, and in the meantime, some of the smaller events were flown off. But Peggy was too heartsick to watch the aeroplanes thunder around the course, which was marked out by red and white “pylons” or signal towers.

Instead, she remained in the hangar and kept a watchful eye on Fanning Harding, who, with some mechanics and the same man she had noticed about the hangar the day before, was very busy over his machine, apparently. But no one obtained even a glimpse of Fanning’s air craft, for it was not wheeled out, and, except when one or the other of his party dodged in or out, the doors of his hangar were closed.

In the course of the morning Fanning’s father arrived, and not long after, to Peggy’s unbounded delight, Jess and Jimsy and a party of friends drove up to the Prescott hangar.

“Why, Peggy, what is the matter with you? You look positively—er—er—dowdy!” exclaimed Jess, gazing at her friend after first greetings were over.

“And Roy, where is Roy?” demanded Jimsy.

“Yes, where is he? We want him to explain the points of this gasolene turkey-buzzard to us,” cried Ed. Taylor, one of the gay party.

“I expect him here any minute,” rejoined Peggy, and then drawing Jess and Jimsy aside she related to them, in a voice that shook in spite of herself, the mysterious occurrences of the night, and Roy’s total disappearance.

“I’m going right over now and ask Fanning if he knows anything about it,” announced Jimsy indignantly as soon as the girl had concluded.

“Oh, don’t, please don’t,” begged his sister.

“I don’t think it would be wise to, now,” put in Peggy.

But Jimsy was not to be shaken in his purpose. Fanning was outside his hangar smoking a cigarette and swaggering about when Jimsy approached him. Perhaps the self-assertive youth felt a bit alarmed at the look in Jimsy’s eye as he stepped up, but he assumed an impudent expression and blew out a puff of smoke which he did not try to avert from Jimsy’s face.

“Good morning, Fanning,” said Jimsy, bottling up his temper at the other’s insulting manners, “can you give me a few minutes of private conversation?”

“Hum, well I don’t know. What’s it about?” inquired Harding more impudently than ever.

“It’s about Roy, Fanning,” said Jimsy seriously. “I want you to tell me on your word of honor that you don’t know where he is.”

“Oh, you do, eh? Well, you have an awful nerve to come to me with such questions. How do I know where he is?”

This question was somewhat of a poser for Jimsy. That impetuous youth had approached the other more or less on an impulse, and now that the direct question was put to him he felt that he could not, for the life of him, put his suspicions into so many words.

“Well—er—you see,” he said somewhat confusedly, “I had an idea that you might have seen him.”

“Well, I haven’t, and what’s more I don’t want to,” snapped Fanning aggressively. He was quite cool now that he saw that Jimsy had nothing definite against him in his mind, but only a vague suspicion.

“You really mean that, Fanning?” rejoined Jimsy earnestly. “His sister is terribly worried. He hasn’t been seen since last night.”

“Is that so?” asked Fanning with a sudden accession of interest; “then he can’t race to-day, can he?”

“I wasn’t thinking about the race,” said Jimsy; “it was Roy himself I was worrying about.”

“Well, you may as well stop your anxiety,” chuckled Fanning; “how do you know he isn’t off on a little spree, and––”

“That’s enough, Fanning. Roy Prescott does not do such low-down things. He––”

“Oh, you mean to imply that I do, eh?”

Fanning came forward pugnaciously.

“I’ll tell you what it is, Jim Bancroft, you just take yourself away from this hangar as quickly as possible. I don’t want anything to do with you, do you understand? It’s none of my business if Roy goes off and forgets to tell you where to find him. How do you know he hasn’t gone off with those jewels?”

“What do you mean?”

Jimsy’s tone was as angry in reality now as Fanning Harding’s had been for effect a few seconds before.

But Fanning, in his bitter enmity toward Roy, could not see the danger signals in Jimsy’s honest gray eyes.

“What do I mean?” he drawled; “why, just this, that the investigation of the police has taken a new turn in the last few days, and that Roy is likely to be arrested within the next twenty-four hours for robbery. I’ll bet he got wind of it and skipped out. I’ll bet––”

“How dare you?”

Peggy, eyes aflame, stepped up. Her bosom heaved angrily.

“How dare you say such things? You—you coward.”

“Well, I ain’t coward enough to steal a girl’s jewels and then––”

“Hold on there, Fanning. Stop right there.”

It was Jimsy’s turn. But Fanning was too much worked up in his vindictive anger to stop.

“I won’t stop,” he shouted. “I’ll say it right out. Roy Prescott is a––”

But before he could utter another word Jimsy’s fist had shot out, and Fanning’s chin happening to be in the way he felt himself suddenly propelled off his feet and elevated into the air. He sought to recover his balance as he reeled, but his foot caught in a bit of turf, and whirling his arms about like one of those figures on the top of a barn he measured his length.

“Had enough?” asked Jimsy mildly, rolling up his sleeves.

“No, you despicable young whelp!” roared Fanning, utterly throwing aside all prudence. “I haven’t.”

He leaped to his feet and rushed toward Jimsy. As he did so Jess gave a shriek. In the angry, half-crazed youth’s hand there glistened a long clasp knife.

“Jimsy! Look out!” cried the girl.

But before the frenzied Fan could spring upon Jimsy, who was utterly unprepared for the production of the deadly weapon, a dainty foot in white canvas outing shoes and silk stockings flashed out from under Peggy’s skirt. It caught Fanning as he sprang, and the next instant, for the second time that day, he fell sprawling on the ground.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE DARING OF PEGGY.

By the time he had risen to his feet several of the officials of the track were seen approaching, and Fanning, with a scowl of deep disgust at our party, who paid little attention to him, shuffled off. At first Peggy thought that the officials had seen something of the trouble and would be angry. But it turned out that they were only coming to announce a few minor changes in the rules governing the race, and to distribute printed copies of the same.

As they passed on one of them turned and remarked casually:

“By the way, as the wind is so light we have decided to have the big contest an hour earlier than was announced, and eliminate the girls’ contest, so that everybody can get home from the grounds in good time for dinner.”

He hastened on to join his companions on their journey down the line of hangars, outside of which aeroplanes were sputtering and smoking, and excited aviators and mechanics hustling about.

All at once a big biplane was wheeled out and soared into the air. It carried a blue and gold streamer.

“That’s Steiner of the Agassiz High School in New York City,” explained Jimsy; “he’s confident of winning the big prize.”

Peggy made some reply. She didn’t know just what. Her mind was throbbing with the idea that Roy’s inexplicable absence meant that harm had come to him, and that even if he were safe the advancing of the hour of the race would put them out of it if he did not make haste.

“Look, there goes Banker of the Philadelphia Polytechnic, and Rayburn of the Boston Tech,” cried Jimsy the next instant as a biplane and a graceful white-winged monoplane shot aloft on trial trips, their motors exploding loudly and a tail of blue smoke streaming out behind them. A slight cheer came from the grand stands, which were already beginning to fill, as the boy aviators shot upward.

“Oh, Roy! Roy, where are you?” sighed Peggy to herself, as she watched the young aspirants for aerial honors swinging around the course.

“I’m going over to the stand and ’phone to the police station,” said Jimsy presently; “they may have news of him over there by this time.”

“Oh, yes, please do,” cried Peggy, as Jimsy hastened off.

When he had gone the two girls turned troubled countenances to each other.

“You poor honey,” cried Jess, “I know how you are suffering. But don’t worry, Peggy, I’m sure it will come out all right.”

“Yes, but—but you don’t know what depends on Roy’s winning this race,” cried Peggy. “I am sure that some of our rivals in the race—I need not mention who—have something to do with his disappearance.”

“What do you mean by saying ‘a lot depends on it,’ girlie?” asked Jess, drawing Peggy’s arm within her own.

With brimming eyes Peggy told her friend frankly and fully what she had not before, namely, the exact circumstances of the Prescott family and the threat which old Harding held above their heads.

“So, you see, Jess,” she concluded sadly, “this could not have happened at a worse time for us.”

“I see that,” gently rejoined the other girl, “but listen, dear, you may have a chance to win it after all if you will trust to us to find Roy.”

“Trust to you?” repeated Peggy in a puzzled tone. “Trust to you to find Roy?”

“Yes, my dear, while you—go in and win the race!”

“Why, what are you talking about?” gasped Peggy.

“A brilliant idea that has just occurred to me. You are about Roy’s height, and if your hair was cut short you’d look enough like him to be his twin brother instead of his sister. But that doesn’t matter, for you wear goggles and a helmet in driving that thing, anyway, don’t you?”

“Yes. But,—oh, Jess, I couldn’t do that.”

“Not even for your aunt’s sake, Peggy, and to show those whom you suspect that they could not put a Prescott out of the race, however hard they tried? Come into the shed with me. I am going to persuade you, if I can, to do a brave thing.”

With their arms about each other’s waists the girls walked toward the hangar and entered it. As they did so the figure of Jukes Dade glided from a place of concealment close at hand, and slipping behind some low bushes he gained the rear of the Prescott shed unperceived. Once there he placed an ear to a crack in the structure, from within which could be heard the murmur of girlish voices.

Whatever he heard seemed to strike him with astonishment at first and then with a malicious glee.

“So,” he muttered, “that’s your scheme, is it? Well, I guess we’ll be able to head that off. That aeroplane of yours won’t go in that race if I can help it, and even if it did I know enough now to head you off from getting the big prize. That young Harding ought to pay me well for this.”

So saying, Jukes Dade shuffled off toward Fanning’s hangar, still chortling evilly to himself.

Jimsy returned to the shed without any good news. In fact, the doleful expression on his usually merry face would have told them that long before he opened his mouth. In the midst of the general gloom a merry face was suddenly obtruded through the swinging doors.

“Hullo! hullo! young folks, what’s the trouble? You look as if you were going to attend a funeral.”

They looked up to see the figure of Hal Homer, clad in white flannels, and with a checked cap on his curly head, standing in the doorway.

“Can I come in?” he asked, and without waiting for an answer in he came.

“Oh, Mr. Homer,” cried Jess, fairly pouncing on him, “we’re so glad you’ve come; we are in a dreadful fix.”

“A dreadful fix? Why, my dear young lady, I read in the local paper that I bought on my way from the depot that Roy’s machine, judging from the trials, was going to have things all her own way.”

“So much so,” struck in Jimsy, “that it looks as if some of Roy’s enemies have spirited him away.”

“What? I’m afraid I hardly understand.”

The aviation instructor looked at Jimsy in a puzzled way, rather as if he thought the youth might be having some fun with him.

“No, no, this is serious. I mean it,” spoke Jimsy quickly. “Roy has gone!”

“Gone!”

“Yes. He vanished last night. But sit down and we’ll tell you all about it. Maybe you can help us out.”

Absolutely “flabbergasted,” to use his own expression, the good-looking young flying man sank down on an upturned case, while Jimsy went on to relate all that had occurred, with Peggy every now and then striking in with additions and corrections.

Another ear also took in the conversation—that of Jukes Dade—who had seen the arrival of the well-dressed young aviator, and had instantly slipped back to his eavesdropping post to learn what the newcomer’s business might be.

It might have been an hour later that a chauffeur, summoned by ’phone from the grandstand, brought the Bancrofts’ car up to the hangar and Hal Homer, Jess and Jimsy emerged.

“Drive to the police station,” ordered Hal Homer as he stepped in, leaving Jess and Jimsy behind.

Jukes Dade, peering around a corner of the hangar, heard the order and grew pale.

“Looks bad,” he muttered as the car rolled off; “I wonder if they know anything. If they do, I’m off. This isn’t a healthy part of the country for Jukes Dade from the minute that kid is found. He didn’t recognize Gid or young Harding, but he knew me all right. I could tell it by the way he looked at me, and if he’s found the first man they’ll hunt for is me.”