Swiftly she mentally selected the spot where she would land, and then down shot the Golden Butterfly like a pouncing fish hawk.  The speed of the descent fairly took Peggy’s breath away.  Her cap had come off and her golden hair streamed out in the breeze wildly.

There was a blur of flying trees, then came the grandstand, a mere smudge of color, a sea of dimly seen faces and a roar that was like that of a hundred waterfalls.

Down shot the Golden Butterfly just inside the “pylon.”  It ran for about a hundred yards and was then brought to a stop.

Peggy Prescott had won the great race.

CHAPTER XXII.

PEGGY’S GENEROSITY.

“Oh, Peggy, it’s the proudest moment of my life!” cried Jimsy, as a shouting, excited crowd surrounded the aeroplane in which Peggy still sat, feeling dazed and a little dizzy.

“Oh, you wonderful girl!” cried out Bess, half laughing and half crying; “gracious, what an exciting finish.  I thought I’d go wild when it looked as if you weren’t going to win.”

They helped her from the aeroplane while policemen pushed the crowd back.  Somebody brought a tray with steaming hot tea and crackers on it.  But Peggy could not eat.  She felt faint and dreamy.

“Brace up!” urged Jimsy.

“I’ll be all right in a minute.  It’s the strain of those last few minutes.  I never thought I’d win.”

“And I never doubted it,” declared Jess stoutly.

“I wonder where Roy is?” asked Peggy anxiously, as they entered a box in the grandstand where they could be secluded from the shoving, curious, staring crowd.

“Don’t know; but he’s all right, depend upon it,” said Jimsy cheerfully; “hello, what’s that coming now?”

“It’s a homing aeroplane.”

Then, a minute later: 

“It’s Roy.  Look at him come.  I didn’t think the Red Dragon could go as fast.”

Roy it was, sure enough.  He was coming at a pace that might have landed him as winner of the race if he had not been delayed by his errand of mercy.

Ten minutes later he had joined them.  First he explained what had happened to the judges of the course.  Kelly, crest-fallen and wretched-looking, thanked him half heartedly for what he had done and said that he would care for Speedwell till he got better, which, by the way, was a promise that he did not perform.

A sudden stir in the crowd caused the little party in the box to look up.

A man was hastily chalking up some legend on the big black bulletin board.  It ran thus: 

  Long-distance Race for $500 prize. 
  Start of Flight—­11:01:2. 
  Finish of Flight—­12:02:0. 
  Maximum Height—­1,500 feet. 
  Wind Velocity—­10 miles from southeast. 
  Winner—­Golden Butterfly. 
  Winning Aviator—­Miss Margaret Prescott.

What a cheer went up then.  It seemed as if the roof would be raised off the grandstand by it.