“I guess he’s seen us and means to beat us out at all hazards,” conjectured Peggy.

And she was right.  Mortlake, glancing back a short time before the sea appeared on the horizon, had seen the other aeroplane, and guessing at once what its appearance meant, had determined to keep on, even at the risk of plunging himself and his passenger into the sea.

That was Mortlake’s character; he was a man who could brook no rivalry.  Used all his life to sweep obstacles aside, he would rather have terminated his career than permit any one to pass him in the race for first place, no matter in what line that first place might lie.

“Are you going to keep on, Roy?”

The question came as a strip of white beach flashed beneath them, and Peggy, peering over the edge of the chassis, saw the big Atlantic swells rolling below them.  The thunder of the surf on the beach came clearly to their ears, even at that height.

“What do you think, Sis?  We’ve got lots of gasoline.  The motor is working without a hitch.  I’d hate to turn back now, particularly with that officer’s eyes upon us, as in all probability they are.”

“Oh, let’s keep on,” exclaimed Peggy, casting prudence to the winds.  “I feel like you, Roy.  If we turn back now, it would look as if we were afraid to trust the Butterfly above the ocean, and, after all, it is a naval contest that we hope to be elected for.”

“Forward it is, then,” cried Roy exultingly.  The tang of the salt wind, the inspiration of the ocean, had come to him.  He felt like a corsair—­a very modern corsair—­urging his craft above the ancient sea.

The vessel, whose smoke they had espied at a distance, was quite close to them now.  A huge, black hull, with white passenger decks, rising tier on tier, four huge red funnels with black tops, and slender masts, between which hung the spider-web aerials of her wireless apparatus.  Her bow was creaming up the ocean into foam, as she rushed onward at a twenty-four knot gait.

Roy, obeying a daring impulse, let the Golden Butterfly descend.  Now they could see her promenade decks lined with white faces peering upward.  Here and there the sun glinted on the bright metal work of cameras, all aimed at the wonderful spectacle of the soaring, buoyant Golden Butterfly.

“Oh, if only we could drop a message on her decks!” breathed Peggy eagerly.  “I do wish we had a post-card or something——­”

“By ginger,” cried Roy suddenly, “I do believe I’ve got some in my coat-pocket.  I bought some in the village yesterday to mail to the chaps back at school.  Yes.  Here they are, and here’s a fountain-pen.  Now write all you want.”

Peggy took the cards her brother handed to her with his free hand, and, with the fountain-pen, sat down to compose some messages.  After a few seconds’ thought, she began to write busily.  Card after card was covered with her neat penmanship.  All this time Roy had kept the Golden Butterfly hovering above the liner, from time to time taking swoops and dives around it like some monstrous sea gull.