“Three hundred feet!” cried the announcer, amid a buzz of approval, after the measurers of the course had done their work.

“Paul Perkins—­Bleriot!” was the next announcement.

A hum of excitement went through the crowds that lined the track.  It began to look as if the record of Ed Rivers’ machine would be hard to beat, but from the determined look on his face and his gritted teeth it was evident that Paul meant to try hard.

Before the report of the pistol had died out, the yellow-winged Dragonfly soared upward from Paul’s hand and darted like a streak across the red tape, clearing it at the highest altitude yet achieved by any of the models.

“Hurrah!” yelled the crowd.

On and on sped the little Bleriot, while Paul watched it with pride-flushed cheeks.  It was evident that it was going to out-distance the record made by Ed Rivers’ machine.  The Boy Scouts set up their Patrol cry: 

“Kr-ee-ee-ee-ee!”

As the little machine settled to the ground, far beyond the grand stand, the officials ran out with their tapes, and presently the announcement came blaring down the packed ranks of the onlookers: 

“Three hundred and fifty feet!”

What a cheer went up then.

“I guess you’ve got it won.  Congratulations!” said Ed Rivers, pressing forward to Paul’s side.

“Thanks, Ed,” returned the other; “but ‘there’s many a slip,’ you know, and there are several others to be flown yet.”

Now came in rapid succession several of the smaller models and freak designs.  Some of these wobbled through the air and landed in the crowd.  Others sailed blithely up toward the red tape and just fell short of clearing it.  Another landed right on the tape and hung there, the target of irreverent remarks from the crowd.

While this was going on, Bill Bender, Jack Curtiss and Sam were in close consultation.

“Remember, you promised that if you won the prize you’d give that money back,” Sam whispered to Jack, “and for goodness’ sake, don’t forget it.  I half believe that those boys suspect us already.”

“Nonsense,” returned the bully.  “And what if they do?  We covered up our tracks too well for them to have anything on us.  They can’t prove anything, can they?”

“I—­I—­I don’t know,” stammered Sam, and was about to say more, but the clarion voice of the announcer was heard informing the crowd that: 

“John Curtiss’ Bleriot model will now make a flight for the great prize.”

With a confident smile on his face, Jack stepped forward and held his model ready.  The murmur of admiration that had greeted its first appearance was repeated as he held it high in the sunlight and the afternoon rays glinted and shimmered on its fittings and wings.

“That’s the model for my money,” remarked a man in the crowd.

“It’s going to win, too,” said Jack confidently.