Just at that moment the pistol cracked, and Jack released his much-admired air craft.

Its flight showed that it was as capable of making as beautiful a soaring excursion as its graceful outlines and careful finish seemed to indicate.  In a long, sweeping glide, it arose and cleared the red tape by a greater margin than had Paul Perkins’ model.

“Jack Curtiss wins!” yelled the crowd, as the machine soared right on and did not begin its downward swoop for some distance.  After it had alighted and the measurers had laid their tapes on the course, the announcer megaphoned, amid a perfect tornado of roars and cheers: 

“The last flight, ladies and gentlemen—­and apparently the winning one—­accomplished the remarkable distance of four hundred and fifty feet—­four hundred and fifty feet.”

“Three cheers for Jack Curtiss!” shouted Bill Bender, slapping Jack heartily on the back and giving most of the cheers himself.

“I guess those cubs won’t be quite so stuck up now,” commented Sam, shaking Jack’s hand warmly.

“I was pretty sure I’d win,” modestly remarked the bully, as he began shouldering his way through the press toward the judges’ stand.  He was closely followed by the boys, as it looked as if Paul Perkins might have won the second prize and Ed Rivers the third.

Urged by Bill Bender, the band began puffing away at “See, the Conquering Hero Comes,” and Jack, nothing averse to appearing in such a role, bowed gracefully right and left to the admiring throngs.

The professor shook hands warmly with the victorious Jack, and remarked: 

“You are to be congratulated, young man.  I have rarely seen a better model, and your skill does you great credit.  Are you thinking of taking up aeronautics seriously?”

The bully, his face very red, stammered that he had entertained some such thoughts.

The professor was about to reply, when there came a sudden sound of confusion among that portion of the crowd which had surrounded the delegates deputed to pick up the aeroplanes and bring them to the stand.  This was in order that they might be exhibited as each prize was awarded.  A small boy with a very excited face was seen struggling to get through the mass, and he finally gained the judges’ stand.  As he faced the congratulatory professor he stuttered out: 

“Please, sir, there’s something wrong about Jack Curtiss’ machine.”

“What do you mean, you impudent young shaver!” shouted the bully, turning white, nevertheless.

“Let the lad speak,” said Mr. Blake, who as one of the committee was standing beside the professor.  “What is it, my boy?  Let me see.  You’re Joe Digby, of the Eagle Patrol, aren’t you.”

“Yes, sir; and I live out on a farm near Jack Curtiss.  I was watching him fly his machine this morning, from behind a hedge, and I heard them saying something about ’their store-made machine beating any country boy’s model.’”