The plan
always worked well.
The leather messenger fell on the aviation field, and our friends
had the satisfaction of seeing several men running to pick it up,
so Larry knew his plan would be successful.
The Abaris was now speeding along at the top notch, and for a few
minutes Dick allowed her to soar through the air in this fashion.
And then, having some regard for his engines, he cut down the
gasolene, and slowed up.
"No use tearing her heart out," he remarked.
"There's time enough to rush on the last lap. I wonder if we'll
have a race at the end?"
"I shouldn't be surprised," Mr. Vardon answered. "A number of
celebrated aviators are planning to compete for this prize, and some
may already be on the way across the continent ahead of us."
"Then there's your Uncle Ezra," put in Paul.
"Poor Uncle Ezra," spoke Dick, musingly. "He certainly has treated
me mean, at times, but I can't help feeling sorry for him. Every
time he has to buy five gallons of gasolene, or some oil, he'll
imagine he's getting ready to go to the poorhouse. He certainly was
not cut out for an aviator, and I certainly was surprised when he
built that airship."
"He's being used by that fellow Larson, I'm sure of that," declared
Mr. Vardon. "Your Uncle Ezra has fallen into the hands of a
scoundrel, Dick."
"Well, I'm sorry for that, of course," said the young millionaire,
"but, do you know, I think it will do Uncle Ezra good to lose some
of his money.
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