The Dreadnought Boys on Aero Service. Goldfrap John Henry
other hand, was heavier-set, but he showed up well in that assemblage of athletically built men and youths. Both Ned and Herc agreed that the two whom they instinctively regarded as enemies were by no means to be rated lightly.
But a sharp bugle call cut short further observation. The games were beginning. The hundred-yard dash was third on the program, and Ned did not emerge till just before the starting time. The wind was sharp, and he did not want to contract his muscles by letting the cold air blow on his limbs. Herc, in a heavy navy coat, went to the starting line with him. He stood by his chum, giving him some last words of advice. Ned appeared to listen, but his thoughts were actually elsewhere. He had already made up his mind to his course of action. He was going to run a waiting race, depending on a sharp spurt to win.
In a quick glance over the six entrants, he saw that Chalmers and Merritt were the only ones he had cause to fear. He noticed them whispering together, and resolved to keep a sharp lookout on their actions.
The air was filled with shouts and suggestions and greetings from blue-jackets, who were encouraging the men from their own ship. Every man in the squadron who could be spared was there. They made a big throng, lining the track on the side away from the grandstand.
"Hey, there, Springer! Do your prettiest for the Merrimac."
"Oh, you Polthew! Don't forget the Massachusetts!"
"Say, Polly, look out for that Manhattan bunch."
"Hi, Chalmers, you're the man. You're carrying the Luzzy's money."
"That's right, and don't you forget it."
"And you, Strong! My month's pay's on you."
"You'll lose, then; Merritt's the man."
"What's the matter with Carter? Guess you'll know there's a Kansas in the fleet."
"Stand back, please! Stand back!" cried those in charge of the course.
The line-up was quickly arranged. The starters crouched ready to dart off. Carter made a false start, and the excitement waxed furious.
"Ready?"
Lieutenant Steedforth, of the Louisiana, the starter, put the question.
Like greyhounds preparing to leave the leash, the contestants flexed their muscles.
The starter lifted the pistol. A puff of smoke and sharp report followed.
Merritt, Chalmers and Polthew got off at the same instant. They made a showy start, and the grandstand as well as the field buzzed with enthusiasm.
Springer, of the Merrimac, and Carter, of the Kansas, came next. Strong came last, and was almost unnoticed in the frenzy of excitement.
The pace was terrific. In the first twenty-five yards Polthew and Carter dropped behind, hopelessly out of it. Far in front, Merritt, Chalmers and Springer were fighting it grimly out. Springer hung like death on the heels of the two leaders.
Ned had crept up, and kept his pace steadily. Suddenly Springer spurted. This carried him past Chalmers and Merritt, who were about even. But the effort had been made too soon. In a second's time he dropped back again.
The Dreadnought Boy knew that the two tricksters in front were going to concentrate on stopping him if he crept up too soon. So he crawled up till he felt it would be foolish to delay longer. Then, letting out all his reserve power, Ned spurted. His burst of speed was easy and genuine. It was not forced.
In a flash he was abreast of Chalmers before the latter could "pocket" him according to prearranged plans. Merritt, as he saw this, exerted every ounce of strength in his wiry body.
The jackies went wild. It was anybody's race, for now Chalmers had recovered from his surprise. Spurting, he caught up with the leaders. Spurt followed spurt. The air vibrated with cheers, yells, whoops and every kind of noisy demonstration.
Above it all, there suddenly rang out from the throats of the Manhattan's crew, one ear-splitting cry of triumph.
In the midst of it, carried on its wings as it were, Ned suddenly dashed ahead of his competitors and staggered across the tape into the arms of his shipmates. Chalmers was second and Merritt a bad third. Tobacco had found the weak spot in his heart. He was almost exhausted as he reeled across the line.
CHAPTER IV
THE AERO SQUAD
One by one the other contests were decided. The hammer throw was won by Melvin, of the Idaho, a giant of a man. Smithers, of the Manhattan, was second in this event. So the Dreadnought's crew continued to keep up their spirits. The half-mile was captured by Remington, of the Louisiana, while the mile went to Hickey, of the Manhattan, a man with hair of right good fighting red, and a great chest development.
Then came the pole jump. As usual, this picturesque event excited great interest.
Chance came first, and set a mark that made the other contestants gasp.
"You'll have to be a grasshopper to beat that, Herc," whispered Ned.
Herc nodded. "I'll do my best," he said simply.
"That's the stuff, shipmate," said "Ben Franklin," who happened to be close at hand, "as poor Richard said:
"'You'll beat the rest;
If you do your best.'"
"I never saw that in 'Poor Richard' that I can recollect," said Ned, with a laugh.
Steve Wynn looked pained, as he usually did when any of his quotations was questioned as to its accuracy.
"It's in the book some place," he said confidently.
"Well, maybe it is," agreed Ned. "It's good advice, anyhow."
At last came Herc's turn.
Merritt had now been joined by Chance. With set teeth, they stood watching the agile lad from the farm prepare for his preliminary run.
"You want to watch closely now," said Chance, with an unholy grin, "you're going to see something."
"What? You've – "
But a horrified cry from the spectators interrupted the words. Herc had risen gracefully at the bar, and had seemed about to sail over it. Instantly bedlam had seethed about the field.
"Taylor, of the Manhattan, wins!"
"Good boy, red-top!"
"Go to it, freckles!"
But in a flash the cries of enthusiasm had been changed to that peculiar sighing gasp that runs through a crowd at a sudden turn to the tragic in their emotions.
As Herc had lifted his body outward to sail over the bar, the pole had suddenly snapped beneath him.
The horrified spectators saw the lad's body hurtled downward. Herc, as he fell, narrowly missed impalement on the jagged, broken end of the pole. But the lad's muscles were under prime control. Even as he fell, he seemed to make a marvelous twist.
The cheers broke forth anew as Herc, instead of landing in a heap, came to earth gracefully on his feet. He had not sustained the least injury, a fact which he soon demonstrated to the judges and other officials of the track who crowded about him.
"I tell you, it's that blamed secret of theirs," growled Chance, turning pale.
"We'd better get out of here," warned Merritt hastily. "Look, they are examining the pole. I imagine that they'll find it was cut."
"I imagine so, too," said Chance, in a low, rather frightened tone, as the unworthy two hastened off. "But they can't prove anything on me," he added defiantly.
In the meantime Herc had selected another pole. He examined it carefully and found it perfect. Bracing himself for the effort of his life, he essayed the jump once more.
He sailed over the bar as gracefully as a soaring sea gull.
"Chance is tied! Taylor's tied him!" yelled the crowd.
"Good boy, Herc," whispered Ned, as Herc prepared for a fresh effort. "Now this