about that height, as it gave him a good view, and he could see to steer, for a route had been hastily mapped out for him by his friends.
Over cities, towns, villages, scattered farmhouses; across stretches of forest; over rivers, above big stretches of open country he flew. Often he could see eager crowds below, gazing up at him. But he paid no heed. He was looking for a sight of a certain broad river, which was near Kirkville. Then he knew he would be close to his goal.
He had speeded up the motor to the limit, and there was nothing to do now, save to manage the planes, wing tips and rudders, and to see that the gasoline and oil were properly fed to the machine.
Faster and faster went the Humming-Bird, but Tom's thoughts were even faster. He was thinking of many things—of his father—of what he would do if Mr. Swift died—of the mysterious airship—of the stolen plans—of the fire in the shed—of the great race—and of Andy Foger.
He took little note of time, and when, in less than an hour he sighted the river that told him he was near to Kirkville, he was rather startled.
"You certainly did come right along, Humming-Bird!" he murmured proudly.
He descended several hundred feet, and, as he
