n Butterfly_ maintained about the same altitude, but the gap between
the two aerial craft was not closing up.

"Mortlake's taking a desperate chance to show Lieut. Bradbury what the
_Cobweb_ can do," exclaimed Roy. "With a new engine, he's risking too
much."

"I guess he's seen us and means to beat us out at all hazards,"
conjectured Peggy.

And she was right. Mortlake, glancing back a short time before the sea
appeared on the horizon, had seen the other aeroplane, and guessing at
once what its appearance meant, had determined to keep on, even at the
risk of plunging himself and his passenger into the sea.

That was Mortlake's character; he was a man who could brook no rivalry.
Used all his life to sweep obstacles aside, he would rather have
terminated his career than permit any one to pass him in the race for
first place, no matter in what line that first place might lie.

"Are you going to keep on, Roy?"

The question came as a strip of white beach flashed beneath them, and
Peggy, peering over the edge of the chassis, saw the big Atlantic swells
rolling below them. The thunder of the surf on the beach came clearly to
their ears, even at that height.

"What do you think, Sis? We've got lots of gasoline. The motor is working
without a hitch. I'd hate to turn back now, particularly with that
officer's eyes upon us, as in all probability they are."

"Oh, let's keep on," exclaimed Peggy, casting prudence to the winds. "I
feel like you, Roy. If we turn back now, it would look as if we were
afraid to trust the _Butterfly_ above the ocean, and, after all, it is a
naval contest that we hope to be elected for."

"Forward it is, then," cried Roy exultingly. The tang of the salt wind,
the inspiration of the ocean, had come to him. He felt like a corsair--a
very modern corsair--urging his craft above the ancient sea.

The vessel, whose smoke they had espied at a distance, was quite close to
them now. A huge, black hull, with white passenger decks, rising tier on
tier, four huge red funnels with black tops, and slender masts, between
which hung the spider-web aerials of her wireless apparatus. Her bow was
creaming up the ocean into foam, as she rushed onward at a twenty-four
knot gait.

Roy, obeying a daring impulse, let the _Golden Butterfly_ descend. Now
they could see her promenade decks lined with white faces peering upward.
Here and there the sun glinted on the bright metal work of cameras, all
aimed at the wonder