here until you come back. Bless my
radiator! I hope you beat him!"

"I will, if it's possible!" murmured Tom, with a grim tightening of his
lips.

There was a movement about Andy's tent, whence, for the last half hour
had come spasmodic noises that indicated the trying-out of the motor.
The flaps were pulled back and a curious machine was wheeled into view.
Tom rushed over toward it, intent on getting the first view. Would it
prove to be a copy of his speedy Humming-Bird?

Eagerly he looked, but a curious sight met his eyes. The machine was
totally unlike any he had expected to see. It was large, and to his
mind rather clumsy, but it looked powerful. Then, as he took in the
details, he knew that it was the same one that had flown over his house
that night--it was the one from which the fire bomb had been dropped.

He pushed his way through the crowd. He saw Andy standing near the
curious biplane, which type of air craft it nearest resembled, though
it had some monoplane features. On the side was painted the name:

SLUGGER

Andy caught sight of Tom Swift.

"I'm going to beat you!" the bully boasted, "and I haven't a machine
like yours, after all. You were wrong."

"So I see," stammered Tom, hardly knowing what to think. "What did you
do with my plans then?"

"I never had them!"

Andy turned away, and began to assist the men he had hired to help him.
Like all the others, his machine had two seats, for in this race each
operator must carry a passenger.

Tom turned away, both glad and sorry,--glad that his rival was not to
race him in a duplicate of the Humming-Bird, but sorry that he had as
yet no track of the strangely missing plans.

"I wonder where they can be?" mused the young inventor.

Then came the firing of the preliminary gun. Tom rushed back to where
Mr. Damon stood waiting for him.

There was a last look at the Humming-Bird. She was fit to race any
machine on the ground. Mr. Damon took his place. Tom started the
propeller. The other contestants were in their seats with their
passengers. Their assistants stood ready to shove them off. The
explosions of so many motors in action were deafening.

"How much thrust?" cried Tom to his machinist.

"Twenty-two hundred pounds!"

"Good!"

The report of the starting-gun could not be heard. But the smoke of it
leaped into the air. It was the signal to go.

Tom's voice would not have carried five feet. He waved his hands as a
signal. His