All had a good night's rest--probably the last one they would have on earth for more than a week,--and after a hearty breakfast they proceeded to get what supplies they would need to last them until they should reach Georgetown, British Guiana, on the north coast of South America. This would be their first stop. Somehow the townspeople quickly guessed their identity, and they were followed from store to store as they shopped by a curious and motley throng of dark-skinned natives, among whom were noticed quite a few white children, presumably belonging to American employees of the Government. With such eatables as they had bought stored in a basket, and carrying a few other packages, the boys went out to the airdrome. A guard stood at the door to keep out those having no business in the hangar, and as the young flyers passed in they noticed that Mr. Wrenn and a group of four fellows in flying-suits were going over the rival airplane. "Here, boys, come over here a minute!" called the fat man. As they approached, the aviators with him turned from their work. One, a slender fellow with swarthy skin and a scrubby black mustache, scowled when he looked at John Ross, and as Bob Giddings and Tom Meeks got their eyes on him, they gave an involuntary start, for they recognized in the man the fellow they had seen hanging around the fair-grounds in Yonkers when their machine was in process of construction. "It's time you fellows got acquainted with each other," said Mr. Wrenn, and he forthwith proceeded to introduce his crew as Pete Deveaux, Chuck Crossman, Oliver Torrey, and Sam Lane. "How are you, Ross?" greeted Pete Deveaux. He uttered a sour sort of laugh, as his companions offered their hands around the group. "I won't do any shaking," said he, "as my hands are kind of greasy." "Don't worry, Deveaux," advised John quickly. "We won't feel bad over a little thing like that." "That your plane over there?" asked the swarthy fellow. "That's it; quite a strong resemblance to yours here," said John with cutting sarcasm. "That's so," was Deveaux's comment, casting a quick look toward Mr. Wrenn. Apparently he was as anxious to drop the subject as a chicken would a red-hot kernel of corn, for he immediately observed, with an ill-concealed sneer: "I suppose you guys think you're going to leave us a good ways behind in this race?" "We're not telling what we think," put in Paul; "but one thing is sure: we're going to keep you hustling some." "Oh, that's too bad, now, ain't it?" drawled Oliver Torrey, as he leered out of one eye. "Say, kid, we'll beat youse so bad you'll be squallin' before you're half-way round the globe," put in Sam Lane. "You bet! Ain't no use o' flying against such veterans as us," supplemented Chuck Crossman, with a wag of his frowsy head. Mr. Wrenn frowned. While these might be his own men, it was hard to countenance such bragging. CHAPTER XV THE START