It was the day of days. All over the country, airplane makers had been lookin’ forward to this day, and preparin’ for it. Every maker of light planes was goin’ to be represented with the best job they could turn out. A string of single-motored planes was goin’ to line up, every one ready to do its best, and compete for the championship--and the competition was goin’ to be murder! A big Commission was behind the project, directin’ it. Newspapers all over the world were runnin’ notices of it, ’cause the results were goin’ to be official; and the winner’s name was goin’ to be written right into air history in big red letters. There’d been guards outside the hangar all night; and when a knock came, I opened the doors. Ned Knight, fresh and dapper, came in, bringin’ a early mornin’ paper. He showed it to me. Splashed all over the front page was big headlines: _Planes Ready For Big Cross Country Race!_ There below was the list of makers: Alton, Stormbird, Zephyr, Lightning, Ranbros, Impco, and all of ’em. And then the pilot’s name: Alton carryin’ Ben Benson and piloted by Ned Knight. Stormbird carryin’ William Carson and piloted by-- “Good gosh, Ned!” I busted out. “That must be a misprint!” “Nope, Benny; it must be true. Stormbird’s made a change in pilots at the last minute.” Right there in black and white it said that the pilot of the Stormbird entry was goin’ to be Stud Walker! Stud Walker, the self-same crook that we’d fired off the field--who had been in Stormbird pay, and jimmed our plane! It was easy to see that Stormbird was usin’ him because Walker would be hell-bent to beat us out, for our handlin’ of him. We were goin’ to have a real enemy flyin’ against us! “Gosh!” I croaked. “Ned, we can sure count on Walker’s beatin’ us if he possibly can. He’ll fly like a wild man to beat us!” “I’m goin’ to do some flyin’ myself,” Ned came back. “Is the plane ready, Benny? If it is, we’d better be gettin’ over the field. We’ve got to check in and get lined up. Mr. Alton has drawn third place for us.” “Third? Who’s second and first?” “Impco is second.” “And--?” “Stormbird is first.” “Hang it all! They’re gettin’ the breaks all around. I suppose it figures out all right in the end, but-- I hate to have ’em leadin’ us at the very start!” “Benny, aren’t you goin to dress up? Those overalls of yours ’re dirty enough to walk around by themselves.” “I wouldn’t change ’em for a suit of ermine, Ned,” I answered. “They may be dirty as mud, but I love ’em!” Then, Ned tells me, we should be on our way. We roll the plane out, and block her; Ned gets in, contacts her, and we pump the prop. She roars off, higher and higher, and the engine begins to warm and sing a sweet song. When she’s hot, she’s the sweetest soundin’ motor I ever heard. Grinnin’ all over our faces, Ned and I get set. She steps off down the field, swings into the air, and away we go, for the startin’ field, as full of hope as any man could be without bustin’.