“I do not deserve to win . . . Are you going to arrest Marco?”

“I can’t, yet. I don’t have enough proof to make a case in court. Besides, I want him free to work on your machine in case you change your mind.”

“I won’t. The winner should win fair and square.”

“You and Joe Mudd are neck and neck. It would be good for the winner, and good for aviation, if you raced right down to the wire. Whatever you’ve done wrong, it doesn’t change the fact that you’ve driven a flying machine across the continent. Why don’t you sleep on it? Meantime, I’ll let Marco work on the machine overnight.”

EPILOGUE

EPILOGUE

“oh! say! let us fly, dear”

MARCO CELERE SAW a way out of his predicament. Rather than wait helplessly for Josephine to change her mind, and fearing she would not, he placed a long-distance call from the hotel telephone. Preston Whiteway snatched up his telephone like a man who had been waiting all night for news from Fresno. “Will she fly?”

“This is Marco Celere, inventor of your aeroplane and chief mechanician.”

“Oh . . . Well? Will she fly?”

“I understand,” Celere answered suavely, “that Mr. Bell is discussing it with her over breakfast. There’s time still—there’s a low fog on the field the sun hasn’t burned off yet. But I have a suggestion. If Josephine cannot win the Whiteway Cup, surely her flying machine can.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If she doesn’t agree to finish the race, I will fly the last leg from Fresno and win the race for her.”

“Against the rules. One driver, one machine, all the way.”

“We are men of the world, Mr. Whiteway. They are your rules. The Whiteway Cup is your race. Surely you can change your own rules.”

“Mr. Celere you may know something about building flying machines, but you don’t know the first thing about newspaper readers. They’ll buy any lie you print—unless it’s a lie about something you’ve already convinced them to love. They love Josephine. They want her to win. They don’t give a hang about your flying machine.”

“But it would be so good for aviation—” Celere pleaded.

“And even better for you. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

The telephone banged dead in Celere’s ear.

Celere listened outside the hotel dining room. He heard Bell speaking urgently. Then he heard Josephine say loudly and clearly, “No.”

Celere hurried out on the field to his monoplane. The fog was still heavy, and he could barely see Joe Mudd’s and Isaac Bell’s machines. Josephine’s Van Dorn mechanicians were watching him suspiciously even though he had been guiding their efforts since Yuma, Arizona.

“We should start the motor,” he said.

“Why? She’s not going anywhere.”