It was fairy-like in its delicacy of
construction, and speedy as a flash.
Thundering like an express train, it dashed above the Prescott home,
leaving in its wake the pungent odor of burning castor-oil--the most
suitable lubricant for aeroplanes.
Then suddenly--as if a recollection of Peggy's mischievous flight of a few
days previously had occurred to him--Mortlake swung the delicate silvery
machine about and dashed straight down at the boy and girl standing by the
garden gate. So close to their heads did he skim in his desire to show
off, that he almost came too low. For one instant it looked as if the
machine would be dashed to a premature end, but it recovered buoyancy like
a keeled-over racing yacht, and tore upward into the sky at an increased
speed.
"Let's get out the _Golden Butterfly_ and follow the----"
"_Silver Cobweb!_" cried Roy, the name occurring to him in a flash of
inspiration as he watched the filmy outlines of the other aeroplane melt
in the distance.
"Oh, Roy, what a pretty name."
"Isn't it? But somehow, I like _Golden Butterfly_ best. Our machine may be
a bit heavier, but solidity counts in hard service."
Scarcely ten minutes later, and while Mortlake's mechanics and assistants
were still craning their necks skyward, another aeroplane, a yellow
adventurer of the skies, thundered upward.
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