By eleven o'clock the tanks of the Sky-Bird II had been filled with gasoline and oil, and the radiator of each engine supplied with twelve gallons of water. In addition to this, its crew had carefully gone over every brace, control, bolt, and nut to make sure that everything was tight, the engines had been run detached from the propeller for a few minutes to warm them up, and every bearing not reached by the lubricating system was well oiled by hand.

Mr. Giddings had appeared about an hour earlier, bringing with him the two special correspondents of the Daily Independent, as well as several other newspaper men representing various prominent foreign publications. As soon as our boys had finished shaking hands with these, they were introduced to a number of well-known Government officials and aviation representatives, who added their good wishes for the success of the big undertaking. Then came Mr. Wrenn with a party of his own distinguished friends, which called for more hand-shaking.

At twelve-fifteen the rival machines were pushed out of the hangar and took up positions in the field, ready for the signal to "hop." At twelve-fifty both crews, with the exception of their respective crankers-up, entered their machines, and a heavy hush fell over the great crowd which had assembled to see the start of the first race around the world's circumference. It was without denial an auspicious moment, and as they stood there and looked at the two big mechanical birds which were to attempt this prodigious feat, embracing almost 25,000 miles, threading every mile of the distance through the air in the astounding time of ten days, the situation was so fraught with awe, particularly to the native Panamanians, that now at the last moment all were practically voiceless.

The rival publishers gave their parting instructions as their crews climbed into the cabins, and these were to the same effect: "Don't forget, boys, to report to us at every stop, and mail us all the pictures you can. Between stops use your wireless for reports whenever possible. Good-bye, and the best of luck!"

Lieutenant-Colonel Warren J. Hess, a gentleman prominent in American aviation circles, had been selected as judge of the contest. He was not only to give the signal to start off the flyers, but with Mr. Giddings, was to await in Panama their return, and demand from each crew upon arrival a document containing the signature of the port official at each scheduled landing.

Colonel Hess, looking at his watch, now raised his hand, and instinctively those in the front of each of the long lines of spectators flanking the run-way crowded back so that the airplanes would not strike them as they dashed down the field for the take-off. Tom Meeks and Chuck Crossman spun the propellers, sprang back to escape their vicious whirr as the respective engines fired, and quickly clambered into their machines.

It was exactly one o'clock. Both airplanes taxied down the runway side by side. They also arose together, amid a great cheering, some ninety feet apart, shooting grandly up into the air above the heads of the people in the lower end of the field. At a height of a thousand feet, the gray Clarion bent eastward. At fifteen hundred feet, the Sky-Bird did likewise. From the open windows of each of the cabins fluttered white handkerchiefs in a final farewell, and many a broad-brimmed hat in the hands of the excited populace below was waved in answer.

Flying low, the Clarion started away in the lead, while her rival had been mounting to her own preferred higher level. By the time the Sky-Bird had straightened out, her contemporary was well in advance.

"We're losing ground," said Bob Giddings anxiously.

"Don't worry about that," said Paul Ross, who was at the throttle; "we can catch them when we're ready. We'll get a better current of air up here."

Paul's maneuver had been due to the fact that heavy head-winds were blowing, and he was quite sure if he went higher he would get above the worst of these.

As they now shot along on an even keel, it seemed hard to realize that they had at last started out on the important flight for which they had been planning and working so long; and as Paul watched his instruments and the scudding rival machine ahead, he could not help wondering what the issue of it all might be—if the fates would be so kind as to smile enough on the Sky-Bird to bring her in ahead of the Clarion and within schedule time. Many weary miles must be covered before they would see Panama again. And when they would land in that air-drome again—if in truth they ever did!—would it be as victors, or as listeners to the jeers of the rough crew of the other plane?

It was not an ideal day for the start from a weather standpoint. In fact, a consultation of the weather reports at the Panama Bureau before they left had shown a prophecy of strong northeasterly winds and possible showers. The sun was almost shut out by patches of cloud, glinting through only occasionally; but neither crew had felt like postponing the start, so eager were they to be off and so confident were they in the capabilities of their respective machines to meet almost any sort of bad weather.

Straight along the Isthmus both machines proceeded, making a bee-line for Georgetown, which it was hoped to reach at daylight. The coastline was low along here and very uneven, with numerous pretty little islands on the Pacific side, the waters surrounding them sparkling like jewels when the sun's rays would struggle through the clouds and strike the tossing waves.

In the northern part of the Republic of Colombia they passed just to the right of the western terminal range of the great Andes Mountains, and within an hour's time were sailing through Quindiu Pass of the central arm of the same mountains. At this time they were over twelve thousand feet above sea-level. Then came the table-lands of western Venezuela, open in places and covered with thick growths of tropical forests in others.

As they approached the foothills of the eastern chain or arm of the mountains, Paul took the throttle, and they steadily arose in order to clear the high pinnacles facing them, and finally, at a height of fifteen thousand feet—the greatest height they had yet attained—they went over them. The airplane encountered several "air pockets" in this process, which might have been disastrous to them except for the stabilizing effect of the automatic-pilot. As it was, the machine pitched rather roughly in surviving them.

In sweeping past the last crag they had come very near to striking, owing to a cloud which enwrapped it. Just in time Paul's sharp eyes had seen the white bank of snow on the crag ahead, and he elevated his craft enough to pass over. It was so cold up here, even in the cabin, that the boys had to don their heavy coats.

Just as they turned the nose of their machine toward a lower level, running at reduced speed, a huge bird with curving beak, which John said was a condor, dashed from the crags after the airplane. It was followed a moment later by five or six others. The great birds seemed to resent the appearance of so strange a giant in the mountain fastnesses where they had always held the supremacy of the air, all the time darting angrily at it, flapping their long, black and white wings, some of which had the immense span of fourteen feet, and croaking hoarsely.

The boys laughed at first, but when the creatures commenced to come closer, frequently hitting the windows with their sharp beaks, and cracking two of them, they began to get really alarmed. Once the propeller struck the tail of one bold and incautious condor, and feathers flew in all directions; but after a quick circle he was back again, madder than ever.

"Say, fellows," cried Paul; "we've got to do something with these birds right away! First thing we know, one of them will get hit a squarer blow with the propeller and smash it. Then we'll crash as sure as I'm sitting here."

This peril was very imminent, as all could see.

John seized the shot-gun from its rack, and Tom one of the rifles. These were loaded. Stationing themselves on either side of the cabin, the young men drew down the windows in front of them, poked out their weapons and watched for a chance to use them.

Tom's gun was the first to blaze away, but it is difficult to hit a bird on the wing with a rifle, and he missed. A moment later, as a condor dashed viciously toward his window, John fired, and the great bird, mortally stricken, tumbled into the mists below.

Tom was more fortunate the next time. A condor, with a fluttering of his immense wings, had settled right on the tail of the machine, where he clung with his sturdy talons, threatening to prevent Paul from manipulating the rudder. When Bob called Tom's attention to this alarming situation, the latter joined him at the rear window of the cabin. Tom took careful aim, pulled the trigger, and the condor fell with a broken wing, uttering hoarse cries until the clouds below swallowed him up.

Two more of the fierce creatures were killed before the remaining birds were frightened off. It was with a sigh of relief that Paul now resumed his descent to lower levels.

When presently they emerged out of the last cloud, and could see the green earth below them once more, they were across the last chain of mountain they would encounter in South America. They gazed with their glasses on all sides, and checked up their position on the chart, although in doing this they had great difficulty on account of a curtain of thin fog which hung over the land, and only a very low altitude of about five hundred feet would allow of it at all.

As soon as they were sure of their bearings they again took a searching observation in quest of the rival airplane, but no sign of it could they see.

"They're probably quite a bit ahead of us by this time," observed John; "but now that we're through the last chain of the Andes we can make better speed. Shoot her up to two thousand feet, Buddy. We'll set our course for Georgetown by compass."

Paul bore upward, and at the level mentioned he straightened the machine with her nose once more pointed eastward, and the compass hand pointing along the left wing of the machine.

It was now growing dark. Not knowing whether this was caused by the closing in of the clouds or the natural declension of the sun, Bob looked at his watch. To his surprise he found it was seven o'clock Panama time, which would make it probably close to nine in their present locality. Night should now be upon them.

As it had been decided to let John and Tom operate the night shift, at least for the first few days, John now took his trick at the throttle, changed to the fresh engine, and Bob and Paul turned into their hammocks for the first sleep aboard the airplane. They were both pretty tired, as each had spent several hours at the helm that afternoon, and it was only a few minutes before the gentle rocking of the plane on the billows of air had sent them into a sound oblivion. Just before retiring, Bob had wirelessed Panama of their safe passage through the mountains and fight with the condors, stating that several snapshots of the birds had been secured and that these would be mailed to the Daily Independent upon reaching Georgetown.

Not long after the change of pilots a fine rain began to fall, covering the windows of the cabin with a film of moisture; but as it was now too dark to see anyhow, John did not care whether he could look outside or not. However, for the good of the machine, as well as the betterment of their speed, he decided to get out of the storm. So, switching on the little dashboard electric lights to illuminate his instruments, he turned the Sky-Bird upward again. Through the very clouds which were expelling the rain, gathered from the warm Atlantic trade-winds, he guided the machine. At nine thousand feet he was above them, in clear dry air, with a blue, star-studded sky above his head and in the mellow glow of a full moon.

"Well, John, this is more like night-flying," remarked Tom Meeks, who sat just behind the pilot, ready to assist him at a moment's notice if the need should appear.

"As long as I know there are no mountains ahead to smash into I'm not worrying a bit," replied John, "and I guess we're all right on that score. I'm going to let the old girl out now, Tom."

"Might as well," was the response.

Thereupon John threw on the gas by degrees until the indicator showed them to be whizzing along at 150 miles. He easily could have gone fifty more on the one engine had he chosen, but was afraid such a speed would carry them beyond their destination and out into the Atlantic before daylight could show them their position. Had they not previously been running somewhat behind scheduled time, he would not have accelerated even now.

Shortly after midnight Tom relieved him at the throttle, and running slightly slower, to make sure they would not pass over Georgetown in the darkness, Tom began to hum softly to himself as he kept a sharp lookout upon his instruments. John settled back in the seat behind, as alert for any sudden peril as his mate had been before.

But no mishap marred the night's run, which was as smooth up there above the clouds as any veteran flyer could have wished. And when at last the bright sun of another day chased the moon and its haze into obscurity, it lighted up the flying craft some time before its orb had peeped high enough over the Atlantic's horizon to shed its rays upon the affairs of earth itself.

Gradually, as the sun arose in the heavens, Tom brought the Sky-Bird lower, until presently he and John could see the ground, bathed in glistening color from its recent wetting, far below them.

At this time Paul and Bob awoke, and washing their hands and faces, came to the windows to look out. The first thing they all did was to sweep the sky-line for some vision of the rival airplane, but without success. Then they put their attention on the country below and around.

Just beneath was a pretty little blue lake, walled in with great forest trees some of which must have been over a hundred feet high. A short way beyond was an immense field covered with what they were sure must be sugar-cane, and in which they could see dark-skinned men at work with queer carts and clumsy oxen. At the right, a mere thread of silver, was a river, hedged with tropical vegetation. This swept around toward their front, enlarging as it came, and at what seemed no farther than five miles away, poured its waters out into a great sea of apparently limitless expanse.

The boys concluded at once that this great body of water must be the Atlantic Ocean, and when they saw a fair-sized town nestling among the trees at the point where the river joined the sea, their chart told them that the stream was the Essequibo River, and the collection of low-roofed buildings was none less than Georgetown!

A few minutes later, they were circling the town to locate their landing-field which was to be marked with a large white letter T. Seeing it on the second turn, they swept down amongst a curious and half-frightened throng, and taxied to a stop.

To their relief and gratification, they found that their rivals had not yet appeared.