Shortly after five o'clock the next afternoon, Paul saw ahead and to port what appeared to be haze, but which he and Tom hoped was the coastline of Australia. Ten minutes later the observer joyfully pointed out to the pilot unmistakable evidence of an island upon which stood a tall object—Bathurst Island lighthouse.

John and Tom were routed out, and all saw the rugged outline of the great island—a continent itself, as large as the United States and much the same shape—stretching away to the southward and slowly dwindling into low, sandy, barren shores as it went.

Less than forty minutes later they were circling over Port Darwin, on the northwest corner of the continent, while a good-sized crowd of people down below pointed excitedly upward. The flyers soon made out the landing-field by reason of its white marker, and swooped gracefully down, while those below cheered.

Two zealous customs officials were anxious to examine the new arrivals, also a health officer; but this did not take long, and during the process they were able to converse pleasantly with Mr. Seth Partlow, the British official in charge of the field, also with the mayor of Darwin, who gave them the most cordial welcome.

They were sorry to learn that Pete Deveaux and his flyers had departed less than a half-hour before their own arrival; but they had been expecting such a report owing to the fact that they had been left so far behind at Singapore. They now determined to hurry up refitting operations, and leave at the first opportunity, hot upon the trail.

Messages were dispatched to Mr. Giddings at Panama and to his newspaper in New York; and another roll of films containing numerous interesting views taken that morning just before and after landing, were mailed in to the Daily Independent.

Here, for the first time, they were able to secure a paper containing accounts of their own and their rival's passage. It was a novel experience to read these glowing descriptions of incidents still fresh in their minds—descriptions which had in some cases flown by wire, in others by air-waves, from point to point, more than half-way around the world. It provoked thoughts which made them marvel at the wonderful ingenuity and power of the very equipment which they were using themselves every chance they could get—their wireless telegraph and telephone sets. The remarkable news-gathering efficiency of the world, the coordination of agencies in gathering and disseminating news, was astounding to contemplate.

The mayor of the town insisted upon the boys partaking of dinner at his home near by, and they thankfully agreed to do this when Mr. Partlow declared he would personally see to the filling of the Sky-Bird's tanks, for which task he had plenty of assistants.

They were most cordially received by the mayor's wife. Within fifteen minutes they had the satisfaction of sitting down to one of the most satisfying meals they had ever had. Not only was everything well cooked, but there was a great variety of viands. They were all particularly impressed with the toothsomeness of the meat which the maid served, so much so that Paul could not refrain from remarking: "Mr. Bailey, I never ate sweeter chicken than that."

"No, I don't believe you ever did," laughed the mayor. "The fact is, young man, that is not domestic chicken at all. It is the flesh of the brush-turkey, a wild fowl which the bushmen or blackfellows bring in here to market. It is a great delicacy."

"I have read of these bushmen," said Bob. "Are they quite wild?"

"Indeed they are," the mayor replied. "The blackfellow is, I believe, on the lowest rung of civilization. He is unlike the negro, the Malay, the Mongolian, and the American Indian, in many ways. If you could stay a few days, I would be glad to take you back in the bush and show you a few specimens in their native state. They have a long skull, with a low, flat forehead, Their brows overhang deep-set, keen eyes, and they have a heavy lower jaw, with teeth as strong as a dog's. Their hair is generally wavy or curly, being usually auburn or black in color. As a rule their faces are almost hidden by beards and whiskers, which they never comb and which, like the hair on top of their heads, are always in a beautiful tangle."

"How do they dress, sir?" asked Paul.

This brought another laugh from Mr. Bailey. "That doesn't worry them in the least!" he declared. "Most bushmen are covered from head to foot with hair, and I imagine they think this is a good enough uniform, for they wear nothing except what nature gave them. In bad weather, however, they do add some artificial protection to their tough bodies by making a rough wrap out of the skin of a kangaroo or a piece of flexible bark. Some tribes use rushes and seaweed for this purpose, while others make a blanket from the dried frog scum of the swamps and ponds. For boats, pieces of eucalyptus bark, folded and tied at the ends and daubed with clay, suit them very well. They are too lazy to dig out the trunk of a tree for a canoe, like the natives of most other countries."

"Do these blackfellows live in huts?" asked John.

"That's where their laziness manifests itself again," said the mayor, smiling. "The blackfellow has no permanent dwelling. His shelter is a cave or overhanging rock, as an animal might select one; sometimes it is only a large section of bark which he tears from a tree, and under which he walks or squats in storms or lies at night."

"Back in the States," remarked Tom, "we hear much about the skill of these fellows with the boomerang. I dare say a lot of these stories are overdone."

"Possibly," said their host, "and yet it is a fact that these natives are undoubtedly more adept at casting various forms of wooden implements than any other people in the world. Their very indolence leads them to adopt all sorts of easy-made weapons, and wood is surely one of the most common materials for the purpose one could find. Clubs of all kinds are hurled at prey or human enemies. Among these the boomerang is a favorite. They have several forms. One type is very light, round on one side and flat on the other, and slightly twisted on its axis. It is used almost entirely for play, though sometimes to hurl at flocks of birds in the sky. The war and hunting boomerangs are much heavier; they are bent differently, and do not return to the thrower, but are a deadly weapon in the hands of these bushmen at ranges up to four hundred feet. But stone-pointed spears are their chief weapons."

"With this skill I presume they have no trouble in securing enough to eat," suggested Paul, sipping his cocoa.

"On the contrary, there are times when weather conditions, such as drouth, make it a very difficult matter for some tribes to get sufficient food. Then they will turn to human flesh, and will eat men who have fallen to their weapons, or their own tribesmen who have succumbed to disease or hunger. Even infants are sometimes killed and eaten by their parents."

"Horrible!" cried the flyers. This seemed almost incredible, with civilization in abundance so near.

"I agree with you," said Mr. Bailey, failing to notice his wife holding up a protesting finger toward him. "Of course the blackfellow prefers to have other foods when he can get them. The kangaroo, wallaby, and opossum, form his chief food supply, but no animal or nourishing plant is neglected. He even eats ants, caterpillars, moths, beetles, grubs, snakes, lizards, often uncooked——"

At that point Mr. Bailey felt a sharp twist of his ear, and looking up, found his wife gazing at him with a very severe expression.

"Thomas Bailey! You are a cannibal yourself! Where is your sense of propriety? Have you lost your head in your interest in this subject? Don't you know you are eating?—that you have guests here who are also eating?"

"My! my! Goodness gracious!" ejaculated their host, in a great fuss. "Young men, I was not thinking. Will you ever pardon me for this transgression of etiquette?"

The flyers smilingly hastened to assure both their friends that they had not lost their appetites in the least; that they really had enjoyed every morsel of food and information passed out. They remained to chat long enough to convince the lady and gentleman of this fact, and then took their departure. They had actually spent a most entertaining hour, one which they would not have missed for a good deal.

At eight-fifty local time the Sky-Bird took off for her long hop to Apia, principal city of Upolu, an island of the Samoan group. It was the beginning of their long flight across the big Pacific, an ocean so wide, so fraught with perils, that no aircraft had ever before attempted to negotiate it. Some eight thousand miles away over those great waters lay Panama, their goal. Would they reach it ahead of their rivals? Would they reach it within their schedule of ten days?

To these two queries in their minds, our stout-hearted, young friends answered doggedly and determinedly, "Yes!" Fortune might frown upon them, it is true; but if so they would face her smilingly, with confidence, with that pertinacity for which Americans are famous, and try to make her look pleasant, too! They felt that they must win; that they would win. And yet they left Port Darwin handicapped by being fully three hours behind their rivals.

As they wheeled over the town they waved a last farewell to the hundreds below, whose forms they could just make out in the fast-gathering darkness. Then, turning off straight east, they flew over the dark-green canopy of eucalyptus forests of fertile Arnhem Land, and crossed the Gulf of Carpentaria in the full darkness of the night. When they passed over Cape York peninsula, Tom was at the throttle, and the younger boys had been asleep for a number of hours. They had now left the whole continent of Australia behind them, and were facing the broad wastes of the Pacific.

Their perils had begun in earnest. Should anything happen to cause them to be forced down, there was nothing but a vast basin of water miles deep to catch them, and there would not be one chance in a thousand that they would survive. This, surely, was no place and no time for engines to fail or steering apparatus to go wrong. Yet each flyer was ready for such a mishap—attested by the mute evidence of an inflated rubber tube about his waist. Even Bob and Paul slumbered on the airy contrivances.

Fortunately the weather was ideal. It is true that headwinds blew mildly and insistently, causing some bumpiness, but the night was calm and starry, and with the engine running close to full-out, they saw that they were making up lost time very fast.

When morning broke, and Paul took the throttle, fair skies looked down upon their skimming bird, and the sea was bathed in brilliant sunshine. Bob wirelessed Sydney their position about noon. He made no attempt to get Apia, because he knew there was no telegraph or radio station there.

Flying low, early in the afternoon they passed close enough to the Vanikord islands to see hordes of natives watching them from the coral shores. Numerous smaller islets, gems set in the ultramarine blue of the sea, were also passed within the next hour. Gulls, ospreys, and other swift-winged seabirds sailed about these pretty outcroppings of the mighty deep, and sometimes the creatures came after the Sky-Bird with shrill cries of challenge, only to be quickly left behind.

Once more the shades of night fell, and once more John took the destinies of the airplane in hand. For a time Bob and Paul worked on reports, then played with Grandpa, who in such tedious spells of flying as this was a never-ending source of entertainment to all. Nine o'clock found them in their hammocks, hoping that when they opened their eyes again it would be to see the welcome shores of their destination.

Nor in this hope were they to be disappointed. It seemed they had no sooner fallen asleep than they were aroused by a hand shaking them and the voice of John saying: "Come on, you sleepy-heads! Rout out here and have a look at what's ahead!"

Having their clothes still on—so that they might be ready for an emergency at any time of the night—the two chums were up to the windows about as soon as John himself. The latter had raised two of these a short time before, and the boys shoved their heads through to take a look.

It was broad day. Light, fleecy clouds covered the heavens to the southeast, but in the blue between a huge rift the sun shone down benignly. And in its bright rays they could count nine islands and islets, sprinkled here and there like emeralds in a sparkling sheet of mother-of-pearl. It needed only a glance at the chart to tell them that these were the Samoan group, and a little searching also told them that the nearest large one was Upolu.

In less than another hour they were circling above the beautiful island of their choice, directly over the little town of Apia, which nestled in the center of a luxuriant forest of palms and other tropical trees. A number of boats and sailing vessels were in the harbor, and on board these as well as on the ground hundreds of people were looking up aloft and waving a welcome.

Now our flyers saw what they really were most concerned about—a T made of white stones in an open spot by the beach. And in that field they also saw something else they were very glad to witness. This was the airplane of their rivals.

They had caught up with them at last!