murmured d.i.c.k, yielding to his chronic habit of quotation.

Besides the central group of palaces devoted to machinery, invention, transportation and the fine arts, there were two other sections. One held the buildings of the various States and the official headquarters of foreign nations. The other was given over to the amus.e.m.e.nt concessions, consisting of hundreds of pavilions that catered to the pleasures of the visitors. Then, too, there was a great arena for open air sports and compet.i.tions. Scattered everywhere were sunken lakes and rippling cascades and verdant terraces, so arranged that at every turn the eye was charmed by some new delight.

But the transcendent beauty of the Fair when viewed by day yielded the palm to the glory of the night. As the dusk fell, thousands upon thousands of lights, like so many twinkling jewels, sprang into being.

The splendor flashed on tree and building, spire and minaret, arch and dome, until the whole vast Exposition became a crystal dream. Great searchlights from the bay played on jets of steam rising high in the sky, in a perfect riot of changing color. The lagoons and fountains and cascades sent back the shimmering reflections multiplied a thousand fold. And beneath the witchery of those changing lights, one might well imagine himself transported to some realm of mystery and romance a thousand leagues from the Western Hemisphere and the twentieth century.

But, although the boys felt and yielded to the potent spell that the Exposition cast on those that came within its gates, they none the less devoted themselves to the wonders shown in the great buildings set apart for machinery and inventions. All of them were planning their life work on scientific and engineering lines, and they were keen for the new discoveries and appliances that were seen on every hand in almost endless profusion. Wireless telegraphy, aeroplanes, submarine and motor engines--these were the magnets that drew them irresistibly. Although they had prided themselves on keeping pretty well up to date along these lines, they were astonished to see how many things came to them now with the force of a revelation.

Before the models of the submarines they stood for a long time, as they took in every detail of the plan and construction. And with Bert's admiration was mingled a sense of grat.i.tude. One of these it was that had picked him up when he was battling with the waves and hope had almost vanished. Even now, he could see the saucy little vessel as it poked its nose into the entrance of the Ca.n.a.l and darted here and there like a ferret, sniffing the danger that it came just in time to prevent.

He remembered the fascination of that memorable trip, as he stood at the porthole and saw the wonders of the sea, illumined by its powerful searchlight. But that had simply whetted his appet.i.te, and he was hungry for further experiences. Somewhere among his ancestors there must have been Viking blood, and the haunting mystery of the sea had always called to him.

"Some day, perhaps"--he thought to himself, and then as he saw the amused expression on his companions' faces, he realized that he had spoken out loud.

"What's the matter, Alexander?" chaffed Tom. "Weeping for more worlds to conquer?"

"He isn't satisfied with the victories won on the earth," mocked d.i.c.k.

"He wants the sea, too. You're a glutton for adventure, Bert."

"Yes," laughed Tom, "he won't be happy till he gets it."

"Oh, cut it out," retorted Bert, a little sheepishly. "Since when did you fellows set up to be mind readers?"

But they _were_ mind readers and prophets, too, though none of them knew it at the time.

"There's still one other field to be explored," went on d.i.c.k, teasingly, "and that's the air."

"Well," remarked Tom, "if Bert's going to try that, too, he'd better get busy pretty soon. They're going ahead so fast there, that before long there won't be anything new left to do. When fellows can turn somersaults in the air and fly along on their backs, like that Frenchman, Peguod, they're certainly getting a strangle hold on old mother Nature. The way things are moving now, a man will soon be as safe in an airship as a baby in his cradle. Look at this Bleriot monoplane;"

and they were soon plunged deep in the study of the various types of flying craft.

In another department, one thing gave Bert unlimited satisfaction.

Among all the motorcycles, native and foreign, before which he lingered longer than anywhere else, he saw nothing that excelled his own. His heart swelled with pride and confidence, as he realized that none of his compet.i.tors in the coming struggle would have a better machine beneath him than the "Blue Streak." He could drop any worry on that score. If he failed to come in first, he himself must shoulder the blame.

And when at last, tired but happy, they turned their backs on the dazzling scene and were on their way back to the hotel, their talk naturally fell on the topic that was uppermost in their minds.

"How are you feeling, Bert?" asked Tom. "Are you fit?"

"I feel like a two-year-old," was the answer. "I'm hard as nails and right at the top of my form. I'll have no excuses to offer."

"You won't need any," said d.i.c.k confidently. "Leave those to the losers."

"One never can tell," mused Bert. "There are some crack riders in that bunch. But I'm going to do my level best, not only for my own sake, but so that the foreigners can't crow over us. I'd hate to see America lose."

"She can't," a.s.serted Tom. "Not on the Fourth of July!"

CHAPTER XVIII

A WINNING FIGHT

The big motordome was gayly decorated with flags and bunting, in honor of the Fourth, and there was just enough breeze stirring to give them motion. A big military band played patriotic and popular airs, and, as the spectators filed into their seats in a never-ending procession, they felt already the first stirrings of an excitement that was to make of this a night to be remembered throughout a lifetime.

An hour before the time scheduled for the race to begin every seat in grandstand and bleachers was taken, and people were fighting for a place in the gra.s.sy infield. Very soon, even that was packed with as many spectators as the managers felt could be disposed of with safety. They were kept within bounds by a stout rope fence stretched between posts.

At last every available foot of s.p.a.ce was occupied, and the gates were closed. Thousands were turned away even then, although there were over sixty thousand souls within the stadium.

The motordome had been constructed to hold an immense crowd, but its designers had never antic.i.p.ated anything like this. So great was the interest in the event, that most of those who could not gain admittance camped down near the gates to get bulletins of the progress of the race, as soon as possible.

It was an ideal night for such an event. The air was soft and charged with a thousand balmy odors. The band crashed out its stirring music, and made the blood of the most sluggish leap and glow. Suddenly the arc lights suspended at short intervals over the track blazed out, making the whole place as light as day.

Then, as every detail of the track was plainly revealed, thousands drew a deep breath and shuddered. The track was banked at an angle of approximately thirty-eight degrees, with three laps to the mile. It seemed impossible to many that anything on wheels could cling to the precipitous slope, that appeared to offer insecure footing even for a fly.

Near the bottom, a white band was painted around the entire circ.u.mference, marking the actual one-third of a mile. At the bottom of the track there was a level stretch, perhaps four feet wide, and beyond that the smooth turf, bordered at a little distance by a dense ma.s.s of spectators confined within the rope fence. Above the track tier after tier of seats arose.

Opposite the finish line, the starter's and judge's pavilion was built.

Here all the riders and machines that were to take part were a.s.sembled, and it presented a scene of the utmost bustle and activity. Tom and d.i.c.k were there, anxiously waiting for Bert to emerge from his dressing room, and meanwhile inspecting every nut and bolt on the "Blue Streak."

Despite the recent changes made in it, the faithful motorcycle was still the same staunch, dependable machine it had always been, but with even greater speed capabilities than it had possessed before.

Of course, there were many who claimed that Bert could never have a chance of winning without a specially built racer, and he had been urged a score of times to use such a mount. But he had refused without the slightest hesitation.

"Why," he always said, "I know what the old 'Blue Streak' will do, just as well as I know what I am capable of. I know every whim and humor of it, and just how to get the last ounce of power out of it. I've tested it a thousand times. I know it will stand up to any work I put it to, and I'd no more think of changing machines now than I would of trying a new system of training two days before I was to enter a running race.

No, thanks, I guess I'll stick to the old 'Blue Streak.'"

d.i.c.k and Tom were still busy with oil can and wrench when Bert emerged from his dressing-room. He was dressed in a blue jersey, with an American flag embroidered on breast and back. His head was encased in a thick leather helmet, and a pair of heavy-gla.s.sed goggles were pushed up on his forehead.

He strode quickly over to where his chums were working on his mount, and they shook hands heartily. "Well!" he exclaimed gaily, "how is the old 'bus' to-night? Everything O.K., I hope?"

"It sure is," replied d.i.c.k. "Tom and I have gone over every inch of it, and it seems in apple-pie order. We filled your oil tank up with oil that we tested ourselves, and we know that it's all right. We're not taking any chances."

"That's fine," exclaimed Bert, "there's nothing more important than good oil. We don't want any frozen bearings to-night, of all nights."

"Not much!" agreed Tom, "but it must be pretty nearly time for the start. It's after eight now."

Even as he spoke, a gong tapped, and a deep silence descended on the stadium. Excitement, tense and breathless, gripped every heart.

A burly figure carrying a megaphone mounted a small platform erected in the center of the field, and in stentorian tones announced the conditions of the race.

Seven riders, representing America, France, England, Italy, and Belgium, were to compete for a distance of one hundred miles. The race was to begin from a flying start, which was to be announced by the report of a pistol. The time of each race was to be shown by an illuminated clock near the judge's stand.

The man with the megaphone had hardly ceased speaking when the roar of several motorcycle exhausts broke forth from the starting platform and the band crashed into a stirring march.

Then a motorcycle appeared, towing a racer. Slowly it gathered headway, and at last the rider of the racing machine threw in the spark. The motor coughed once or twice, and then took hold. With a mighty roar his machine shot ahead, gathering speed with every revolution, and pa.s.sing the towing motorcycle as though it were standing still.

In quick succession now, machine after machine appeared. It was Bert's turn to start, and, pulling his goggles down over his eyes, he leaped astride the waiting "Blue Streak."

"Go it, old man!" shouted d.i.c.k and Tom, each giving him a resounding buffet on the shoulder, "show 'em what you're made of."

"Leave it to me," yelled Bert, for already the towing motorcycle was towing him and the "Blue Streak" out onto the track. They went at a snail's pace at first, but quickly gathered momentum.