sixth place in speed, but he had won first
prize in duration, by a flight of nearly six hours, driving round and
round and round the pylons, hour on hour, safe and steady as a train,
never taking the risk of sensational banking, nor spiraling like
Johnstone, but amusing himself and breaking the tedium by keeping an
eye out on each circuit for a fat woman in a bright lavender top-coat,
who stood out in the dark line of people that flowed beneath. When he
had descended--acclaimed the winner--thousands of heads turned his way
as though on one lever; the pink faces flashing in such October
sunshine as had filled the back yard of Oscar Ericson, in Joralemon,
when a lonely Carl had performed duration feats for a sparrow. That
same shy Carl wanted to escape from the newspaper-men who came running
toward him. He hated their incessant questions--always the same: "Were
you cold? Could you have stayed up longer?"

Yet he had seen all New York go mad over aviation--rather, over news
about aviation. The newspapers had spread over front pages his name
and the names of the other fliers. Carl chuckled to himself, with
bashful awe, "Gee! can you beat it?--that's _me_!" when he beheld
himself referred to in editorial and interview and picture-caption as
a superman, a god. He heard crowds rustle, "Look, there's Hawk
Ericson!" as he walked along the barriers. He heard cautious
predictions from fellow-fliers, and loud declarations from outsiders,
that he was the coming cross-country champion. He was introduced to
the mayor of New York, two Cabinet members, an assortment of Senators,
authors, bank presidents, generals, and society rail-birds. He
regularly escaped from them--and their questions--to help the
brick-necked Hank Odell, from the Bagby School, who had entered for
the meet, but smashed up on the first day, and ever since had been
whistling and working over his machine and encouraging Carl, "Good
work, bud; you've got 'em all going."

With vast secrecy and a perception that this was twice as stirring as
steadily buzzing about in his Bleriot, he went down to the Bowery and,
in front of the saloon where he had worked as a porter four years
before, he bought a copy of the _Evening World_ because he knew that
on the third page of it was a large picture of him and a signed
interview by a special-writer. He peered into the saloon windows to
see if Petey McGuff was there, but did not find him. He went to the
street on which he had boarde