The Dreadnought Boys on Aero Service. Goldfrap John Henry

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      Herc nodded. "I'll do my best," he said simply.

      "That's the stuff, shipmate," said "Ben Franklin," who happened to be close at hand, "as poor Richard said:

      "I never saw that in 'Poor Richard' that I can recollect," said Ned, with a laugh.

      Steve Wynn looked pained, as he usually did when any of his quotations was questioned as to its accuracy.

      "It's in the book some place," he said confidently.

      "Well, maybe it is," agreed Ned. "It's good advice, anyhow."

      At last came Herc's turn.

      Merritt had now been joined by Chance. With set teeth, they stood watching the agile lad from the farm prepare for his preliminary run.

      "You want to watch closely now," said Chance, with an unholy grin, "you're going to see something."

      "What? You've – "

      But a horrified cry from the spectators interrupted the words. Herc had risen gracefully at the bar, and had seemed about to sail over it. Instantly bedlam had seethed about the field.

      "Taylor, of the Manhattan, wins!"

      "Good boy, red-top!"

      "Go to it, freckles!"

      But in a flash the cries of enthusiasm had been changed to that peculiar sighing gasp that runs through a crowd at a sudden turn to the tragic in their emotions.

      As Herc had lifted his body outward to sail over the bar, the pole had suddenly snapped beneath him.

      The horrified spectators saw the lad's body hurtled downward. Herc, as he fell, narrowly missed impalement on the jagged, broken end of the pole. But the lad's muscles were under prime control. Even as he fell, he seemed to make a marvelous twist.

      The cheers broke forth anew as Herc, instead of landing in a heap, came to earth gracefully on his feet. He had not sustained the least injury, a fact which he soon demonstrated to the judges and other officials of the track who crowded about him.

      "I tell you, it's that blamed secret of theirs," growled Chance, turning pale.

      "We'd better get out of here," warned Merritt hastily. "Look, they are examining the pole. I imagine that they'll find it was cut."

      "I imagine so, too," said Chance, in a low, rather frightened tone, as the unworthy two hastened off. "But they can't prove anything on me," he added defiantly.

      In the meantime Herc had selected another pole. He examined it carefully and found it perfect. Bracing himself for the effort of his life, he essayed the jump once more.

      He sailed over the bar as gracefully as a soaring sea gull.

      "Chance is tied! Taylor's tied him!" yelled the crowd.

      "Good boy, Herc," whispered Ned, as Herc prepared for a fresh effort. "Now this time beat him, and beat him good."

      Herc set his teeth grimly. His usually good-natured face held an expression very foreign to it.

      "I'll do it," he said. "And then," he added significantly, "I've got another job to attend to."

      Flexing his muscles, Herc crouched for an instant. Then he hurled himself at the bar. He cleared it with almost six inches to spare above Chance's hitherto unapproached record.

      If the field had known enthusiasm before, it was pandemonium that broke loose now. Like wild-fire, the word had gone about that Herc's pole had been tampered with. The spirit of the Yankee blue-jacket is keen for fair play. A foul trick stirs his blood as nothing else will. If Ned or Herc had breathed their suspicions at that instant, it is likely that, in spite of discipline, it would have gone hard with Merritt and Chance. But Herc sought another way.

      That night word ran through the fleet that Hercules Taylor, of the Manhattan, had challenged Chance, of the same ship, to a boxing match, and that Chance had refused. Possibly he anticipated that Herc might lose control of himself and strike out a little harder than is consistent with "sparring." At any rate, from that time on, Chance was rated as "a flunker," which, in the navy, is a very undesirable appellation.

      Herc, however, was the idol of the Manhattan. His winning of the pole jump had captured the athletic supremacy pennant for the Manhattan. It had been the climax of a day of triumphs for the lads of the Dreadnought. From thenceforth the big fighting craft was entitled to float both the athletic pennant and the coveted "Meat Ball," the latter the red flag for the best gunnery. How the meat ball was won at Guantanamo, readers of "The Dreadnought Boys on Battle Practice" are aware.

      It was on a Monday, a week after the sports, that a line of trim, athletic looking, young blue-jackets were lined up in a field, some ten miles out of Hampton, and in the heart of a rural community. Off, at one side of the meadow, was a row of barn-like structures, painted a dull gray color and numbered. There were six of them.

      These sheds housed the aeroplanes with which the experiments for the purpose of selecting a naval "aerial-scout class" were to be conducted. The eyes of the row of aspirants, who had been winnowed from a perfect crop of such applicants, were fixed longingly on the gray barns. They housed, not only the aeroplanes, but the ambitions and hopes of that row of young men – the pick of the squadron.

      But there were more than twenty candidates for the scout corps lined up, and only nine would be selected. No wonder that there was anxiety reflected in their eyes, as Lieutenant De Frees and his assistants, Ensigns Walters and Jackson, paced down the row of blue-jackets, putting questions here and there, and weeding out those who were either too heavy or cumbersome for aero work, or else did not give evidence of the keen, hawk-like intellectual faculties that an airman must have. These include the power of instant decision in an emergency, courage of a high order, but not recklessness, and a mind capable of grasping the mechanical qualities of the craft with which they have to deal. As may be imagined, then, the task of the officers was not a simple one.

      One by one, the eager applicants were sorted and sifted, till finally, the chosen nine stood shoulder to shoulder. Ned and Herc had both passed, although, for a time, the fate of the latter had hung in the balance. His heavy frame was against him. But the naval officers had decided that the lad's quick intelligence and bulldog tenacity made him desirable in other ways. For the present Herc Taylor would be held in reserve. There was a certain grim suggestiveness in this – a hint of the dangers of aerial navigation which might result in the ranks being thinned before long.

      Ned had had no trouble in getting by. Lieutenant De Frees had said with a pleasant nod:

      "I've heard of you, Strong. We want you. You are, of course, willing to sign a paper absolving the navy from responsibility in case of your death or serious injury?"

      This question had been put to all the applicants in turn. They had all signified their willingness to do this. It was understood, of course, that the contract, or pledge, did not in any way affect their pensions or "disability" money.

      When Ned's turn came, he thought a moment. Such was his habit. Then he spoke.

      "If I'd thought only of the risks, sir, I wouldn't be here," he said, in a respectful but decisive manner.

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