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AIR VICTORS IDOLS OF FRANTIC CROWD

(Continued From First Page.)
aviation that Boston and New England have ever known. 
The epoch-making aviator was Lieut. T. D. Milling of the United States Army. 
He had finished a wonderful cross-country race for biplanes, touching four cities in three of New England's States.
Equally sensational had been the finishing of a race for monoplanes over the same course a short time before by Earle L. Ovington, who, once astray above the clouds, a mile and one-half from the ground, courageously fought his way through the trackless space of the turbulent heavens until he alighted on the field in his Bleriot, victorious over the elements. 
Milling's time in the air from the moment he left the same field had been 5h. 22m. 37s. Ovington's had been 3h. 6m. 22 1-5s. The course was from the aviation field at Atlantic to Nashua, N. H. to Worcester, to Providence, and back to the field, 160 miles. 
Four aviators had opened the great race at 11 o'clock in the morning, but only two were to finish came the word to the aviation field early in the day, and through the long hours the 20,000 people in the aerodrome waited — waited that they might welcome on earth again the men they had seen start through the trackless, sunlit skies. 

SIGH IN SYMPATHY, SHOUT FOR JOY

Keyed with excitement, they watched the southwestern horizon, ng at times of the whereabouts of the m of the air. 
They had given a sigh of commiseration on learning that Harry N. Atwood was down on the site of the old Mystic race track in Medford and that Arthur B. Stone was forced to alight half a mile away in a marsh with his monoplane. 
But now a shout of joy went up in unison each time word was received that Milling and Ovington were safe. 
At last came the word with Ovington was above the Blue Hills, a few miles from the field. 
The earth was darkening, the sun was trailing low in the western sky, painting the cloud-flecked heavens with wonderful tones of red and orange. 
A lone cry arose—
"He's there!"

Black Speck Pierces Cloud

The crowd stood at the cry. 
Way off through a foamy cloudbank a black speck was piercing. 
Larger and larger it grew. A little woman in the center of the field, peering through a pair of field glasses and minding not one whit the wisps of golden hair the wind had tossed about her face, smiled, for the first time in hours. The careworn creases of worry were brushed aside as though by a magic wand.
"It's Ovie!" she cried. 
An answering cry from 20,000 throats.
"It's Ovie!"
Everybody was tingling with excitement. Every eye was focused on the the tiny object coming through the cloud—so small that at times it appeared like a fleeting mist. A shaft of light from the setting sun, caught upon a piece of metal upon this seemingly illusionary object and then for a certainty it was known Ovington had really come back.

Crowd Tosses Like Sea. 

In the failing twilight the outline of a monoplane could be distinguished.
Soon each strut and wire was silhouetted against the gathering gloom. Then a mass of people a moment before so still, was changed into mob of enthusiasts welcoming a herd. The calm of the pool was changed. With waving hats and kerchiefs the people resembled a white-capped sea. 
A paen of praise rode the evening air until the voice of the multitude was carried upward and reached the airman through the deafening sound of 
The field they outdistanced the little woman, and reached the machine a few seconds ahead of her.
 
"Me First, Ovie!"
 
She pushed them aside—some of them. The others gave way to her before the pleading look of a pair of tear-dimmed blue eyes. 
"Me first, Ovie!" were her words of supplication. 
And Earle I. Ovington, a hero of airland took his wife in his arms and kissed her. 
The scene which followed almost passes description. 
Ovington was caught in the arms of his fellow-airmen—Claude Grahame-White, Eugene B. Ely, "Tom" Sopwith and George W. Beatty. 
These followed by the correspondents and the officials bore the hero on their shoulders, while pandemonium reigned among the people. 
The strains of the "Star Spangled Banner" were pulsated in the breeze. "Three cheers for Boston's aviator!" someone cried. And they were given with a will. 
As he passed before them borne on the shoulders of his worshippers the cheers continued. 
And all the time, right by his side wholly unmindful of the crush about her, was his wife. A little later, near the same spot, where, unflinchingly, she had stood a few minutes before as though awaking from a dream to hear her husband and herself cheered again and again by the crowd as he hung between heaven and earth so she heard 
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[[image: photograph of people around a plane in a field]]
[[caption]]Stone's monoplane in the tall marsh grass near Mystic river, Medford, opposite ruins of recently burned Combination Park Grandstand. [[/caption]]

herself and him still the subject of the multitude's acclaim. 
At last Ovington was borne from the field by the correspondents and corralled by them. Nor was he allowed to go until he had told all about his wonderful trip—a trip, the greater part of which was made flying at an altitude of a mile and one one-half, away above the crowds and in a temperature that was freezing. 
So cold was he as he talked that he shivered and his chattering teeth brought to hi side a physician, who offered a flask of liquor that the aviator might be warmed.
A second later a woman jumped down from an automobile and passed him a blanket which he wound about himself until he appeared as an Indian in the gathering darkness. 
An admiring worshipful army of newspaper men and women stood about him some holding the life preserver of which he had divested himself, others his coat—eager not to lose a word of what he said. 

Will Enter Transcontinental.

Then it was he announced his intention of participating in the great transcontinental flight from the Pacific to the Atlantic, and he was still talking when a shout went up from the crowd announcing the approach of Lieut. Milling. 
It was then dark and had been dark for some time. Twilight had given way to full evening. The moon had risen and was casting her soft, mellow light upon the aviation field. 
For hours the people had been awaiting news that the army officer would soon alight and when darkness had fallen and he had not come they had begun to feel the creepy fear we sometimes call trepidation. 
This feeling of uncertainty was even shared by the officials and correspondents despite the fact that every now and then bulletins were flashed across the wires from distant cities and towns carrying the message that Milling was safe and had just passed above. 
So dark was it a bonfire had been lighted on the field that its glare might the pilot home. Bombs were shot off at a minute intervals their flash in the air appearing like the rockets of a stranded ship at sea. But in this instance they were not signals of distress—rather signals of rejoicing—for they told a distant voyager through the skies he was nearing home and welcome. 
All through the day, as Ovington flew, inside a little tent by the side of a telegraph operator, a woman had sat and listened intently to the messages giving news of her husband. And at the different stations where he had alighted she had talked to him across the wires through the telegraph. 
No one had waited thus for the army officer—but now it seemed as though the whole crowd had waited—waited
 [[end of column]]
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RESULTS FOR DAY AND MONEY WON

QUICK START
Aviator            Time. Seconds.  Prize.
Sopwith ............... 9.15  $150
Beatty ................ 10      50
Ely ................... 11 1-5  ..
Sopwith and Beatty tied on first attempt and raced over
BOMB DROPPING.
Aviator         Distance Ft.  Prize
Sopwith ............ 15.4  $150
Beatty ............. 16.2  50
Ely ................ 62.4  ..
ACCURACY IN LANDING. 
Aviator Distance. Ft. Prize.
Sopwith ............ 31  $150
Beatty ............. 31.8  50
FIGURES FOR SPEED
Aviator m.s. Prize
Grahame-White ...... 17.19  $300
Sopwith ............ 22.59  150
Beatty ............. 23.46  50
*Ely ............... 16.59 3-5 ..
*Disqualified for not rounding course at finish.
PASSENGER CARRYING, 12 LAPS.
Aviator              m.s.  Prize.
Grahame-White ...... 5.30  $300
TOTAL MONEY WON YESTERDAY.
Ovington ..................$10,000
Milling ...................  5,000
Grahame-White .............  900
Sopwith ...................  750
Beatty ....................  150
[[tally line]]
Total .....................$16,800
TOTAL MONEY FOR MEET.
Ovington ..................$11,332
Milling ...................  5,012
Beachey ...................  3,630
Sopwith ...................  3,004
Grahame-White .............  1,580
Stone .....................  1,000
Gill ......................  534
Beatty ....................  482
Coffyn ....................  200
Atwood ....................  188
Ely .......................  150
[[tally line]]
Total .....................$27,292

just as anxiously as the tender wife in the tent. 
Soon, away off to the southwest, was a little blot, just discernable. People watched it, hoping it was Milling, but they were skeptical. They rather thought it was a fast-moving cloud. 
No one dared prophesy alone that it was Milling. It seemed. But at last one more daring than the rest among the spectators more daring than the rest among the spectators cried out it was he. And, sure enough the little speck began to assume larger proportions. But it still remained a sort of indistinct blur. But nearer and nearer it came across the dark background of the heavens. 
The field was quiet. No one thought of cheering. With a feeling almost like awe the people waited. Of a sudden a shaft of the moon's yellow light flashed across the whirring propeller of the biplane and the plane knew it was Milling who approached. 
Another shaft of light made its target the seemingly wondrous tiny biplane, and this time its outline could be discerned. A cry went up and a hundred or more torches burning red fire were caught up and waved in a frenzy of joy.
Then, slowly and slowly, the blur against the heavens' background of blackness began of an aeroplane. Like apparitions of the night the correspondents and officials on the field ran back and forth waving their little beacons of red fire to quide the sky skipper into port. 
It seemed for the nonce as though he could not see the haven of welcome which stood ready to receive him. Then of a sudden the machine started earthward. 

Pandemonium Rules Multitude.
The cloud which had evolved into a blur and then been transfigured into an aeroplane was over the aerodrome. Again pandemonium ruled the multitude. 
Down and down came the machine. Headed by Ovington, the correspondents and officials awaited the alighting. At last the wheels of the machine grazed the earth. A cry arose to every lip. Automobile horns tooted and the whistles of the motor craft and steamers of the bay caught up the welcome.
The stillness of the night was broken—broken for the first time in the history of the world by a multitude welcoming and air-man who had returned from a voyage in the night's darkness. 
The glare of the bonfire lighted the biplane and every strut and upright stood out against the darkness. But than it was surrounded by a crowd of frenzied men each seeking to be first to reach the other hero of the day. 
Then two idols of the hour met, for Ovington was the first man to extend a hand of welcome, and there beneath the light of the moon, its mellow rays broken by the glare of the bonfire and the torches of the crowd, the two stood silhouetted against the night. 
A second later and Ovington's wife, who had raced hand and hand across the field with her husband that she might also be among the first to offer her praise, had seized one of the army man's hands in both hers and welcomed him. 
Then Milling was pulled forcible from his machine, even as Ovington had been, his protests staying not the slightest the enthusiasm of those who clustered about the motionless air-steed. Almost roughly he was cast aloft upon the shoulders of Ovington, Ely, Mayor Fitzgerald and some newspaper men and borne across to the grandstand. 

Procession in the Darkness.

A queer procession it seemed in the darkness hanging over the field, relieved only by the field, relieved only by the fire and the moon. Like a great black patch, one form above it—the of Milling on the shoulders of the fellow men—with its circumference outlined by the torch bearers, it moved onward toward the committee house by the grandstand.
Cheer after cheer marked its progress across the floor of the aerodrome. Hats were thrown in the air and ungoverned enthusiasm held sway. 
Again Mayor Fitzgerald led the cheering, and for minutes it was kept up without cessation. 
The crowd in the stands had been able to see Ovington when he alighted and see him clearly, but when Milling came down they could not pierce the veil of the night; so soon it was that the cries went up of:
"Let us see Milling! Show him to us!" 
Those who core him on their shoulders put him down on the ground. The torch bearers were called upon to line up in the rear and hold their glowing brands on high. Then, with Milling in the center of a great half circle, the procession moved on toward the grandstand. Some of the torch bearers grouped themselves about him and for several minutes he stood there, that the crowd might gaze upon their idol. 
Satisfied with looking upon him in silence for a moment, the cheering was started again, and the noise still rang out uproariously as Milling was rushed into a corner by the correspondents, that his story might be secured as had been Ovington's.
Unlike the monoplane flyer, Milling had flown over the entire route without reaching an altitude of more than 5000 feet. He told of losing his war soon after leaving the field and of following the wrong railroad track until he discovered he was on his way back to Boston. Then he explained how he had alighted at Concord to inquire his way to Nashua, a request that startled the inhabitants of the little town, where it is seldom that visitors drop in from the sky to ask their way to a distant point. 

Hills Black With People. 
Then on and on he had gone like Ovington, but so low he could notice more of what took place at the different places he passed over. He could not hear the whistles and bells that sounded welcome to him, but he told of the hills and open spaces being black with people gathered to see the greatest race of the age and watch history in its making. 
Often, he said, he waved to them, as he and Ovington had both done in answer to the ovation they could not hear when they departed upon the great race and upon their return. 
And as he talked with his delightful Southern drawl, his boyish face lightened with enthusiasm, not look on his features to tell of the great strain he had undergone, he took from his pocket a cigarette and lit it in a most nonchalant manner. 
Ovington, as he told his story, after gulping down almost a quart of milk and a little stimulant to relieve the cold of the high altitude at which he had flown, had taken a huge calabash pipe from his pocket and lighting it, had smoked with relish as he talked.
He also had had a wonderful tale to tell, far more startling than the seemingly simple story of Milling. 
Once as he listened to Milling's story, he had gasped with astonishment when he learned the army officer flew without a compass, and he told of one he carried in his hand—a little spirit compass which had been loaned him just as he was to start.
Ovington told of the great crowd that gathered to meet the fliers in Nashua. He said that upon starting he had attempted to follow the railroads and rivers, but had given it up, feeling he had rather depend upon his compass. Milling's flight had been made with earth marks for guides, and he was of different opinion than Ovington. 

Thought Balloon a Boat. 

"Worcester looked just like a hole in the mountains as I approached it," said
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