Title: The Flying Reporter
Author: Theiss, Lewis E. (Lewis Edwin), 1878-1963
Language: English
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THE FLYING REPORTER

by

LEWIS E. THEISS



Wilcox & Follett Co.
Publishers—1945—Chicago

Copyrighted, 1930,
Wilcox & Follett Co.
All rights reserved

The Flying Reporter
Made in United States of America



                                FOREWORD

It will probably come as a surprise to many readers to know that when
this story was written, more than one hundred American newspapers owned
and operated airplanes as a regular part of their news-gathering
equipment. By the time this tale is between covers, there will doubtless
be many additional planes cleaving the skies in the swift search for
news, in the carrying of relief to marooned and endangered human beings,
in the hunt for those who are lost, in the transportation of news
photographs, and not infrequently in the carrying of important papers
and documents. For although the primary end of the newspaper is to
collect and distribute news, it also carries on a host of activities for
the direct benefit of mankind.

Some of these news planes are elaborately equipped for their work, with
desks and typewriters for reporters, darkrooms and developing equipment
for photographers, and special equipment for the taking of aerial
photographs. Some of these planes ordinarily carry as many as four
men—a pilot, a mechanic, a camera man, and a reporter. Thus they are
equipped for almost any emergency.

Among the eight airplanes used by the Hearst newspaper forces to “cover”
the arrival of the _Graf Zeppelin_ on the Pacific Coast were some huge
tri-motored ships. One of these was equipped like a real news room. It
carried one reporter, one photographer, one announcer, one radio
operator and technician. The plane flew two hundred miles along the
coast, and sent descriptive stories direct by radio to the _Examiner_
office in Los Angeles, where a short-wave station copied the despatches
and rushed them to the editors at their desks.

It would be easy enough to “invent” adventures for news fliers, but it
would be foolish to do so for the reason that few “made-up” stories
could equal in interest the actual experiences of flying reporters.
Consequently, practically all the material in this book is based upon
actual occurrences.

The bit of Warren Long’s parachute that Jimmy Donnelly prized so highly
is merely the counterpart of a piece of the parachute of that fine young
pilot, the late Thomas Nelson. It is from the parachute he had when he
stepped out of a burning mail plane at Ringtown, Pa., in the fall of
1929. This keepsake was given to me by Dr. Leigh Breisch, of Lewisburg,
Pa., with whose father Pilot Nelson spent several hours after that
thrilling leap. His parachute was partly burned, and the bit of silk in
my possession is scorched by fire. It is a prized possession, for I knew
and greatly admired the dauntless young man who wore it.

The descriptions of the radio beacons are as accurate as the writer can
make them. The installation of these beacons marks a great step forward
in the development of flying. Radio beacons are being erected as fast as
possible along the entire transcontinental airway, and will also be used
to guide befogged fliers on other routes.

In the course of this story Jimmy Donnelly awakens a sleeping family
whose home was afire, by diving at the house and making as much noise
with his plane as possible. On various occasions Air Mail pilots have
done exactly this thing. That excellent flier and former Air Mail pilot,
Paul Collins, is one of the airmen who performed this trick.

Covering floods, scouting out the marooned and helpless, and making
aerial surveys of districts suffering from great calamities, is a
commonplace among news fliers. Time and again they have carried food and
medicine and clothing, and even newspapers, to persons marooned in
floods or on ice-blocked islands or on stranded ships. In this story
Jimmy Donnelly transports the stereotype matrixes from a flooded
newspaper office to another newspaper plant miles distant, where the
stereotype plates are cast and the edition printed. This thing actually
happened in the Middle West, when a flier took the “mats” of the
Hutchinson (Kans.) _News and Herald_ to the plant of the Wichita
_Eagle_, where the papers were printed and then rushed back by plane to
Hutchinson for distribution in that city.

Many of the incidents pictured in the chapter about the New Hampshire
flood are actual occurrences.

Incredible though it may seem, even the affair with the bootlegger, in
which Jimmy Donnelly is forced to fly a rum runner to Canada, actually
happened. Shirley Short, former Air Mail pilot and flier for the Chicago
_Daily News_, told me the story. Hamilton Lee, piloting a plane for the
Chicago _Tribune_, transported food to folks marooned on an island in
Lake Michigan. A bootlegger, flying over the island at the same time,
broke a connecting rod bearing and got down safely, although his engine
was torn half out of his plane. He clapped a pistol to Lee’s head and
forced Lee to carry him the rest of the way to the mainland. For the
purpose of this story it was necessary to transfer the incident to Lake
Ontario, but that does not alter the essential truthfulness of the tale.

The fact is that almost everything in this book is based upon an actual
occurrence, or was suggested to me by fliers as the result of their
experiences. I mention this fact because, although this book is purely a
piece of fiction, the purpose of the book is to show the part that
fliers play in news coverage. Hence it had to be truthful in essence.

For material and other assistance, the writer is indebted to many
persons connected with the business of flying. In particular I wish to
express my indebtedness to Pilot Warren J. White, of Albany, who “flew”
the New York _Times_ from Albany to Lake Placid. Mr. White has had years
of experience as pilot and manager of flying enterprises. He supplied
much material, suggested many situations and incidents for this book,
and finally checked the manuscript for inaccuracies and “touched up” the
flying technique to give that part of the story a truly professional
air. To Mr. C. G. Andrus, chief of the Eastern Division of the Airways
Weather Bureau, I have long been indebted for information concerning the
work of the forecasters in aiding pilots. To these men and to many
others who have assisted me in the work of collecting material for
flying-stories, I wish to express my hearty thanks.

News fliers do the most remarkable things and have the most wonderful
adventures. But like most other things connected with the business of
collecting news, these adventures are seldom heard of excepting in
newspaper or flying circles. If this story makes these achievements more
evident to readers, the writer will be gratified.

                                                     Lewis Edwin Theiss.

_Lewisburg, Penna._



                           Table of Contents

   I—Jimmy Donnelly Scents a Story in a Scorched Piece of Parachute
   II—A Flight in Quest of News
   III—Jimmy Meets an Old Friend—Johnnie Lee, of the Wireless Patrol
   IV—Jimmy Makes Good
   V—The Long Flight to a Fire
   VI—Flying Blind Over the Graveyard of Airplanes
   VII—A Forced Landing in a Fog
   VIII—Jimmy Saves a Boyhood Friend
   IX—Covering a Great Flood by Airplane
   X—Jimmy Visits a Lightship off the Coast
   XI—Jimmy is Tricked by His Rival
   XII—Jimmy Lands a Job for Johnnie
   XIII—Jimmy Has an Adventure with a Bootlegger
   XIV—Taking Help to Marooned Islanders
   XV—Jimmy Joins the Caterpillar Club
   XVI—The Bootlegger Repays Jimmy’s Kindness
   XVII—Jimmy Triumphs Over Rand



                          The Flying Reporter



                               CHAPTER I

     Jimmy Donnelly Scents a Story in a Scorched Piece of Parachute


Jimmy Donnelly had just arrived at the hangar at the Long Island flying
field where his plane was housed. To be sure, the plane really wasn’t
Jimmy’s, because it belonged to the New York _Morning Press_; but Jimmy
was its pilot, and had flown it ever since that great newspaper had
decided that it must have a plane of its own. And Jimmy had piloted it
so long, and had taken such loving care of it, that he felt as though it
were his very own. Indeed, he could not have lavished more attention on
the plane if it _had_ been his own. He was forever polishing and
cleaning it, and checking over the engine, and keeping it tuned up to
concert pitch.

But just now Jimmy was not thinking about his plane. The morning mail
lay before him on the table in the little hangar office. There were the
daily papers, some circulars, and several letters. Jimmy had already
slit the letters open. The one he picked out of the bunch was a rather
bulky letter that bore, in the upper left hand corner, this return
address: Warren Long, Hadley Airport, New Brunswick, N. J. But Jimmy did
not need to read this return address to know from whom the letter came.
He recognized the handwriting instantly. That was why he selected this
letter in preference to any other letter, to read first.

He knew perfectly well that it was from his old friend Warren Long, dean
of Air Mail fliers, the pilot who had helped him to get into the U. S.
Air Mail Service as a “grease monkey,” and who had afterward assisted
him up the ladder, rung by rung, until he, Jimmy, had attained his
present enviable position as a flying reporter for the New York _Morning
Press_.

Jimmy wondered why Warren Long had written to him. He opened the
envelope eagerly.

Out dropped what looked like a white silk handkerchief. Jimmy was more
puzzled than ever. With growing curiosity he pulled the letter from the
envelope, spread it out on his desk, and read as follows:

    Dear Jimmy:

    Last night I had occasion to join the Caterpillar Club. It is
    odd how a fellow’s brain works at such times. As I was on my way
    to the ground I thought of you. Why I should think of you at
    such a time I do not know. But I did, and I said to myself,
    “Jimmy would like a piece of this parachute. He’s always
    collecting souvenirs.” So when I got my feet on solid ground
    once more, I cut a piece of silk out of the ’chute, which was
    already badly torn by the bushes, and here it is. You may like
    to add it to your museum.

    I suppose you’ll read in the daily paper about my losing the
    mail. I’m all cut up about it. This is the first cargo I ever
    lost in ten years of flying the mail. I tried to save it, but it
    was impossible. You see, my plane somehow caught fire. I tried
    to extinguish the flames; but the fire must have been in the
    crank-case or somewhere where the extinguisher fluid couldn’t
    touch it. Then I tried to reach the nearest emergency landing
    field; but my engine went dead. The flames were spreading fast
    and shooting back into the cockpit in sheets. There was nothing
    to do but step out. My, how I hated to abandon the mail. But I
    had no choice. So I disconnected my head phones from the
    instrument board, picked up my flashlight, and stepped out.

    The instant I did so the plane turned on her side and dived
    straight after me. It was interesting to watch it. I was
    evidently falling head down, for I could see everything without
    even turning my eyes. My ship plunged like a rocket stick. She
    was just one long streak of fire. I thought sure she was going
    to hit me. I tried to crowd over and get out of the way. You
    can’t imagine what a funny, helpless feeling a fellow has when
    he can’t touch anything with either his hands or his feet.
    Anyway, the ship just grazed me, but a miss is as good as a
    mile. The instant she was past I started to pull the rip-cord. I
    found my flash-light was in my right hand. I had to shift it to
    my left hand. That didn’t take very long, but I was then so near
    the ground that every second counted. I made the shift and gave
    the rip-cord a quick jerk. It wasn’t a moment too soon, either.
    While I was floating down the rest of the way to the earth I
    thought of you.

    While I was still in the air, my ship hit with a terrific
    explosion. It was utterly consumed. Everything about it was
    burned. Much of the metal was melted by the terrible heat. The
    place where I came down was nearly half a mile from the spot
    where the ship landed. There was a thick woods between me and
    the ship. I could see the glare of the fire plainly, and I
    hurried right over to the spot. A lad from the neighborhood
    helped me. Some farmers were already there.

    I am sending this bit of my ’chute for _you_ to add to your
    collection, as I said, and I also write to tell you that if you
    ever have to step out of your ship at night, be sure to take
    your flashlight. I found mine more than useful. For I landed in
    a scrub patch on a hillside. It was rough country and I was far
    from being at my best. But with the aid of my flash-light and
    the help of the lad I mentioned I had no trouble in getting to
    my plane, and later in reaching a town.

    I hope everything is going well with you. The best of luck to
    you.

                                                 Ever your friend,
                                                        Warren Long.

Jimmie stared at the letter incredulously. For a moment he was silent.
Then, “Thank God Warren wasn’t hurt!” he cried. “I wonder where it
happened. And I wonder where Warren is now. And how in time did he get
that letter to me so quickly?”

For a time Jimmy was silent, thinking the matter over. Presently he
thought he had solved the problem. “Warren left Hadley with the
9:35 p. m. section of the mail,” he muttered. “The fire probably
occurred before he had been flying more than an hour or so. He was
likely near some town where he could catch a late train, and he probably
got back to Hadley early this morning. He must have written this note at
once and got it into a mail for New York. It was mighty quick work, no
matter how he did it. And it was just like Warren Long. He wanted to
tell me about the flash-light and was afraid he would never think to
mention it when he saw me. Gee! I am sure glad to have this piece of his
’chute. You bet I’ll put it in my ‘museum,’ as he calls my little
collection of aviation keepsakes. Who wouldn’t be glad to have a piece
of Warren Long’s parachute?”

Jimmy picked up the little square of silk and smoothed it lovingly. The
fabric was creamy white, beautifully woven, with a lovely sheen. It was
thin and delicate and almost gauzy in effect, and one could hardly
believe that so delicate a fabric could possibly have withstood the
terrific strain imposed upon it when it suddenly opened by Warren Long’s
two hundred pounds—for with his heavy flying suit and the ’chute pack
itself, the pilot must easily have weighed as much as that.

In one corner of the square of silk was a dark, scorched space.

“Gee!” said Jimmy. “That fire was a lot nearer getting Warren Long than
he intimated. But that is like him. He would hardly have mentioned it if
he had had a leg burned off. If his parachute got scorched like that, he
certainly had a close call himself. I know that, all right.”

Jimmy spread the square of silk on his desk and smoothed it out with his
hand. It had evidently been roughly and hastily cut from the parachute.
The edges were jagged and uneven. “I’ll get some woman to trim these
edges and overcast them,” thought Jimmy. “Then the silk can’t unravel.
And if I ever _should_ want to use it as a handkerchief, I could.”

A sudden thought came to him. Hastily he folded and thrust the bit of
silk into the envelope. Then he reached for the _Morning Press_.

“I wonder what the paper says about the affair,” he muttered.

The item he was searching for Jimmy found on the front page, near the
bottom of column six. It was a brief story, hardly three inches long,
telling how Long’s plane had caught fire and how the pilot had jumped
from the burning ship, after finding that he could not extinguish the
blaze. Jimmy read the story and frowned.

“Some country correspondent who doesn’t know a good story when he sees
one sent that in,” growled Jimmy, indignantly. “Why, it’s evident from
Warren’s letter that he had a most startling experience, with that
flaming ship diving straight at him, while he was utterly powerless to
help himself. That’s great human interest stuff. It ought to be good for
half a column any day. And if we had the details, I’ll bet there’d be a
front page spread in it.”

With Jimmy, to think was to act. He reached for the telephone.

“Please give me the _Morning Press_,” he told the telephone operator.

A moment later he was talking to the city editor of that paper.

“Mr. Davis,” he said, “I have just been reading the story about Warren
Long’s parachute jump last night. I have had a note from Warren Long,
too. It seems that when he stepped out of the burning plane he fell head
first, and in that position he watched the plane as he dropped. The ship
turned over almost as soon as he stepped out of her and dived straight
at him, like a flaming arrow. Warren didn’t dare open his ’chute for
fear the plane would foul it and he would be killed. So he just kept on
falling head first, watching the blazing plane as it tore after him, and
hoping the thing would pass him clean and in time. For he wasn’t very
high up when he jumped. The ship barely missed him as it shot by. The
instant it was past, Warren yanked his rip-cord, and it wasn’t a moment
too soon, either. The ’chute opened and kept him up in the air for a few
seconds, while the ship hit the ground with a tremendous explosion. The
fire that followed was terrific. Fortunately, the wind blew Warren well
to one side. But he must have been burned some before he jumped, for he
sent me a bit of his parachute, and the silk is badly scorched.”

“Do you know where Warren Long is now?” asked the city editor.

“No, sir. But I suspect he came back to Hadley Airport on a train, and
is probably at his home in Plainfield.”

“The story we printed is an A. P. despatch,” said Mr. Davis. “All the
papers will have it. Likely that is all the story any of them will
carry. We ought to be able to get a good exclusive follow-up story. I’ll
send a man over to Hadley to get into touch with Long and get all the
details from him. Meantime, I wish you would fly over to Ringtown, where
the crash occurred, get all the facts you can there, and take pictures
of the burned plane, the spot where the plane crashed, and anything else
that will help the story.”

“All right, Mr. Davis. I’ll be off as soon as I can get my plane warmed
up. Be sure to tell the man you send to see Warren Long that I want
Warren to give him the whole story. Otherwise he won’t talk. But he’ll
do anything for me. Good-bye. I’m off.”



                               CHAPTER II

                       A Flight in Quest of News


Fairly atremble with eagerness, Jimmy ran out into the hangar and made a
rapid inspection of his plane, to see that everything was right. He
glanced at the wheels, to see that the chocks were in front of them,
then scrambled into the cabin and touched the starter. His engine
answered with a roar. Jimmy throttled it down until it was idling
gently. For a moment he sat listening to it. Then, satisfied, he climbed
out of the ship, and set about completing his preparations for the task
ahead of him.

Had Jimmy been a little more experienced in newspaper work he would not
have been so excited about this simple assignment that Mr. Davis had
given him. All he had to do was to fly a hundred miles or so, gather a
few facts, take a few pictures, and get back as quickly as possible. But
there was no need to hurry, as there would have been had it been late in
the day. Nevertheless, Jimmy was all atingle with enthusiasm and
eagerness. He could hardly wait to be at his task.

Jimmy had always been like that about anything in which he was
interested. He put his whole soul into whatever he was doing. Doubtless
he owed his present job to that very fact. For after he had lost his
place as a reserve mail pilot, when Uncle Sam quit flying the mails,
Jimmy had realty created this present job for himself. He had told Mr.
Tom Johnson, the managing editor of the _Morning Press_, that that
newspaper ought to have its own plane and its own pilot. And when Mr.
Johnson said that that was the last thing the _Morning Press_ needed,
Jimmy had decided to prove to Mr. Johnson that the newspaper really
_did_ need a plane and a pilot even though the managing editor thought
otherwise. Jimmy proved his point by volunteering to execute two
difficult commissions for the _Morning Press_ and then by succeeding in
each commission. And in each case he owed his success to his enthusiasm,
his whole-hearted devotion to his task, and his refusal to be defeated.
In each case perseverance had won for him.

First, he had volunteered to find Warren Long, when that veteran pilot
was lost in “the graveyard of airplanes,” as the mail pilots call that
vast and terrible mountain wilderness in western Pennsylvania. And he
had found him, after all other searchers had been baffled. He had found
him disabled by a broken leg, in the path of an advancing forest fire,
after a terrible forced landing. The story of that adventure is told in
“The Search for the Lost Mail Plane.” Thus, for the second time, Jimmy
had saved the life of this brother pilot that he loved so well. The
first time was when Warren Long’s plane fell into the Susquehanna River
immediately in front of Jimmy’s home, and Jimmy had swum out in the icy
water and rescued the unconscious pilot. The account of that rescue is
given in “Piloting the U. S. Air Mail,” That occurrence marked the
beginning of the devoted friendship between this older pilot and the
youthful Jimmy. So it is easy to see why Warren Long sent a bit of his
parachute to Jimmy, who was interested in collecting such things, and
why Jimmy told his city editor that Warren Long would do anything for
him.

The second commission that Jimmy had executed for the _Morning Press_
was the running down of a gang of robbers after one of them had looted a
mail plane that had crashed one stormy night in this selfsame “graveyard
of airplanes.” The story of that thief chase is told in “Trailing the
Air Mail Bandit.” It was a long, hard chase, too; and one which Jimmy
would never have won had it not been for these very same qualities of
enthusiasm, determination, and perseverance. For in this case Jimmy had
had to work against the greatest obstacles and the most incredible
discouragements.

In both cases he won; and his success did far more than merely clear up
two mysteries. It convinced Mr. Johnson that Jimmy was right when he
argued that the _Morning Press_ ought to add a flier to its staff. Mr.
Johnson added one; and quite naturally he chose Jimmy. Thus it was that
Jimmy’s job, like his plane, was brand-new.

Although Jimmy had handled these two big stories successfully, though of
course he had considerable help, he didn’t feel any too sure of himself
yet as a reporter. For during the short time that he had been a regular
member of the _Morning Press_ staff, there had been few stories on which
Jimmy could work. Mostly he had been doing tasks of the fetch-and-carry
sort. He had transported pictures and camera men and reporters. But he
had had little opportunity for independent news gathering. Hence he
welcomed this present chance with such eagerness.

But even though Jimmy was not yet a seasoned reporter, there was one
quality he possessed that made up for much that he still lacked. He had
a naturally keen news sense. He was gifted with what newspaper men call
a “nose for news.” He felt the dramatic possibilities in everything he
heard and saw. He seemed to sense the facts that should be secured in
order to make the most of a story. That was why he at once saw that the
tale in the morning paper about Warren Long was faulty, that the
correspondent had failed to secure the dramatic elements in the story
that would appeal most to people. That was why Jimmy knew there was a
real human interest story in this thrilling leap from a burning plane.
It was this keen news sense that now made Jimmy so eager to get the
facts—the significant facts—that the correspondent had failed to
secure. Jimmy wanted to make good. He wanted to help his paper “scoop”
all the other newspapers in New York. He believed he could do it. That
was why he was all atremble with eagerness. Like a race-horse at the
barrier, he was restive and impatient to go.

But though Jimmy was green in the newspaper game, he was well seasoned
in the flying business. He had had too much experience to take anything
for granted. Hence, while his plane was warming up, Jimmy made sure that
he was prepared for any emergency. He saw to it that his flash-light was
in its place and in good working order. That was the first thing he
thought of. In future it would always be the first thing he thought of.
Warren Long’s letter had made an indelible impression on his mind. He
saw that the plane contained a little case of emergency rations that he
habitually carried. He made sure his pistol was in place. That was a
piece of equipment most fliers lacked. Mail pilots are compelled to
carry pistols, and Jimmy had formed the habit of flying armed, while he
was in the mail service. Experience had shown him the wisdom of having a
firearm at hand in his ship. He made sure that he had his topographic
maps and other articles that he had found to be necessary or desirable.
Of course he put his camera aboard, with a plentiful supply of films.

After a final close inspection of the plane, Jimmy put on his ’chute and
snapped it fast. Then he climbed into the cabin, glanced at the
instruments, held the stick back, and shoved the throttle forward. No
longer was there the staccato of exploding gases, but instead a
thundering roar. Jimmy kept her wide open while he noted the maximum
number of revolutions his propeller was making, his oil temperature and
oil pressure. Then he switched from one “mag” to the other, but noticed
no difference in “revs.” Gradually Jimmy throttled her down to a murmur.
She was perfect!

An attendant came forward and pointed to the chocks. Jimmy nodded “O.
K.” As the attendant pulled the chocks from the wheels, Jimmy glanced at
the wind-sock on his hangar. Then he taxied slowly down the field. He
headed into the wind and gave her full gun. The ship accelerated
rapidly. With a thundering roar the ship took off gracefully, guided by
an experienced hand and brain. Jimmy was off on his assignment.

He cut over to the very edge of Long Island and followed the southern
shore-line. Over the Bay and across the southern end of Staten Island he
winged his way, heading south of west, to pick up the route of the Air
Mail. Long before he crossed the Delaware, near Easton, he was right on
the line. How much like old times it seemed, to be flying over the
beacon lights. To be sure, they were not flashing now, in the morning
light, but he knew where the towers were and he saw each one as he flew
over it, where it stood like a friendly sentinel, to point out the path.

In the clear light of day Jimmy had no need of guide-posts or flashing
lights or radio signals. He knew the route as well as a schoolboy knows
the way to the high school. But Jimmy’s plane was equipped with radio,
and ear phones were built into his flying helmet. Presently he “plugged
in” to his instrument board to see if he could pick up the weather. That
is a topic of constant interest to every flier. He had barely passed
Numidia before he heard the Bellefonte radio man sending out his hourly
weather report. “This is station WWQ, Airways Communication Station,
Bellefonte, Pa., broadcasting weather information on the Chicago-New
York airway. It is now 10 A. M. Eastern Standard Time. At Hadley Field,
N. J., scattered clouds, ceiling unlimited, visibility eight miles, wind
south, nine miles, temperature 50, dewpoint 29, barometer 29.98;
Allentown, Pa., scattered clouds, ceiling unlimited, visibility seven
miles, wind southeast, four miles, temperature 51, barometer 29.94. Park
Place, Pa., broken clouds, ceiling estimated four thousand, visibility
ten miles, wind southeast, fourteen miles, temperature 45, barometer
29.89; Sunbury, Pa., overcast light haze, ceiling estimated twenty-five
hundred, visibility four miles, wind calm, temperature 50, barometer
29.81; Numidia, Pa., overcast light haze, occasional sprinkles of rain,
ceiling twenty-four hundred, visibility three miles, wind southwest,
five miles, temperature 49, barometer 29.79. This concludes the
broadcast of weather information from station WWQ, Bellefonte, Pa.”

“That sounds good to me,” thought Jimmy. “I ought to get over to
Ringtown and back to Long Island without having to face any bad weather.
I’m certainly glad of it, for I’ll have enough trouble as it is.”

He flew on, his head phones still plugged in. Sounding endlessly he
could hear the steady stroke of the Air Mail radio beacon sending a
string of dashes—“dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah,” which tells the pilot
when he is exactly on the line. Jimmy had small need of any such help
this morning, for the air was so clear that he could see for miles in
every direction. But he thought of the invaluable help this radio beacon
must be to the mail pilots in the fog. The device had been perfected
since Jimmy was a mail pilot. He had never carried mail under its
guidance. But he was as well equipped to profit by it as any mail pilot
was. More than once he had been helped in bad weather by this very same
signal, as he flew along the mail route.

In a sense he was helped now. A little breeze had been coming up, that
blew across the line of flight. Jimmy was being blown to one side,
without realizing it. Of course he would presently have noticed that
fact anyway, and brought his ship back to the line, but the signal in
his ears gave him prompt warning. No longer did he hear the steady beat:
“dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah.” Instead, the head phones were saying:
“dot dah, dot dah, dot dah, dot dah, dot dah.” The radio signal had
changed to dot dash, dot dash. That told Jimmy that he was to the left
of the line. He knew that if he had chanced to be on the right side of
the line instead, the signals would have changed to dash dot, dash dot,
and his head phones would have said: “dah dot, dah dot, dah dot, dah
dot.” He nosed his ship a little into the wind, and presently he was
right over the line once more, and the head phones again were singing:
“dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah.”

“Gee,” thought Jimmy, “if only they had had the radio beacon from the
start, how very many tragedies the Air Mail would have been saved. It’s
fine for the men who are carrying the mail now. They always know when
they are on the line, even if it is so foggy they can’t see a thing. If
it just weren’t for these old Pennsylvania mountains, flying the eastern
leg of the Air Mail would be pie. But I guess this leg will always be a
graveyard. Hello, here’s Ringtown. I’ve got to be thinking about getting
down.”



                              CHAPTER III

     Jimmy Meets an Old Friend—Johnnie Lee, of the Wireless Patrol


For many miles—ever since he crossed the Delaware into Pennsylvania, in
fact, Jimmy had been flying over a region so rough and rugged that it
strikes terror to the heart of the aviator. For here Nature has plowed
up the land in rugged furrows that rise thousands of feet. In places the
earth is jumbled in confused masses. Rocks, trees, precipices, bogs, and
deep ravines characterize the whole countryside. Rare, indeed, is the
level spot that is large enough, or smooth enough, or firm enough to
permit a safe landing. And well Jimmy knew what awaited him or any other
aviator who was luckless enough to be forced down in this terrible
region. And yet this country was tame beside that of the “graveyard of
airplanes” in the western half of the state. It was here, when he was
fairly in the heart of these terrible mountains, that Warren Long had
found his plane afire. As Jimmy looked down now at the torn and jagged
face of the country, he fairly shivered when he thought of the terrible
situation in which his friend had been placed such a short time
previously. For it was obviously impossible to land a plane safely in
these ragged hills, especially in the dark; and to Jimmy it seemed
almost as dangerous to trust to a parachute. For there was no way by
which the falling flier could tell when he was about to land with a
crash on a rock, or a jagged stump, or in the splintering arms of a
pine-tree—no way, it came to Jimmy as an afterthought, unless he
carried a flash-light powerful enough to pierce the blackness of the
night. And Jimmy felt again that same feeling of gratitude to Uncle Sam
that he had felt many a time previously for the little emergency landing
fields along the lighted airway that the Government has spied out and
marked off with encircling lights at night, where aviators in distress
can land in safety.

It was one of these emergency fields—that at Ringtown—which Warren
Long had been striving to reach on the preceding night. And it was this
same field that Jimmy was now heading for.

Jimmy had been flying rather high. Gently pulling back the throttle, he
went into a steep spiral. At about eight hundred feet he straightened up
while he glanced at the wind-sock. “Bang” went the gun again, and Jimmy
flew around the edge of the field into the wind. The field was none too
large. Tall trees on the lee side of it called for plenty of energetic
side-slipping and fish-tailing. Jimmy straightened her out, held her off
to lose flying speed, and as soon as he felt the wheels touch hauled
back on the stick and stepped on his brakes. Jimmy breathed a sigh of
relief and thanked his lucky stars for those brakes, for the ship came
to rest within twenty-five feet of a stone fence. In another moment he
was taxiing safely across the field toward the beacon light tower, where
a knot of men and boys had gathered, waiting for Jimmy’s ship to come to
rest.

Jimmy throttled down his engine to let it idle for a few minutes so the
valves could cool before he “cut his switch.” He stepped to the ground.
The little company of spectators surged toward him.

“Can any one of you tell me——” began Jimmy. Then he stopped short and
gazed at one of the group in silent astonishment. “Well, where in the
world did you come from, Johnnie Lee?” he demanded, after a moment. And
he stepped quickly toward a sturdy lad who stood somewhat behind the
other spectators. “I haven’t seen you for ages—not since I left home to
learn to fly, in fact.”

“Jimmy!” cried the lad, rushing forward with outstretched hand. “I
didn’t know you at first, with your helmet on. I’m awfully glad to see
you.” And he fairly wrung Jimmy’s hand.

“What are you doing here?” demanded Jimmy, when they had finished
shaking hands.

“I might ask you the same question,” laughed Johnnie. “I am here because
I can’t very well help it. My father’s health broke down, and the doctor
said he would have to get into the country. We have relatives close by
named Healy. So Dad bought a little farm here. I’ve been at home, doing
most of the farming. You are the first member of the old Wireless Patrol
I have seen since we moved down here. My! It’s been tough to be
separated from all the gang. I think of the old days often, and of the
fine times we used to have when we were in camp at Fort Brady.”

“They were good old days, weren’t they, Johnnie?” said Jimmy. “How the
old crowd has gotten separated. There’s Alec Cunningham down in New
Jersey in the oyster business, and Roy Mercer a wireless operator on an
ocean steamer, and Bob Martin in the Lighthouse Service, and Henry
Harper in the Coast Guard. My, it doesn’t seem possible that the old
crowd could be scattered so. Can you tell me about any of the other
fellows of the Wireless Patrol?”

“I can tell you a whole lot about Jimmy Donnelly,” laughed Johnnie.

“How’s that?” demanded Jimmy. “What do you know about me and how did you
find it out?”

“You don’t think anybody could have all the adventures you have had,
finding lost air mail pilots and rounding up robbers and not have people
know about it, do you? Why, I read about those things in the newspaper.”

“That reminds me,” said Jimmy, “that I am here now for the _Morning
Press_, to get more details about Warren Long’s parachute jump last
night. You can’t tell me anything about it, can you?”

“I certainly can,” said Johnnie, “for I saw the whole thing happen, and
the pilot landed right on our farm and I helped him get back to his
burning ship to try to save some of the mail.”

“Well, if that isn’t luck,” said Jimmy. “Take me to the burned plane,
will you, and tell me what you know about the affair.”

“All right. Come along,” and Johnnie led the way toward a clearing on
the slope of a hill at some little distance.

The way was rough, for they had to pass over some stony fields and
through a patch of timber. They had ample time to talk as they walked.

“How did you happen to see Warren Long’s burning plane?” asked Jimmy.

“I was looking for it.”

“Looking for it! What do you mean?”

“Just what I say. I was looking for it, though I had no idea it was
going to be afire. You see, ever since you got into the Air Mail, Jimmy,
I have been interested in the mail planes. I have always hoped that one
of them would land here. And as long as you were a mail pilot I guess I
was always hoping that you would be piloting the ship that stopped here.
Well, I got so much interested in the mail planes that I kept right on
watching for them, even after you left the service. You know the first
night mail plane always comes over here just about bedtime, and I almost
always step out-of-doors and watch it sail over.”

“I know how you feel,” said Jimmy.

“Well,” continued Johnnie, “when I heard the mail plane coming last
night I stepped outside as usual, and there was the plane. But something
was wrong. It was afire. You could see the flames plainly. It flew in a
crazy fashion——”

“That must have been while Warren Long was fighting the flames,”
interrupted Jimmy.

“And it went sailing by pretty fast. For a time the fire seemed to die
down, and I thought the pilot had it about out. Then it burst out worse
than ever. By this time the plane was a long way past here. But it
turned and headed back. I knew right away that the pilot was trying to
reach the field where you just landed. I called to Dad that a plane was
on fire and was heading for the landing field, and that maybe we could
help save the ship if we got to the field in time. So we set out
together for the field.”

“Do you live far from it?” inquired Jimmy.

“About half a mile, I suppose, though our land runs clear down to the
landing field. Anyway, before we were half-way to the field we saw that
the pilot would never make it. The whole airplane seemed to be aflame.
It was fairly spouting fire from all sides. I knew the pilot would have
to jump, and I couldn’t understand why he stayed with the ship half as
long as he did.”

“You would if you knew Warren Long,” interrupted Jimmy. “That was just
like him. He risked his life to try to save the mail.”

“He risked it, all right,” said Johnnie. “His plane was just a mass of
flames. I don’t see why he wasn’t burned to death right in the cockpit.
I just stood still and held my breath while I waited for him to jump.”

“Did you see him when he did jump?”

“See him? Why, you could see everything. The whole sky was as light as
day. Out he came in a tremendous dive right through a sheet of flame. I
never breathed while I waited for him to open his parachute. Do you know
what happened? It was awful.”

“What was awful?” demanded Jimmy.

“Why, that burning ship turned over on its side the instant the pilot
left it and dived straight after him. I thought sure the plane was going
to crash into him. It was frightful to watch. My heart simply stopped
beating while that plane roared after him. And the pilot was as cool as
an icicle. He just kept on falling and falling and never moved a muscle.
As the plane shot by him I thought it had struck him, and I cried right
out. But somehow the plane missed him and shot down like a flaming
meteor. Gee! You should have seen what happened then. Your friend had
his parachute open the instant the blazing ship had passed him.”

“How high was he?”

“Not very high. Just a few hundred feet. But the wind caught his
parachute instantly and snapped it open with a jerk. I could see the
pilot spin around like a weather-vane in a wind squall. You know he was
falling head foremost all this time, and the parachute jerked him
upright quicker than you could wink your eye. It must have given him an
awful jolt.”

“What happened then?” demanded Jimmy.

“Why, Dad and I separated. He ran toward the plane, to try to save the
mail, but I never gave a thought to the mail. I ran to help the pilot. I
couldn’t help thinking that after all it might be you, Jimmy. You know a
fellow can never be sure just who’s in a plane.”

“That was mighty kind of you, Johnnie. But I wasn’t in the plane, and
that lets me out of the story. What did you do when you reached the
pilot?”

“I got to him soon after he hit the ground. He was all tangled up in his
parachute, for he had come down in some scrub growth and the cords were
twisted among the stems, and the parachute itself was fast in some
bushes. He had landed pretty hard, too, and was half stunned. And he
wrenched one of his ankles badly. Maybe it’s sprained. Anyway, I helped
him to get out of his harness, and I told him just to sit down and take
it easy while I gathered up the parachute. But he didn’t want to wait an
instant. He said he had to get to the ship to try to save the mail. So
he just snatched out his knife and cut a big piece out of the parachute,
and then we hurried over to the burning ship as fast as he could walk.
He never said a word, but I know his ankle must have hurt him terribly.”

“Did you save any of the mail?”

“No. When we got there the fire was so hot you couldn’t get anywhere
near the ship. Dad and some other men had tried to pull some mail-sacks
out of the plane, but it just wasn’t possible. The fire was too hot. I
wasn’t much interested in the mail or even in the plane. I couldn’t
think of anything but the pilot. He looked awful. When we got near the
burning ship, where it was light enough to see him well, I noticed at
once that his eyebrows and lashes were burned off, his face was badly
scorched and his hands were burned almost raw. It’s a wonder he wasn’t
burned to a crisp.”

“His flying suit and his helmet and goggles saved him,” said Jimmy.
“What I can’t understand is why he didn’t jump sooner. He must have
known well enough that the ship was doomed.”

“He did. I asked him why he stayed in it so long, and he told me that he
couldn’t leave the ship any sooner because it might have fallen on some
of the homes beneath him. You see he was right over the town. So he just
kept right on flying, with the flames all about him, until he was sure
he was clear of the town. What do you think of that?”

“I am not surprised. In fact, I should be surprised if he had done
anything else. It’s exactly the sort of thing Warren Long would do.”

“It was the bravest thing I ever heard of,” said Johnnie.

“Could you do anything for him?” demanded Jimmy. “His burns must have
been very painful.”

“Sure we did. I took him home with me and mother put some grease on his
face and bandaged his hands. But he didn’t seem to think about anything
except the mail. That evidently worried him. The pilot soon caught a
train going east, and that is the last I saw of him.”

“Well, you certainly have given me a vivid account of the affair,
Johnnie. You’d make a good reporter.”

“Gee! I’d like to be one. It’s pretty dull out here in these mountains.
Dad’s got his health back now and doesn’t really need me any longer.
I’ve been looking for a job in town. If you know of any opening I wish
you’d tell me about it, Jimmy.”

“I’ll do all I can to help you, Johnnie, though I don’t believe I can do
much for you. You see, you have never had any experience as a reporter.”

By this time they had reached the burned airship. Several persons were
gathered about it, for ever since daybreak people had been coming from
far and near to take a look at it. Jimmy stood for some time viewing the
sad wreck.

“Thank God Warren escaped,” he muttered.

Then he slowly walked around the burned plane, trying to find the best
point of view from which to get a picture. He took several snaps, from
different angles, and then asked Johnnie to guide him to a spot where he
could get the best picture of the region. Johnnie took him to a little
knoll that rose sharply at no great distance, and from this
vantage-point Jimmy secured an excellent picture of the countryside,
with the wrecked plane in the very centre of the picture. Then he and
Johnnie walked across the country to the spot where Warren Long had
landed. The parachute was no longer there, as the remains of it had been
gathered up by the crew sent from the Air Mail field to salvage what
could be saved from the wreck. But Jimmy was able to see exactly where
Warren Long had struck the ground, and to get some good snaps of the
place.

“I ought to see your father,” said Jimmy, “and find out exactly what
occurred in the effort to save the mail. Besides, I want to see him
anyway. I haven’t seen him since—I don’t know when. And I want to see
your mother, too.”

“We’ll go over to the house,” replied Johnnie.

“Mother will be there, and Dad is at work somewhere about the place.”

They hurried over to the farmhouse, and found both of Johnnie’s parents
right at hand. It was a pleasant meeting, for Jimmy had known the Lees
all his life. He had little time for visiting, however. Most of the
little visit he spent in asking Mr. Lee questions about the burning
plane and the effort to save the mail. When he had all the details he
could gather, he said goodbye to Johnnie’s parents. Then the two lads
walked back to the landing field.

Jimmy started his engine and let it run a few minutes to get warm. When
he was ready to depart, he held out his hand to Johnnie. “I am ever so
glad I found you,” he said, “and I am more than grateful to you for what
you folks did for Warren Long last night. You have helped me a lot,
Johnnie. I won’t forget about you when I get back to New York. If there
is anything I can do for you, I will certainly do it. Now I must be off.
They want these pictures at the office just as soon as they can get
them. Good-bye.” And Jimmy was off.



                               CHAPTER IV

                            Jimmy Makes Good


His mind white-hot with the fire of interest, his very soul atremble
with eagerness to get the gripping story on paper, Jimmy drove his plane
through the air like an eagle cleaving the sky. A stiff west wind that
had sprung up hurled him onward. And Jimmy climbed high to get every
ounce of help possible, for at the higher altitudes the wind was almost
a gale. So he reached his hangar in an amazingly short time. He ran his
ship under cover and saw that the gasoline supply was replenished
immediately, to prevent the condensation of moisture in the fuel tanks
as the ship cooled. Eager though he was to write, Jimmy was taking no
chances of getting water in his gasoline. His oil supply was also
replenished. These things attended to, Jimmy turned immediately to the
business of getting his story ready for print.

A taxi took him speedily to the _Morning Press_ office in Manhattan.
There he told his city editor what he had learned. And he told it so
eagerly and so convincingly that that usually bored individual sat up
and listened with interest.

“If you can put that on paper as well as you tell it,” said the city
editor, “you may write three-quarters of a column. We’ll run two or
three pictures with it, if they are any good, and play the story up for
all it’s worth.”

“What did you learn from Hadley?” asked Jimmy. “Have you heard from the
man you sent down there?”

“He couldn’t get a thing at first-hand. Your friend the pilot is in bed,
under the doctor’s orders, and could not see our reporter. All the
latter could get was what he picked up from men about the airport. There
wasn’t anything you don’t have and nothing half so good. So there will
be no facts for you from that source. Write what you have, as plainly
and simply as you told it to me just now. I’ll send you prints of your
photographs as soon as they are done. We ought to have proofs very
shortly.”

Jimmy had not expected to write the entire story. Indeed, he had not
been certain that he would have a chance to write any of it. The man who
had been sent to see Warren Long was an experienced and able reporter,
and Jimmy rather expected that this reporter would do the writing, and
that all Jimmy could do would be to tell his story to his fellow
reporter. But the matter had turned out just the opposite. Jimmy himself
was to write the story.

He realized that once more a big chance had come to him. For weeks—ever
since he had won his new job, in fact—he had been doing little
assignments, hoping every day that something worthwhile would come his
way; and now this thing had happened. He meant to make the most of it.

Altogether without realizing it, Jimmy had prepared himself to do a good
piece of work. He did not understand that the surest way to write a
really great story is to be so full of a subject and to feel the story
so intensely that one is just bursting with it. Yet that was exactly the
situation Jimmy was in. His love for Warren Long, his admiration for
that heroic pilot, and his desire to tell all the world what a truly
remarkable thing his friend had done—all this, coupled with Jimmy’s
keen sense of the dramatic, had prepared him to write a gripping story.
It was the same thing that had happened when he wrote the story of the
Air Mail bandit. Jimmy was so full of the subject that he could think of
nothing else.

Now he sat down at a typewriter in a corner, where he was not likely to
be disturbed, and got ready to write. He had been turning the story over
and over in his mind. He wanted to begin it in a way that would catch
and hold the imagination of the reader. The feature of the story that
appealed to his own imagination most powerfully was the picture of
Warren Long sitting in his flaming cockpit and being slowly roasted
while he guided his plane away from the little hamlet and out to the
uninhabited districts, where it could not possibly fall on a house and
burn up some humble home. To Jimmy’s mind that picture was even more
compelling than the one of Warren Long’s falling headfirst to earth and
calmly waiting for his blazing ship to pass him before he opened his
parachute. In almost any other case, this latter picture would have been
an unparalleled feature. But to Jimmy, while it was extremely
spectacular, it lacked the appeal of the other picture. And Jimmy was
right. His news sense in this case was unerring. For Warren Long,
risking death in his cockpit in order to save others, was a far more
appealing figure than Warren Long doing something spectacularly cool and
brave to save his own life.

Jimmy rightly judged that what appealed to him most powerfully would
also probably appeal most powerfully to others. So he began his story
with this feature of greatest appeal—the picture of Warren Long’s
sacrificing himself to save some humble country folk that he didn’t even
know. When he had written what he had to say about this, Jimmy took up
the story of the pilot’s drop to earth, and the breathtaking experience
he had had as his flaming plane dived after him. Finally he told the
story, simply but graphically, of how Johnnie Lee had rushed over the
rough mountain in the dark to aid the fallen pilot, and how he had taken
care of him from the moment he came upon him, entangled in his parachute
in the scrub growth, up to the moment that the pilot stepped on the
east-bound train.

So full of the story was Jimmy that he heard nothing, saw nothing,
thought of nothing but the tale he was putting on paper. Before him he
could see the scene he was picturing—see it as vividly as though he
were still on the spot. And unconsciously he found himself using almost
word for word the vivid description of the accident that Johnnie Lee had
given him. His mind was so full of the story that, once he had begun to
write, the tale came pouring from his typewriter as tumultuously and
sparklingly as a mountain torrent rushes down its rocky bed. When at
last he ended his story, he had done a truly fine piece of work. His
tale was so fresh and vivid that it could not fail to attract attention.
Jimmy, of course, did not realize that. All he knew was that he had done
the very best he could. If there was any luck about the story, it was in
the matter of the photographs. They were as clear and sharp as Jimmy’s
word pictures. And they illuminated the text excellently.

When Jimmy had read the story over and made such corrections as appeared
to him desirable, he took it to the city editor. Then, thinking the
latter might wish to question him about some of the facts, he sat down
and waited until his editor could read the story. Jimmy was right in his
guess that Mr. Davis might want to ask about the story. But he was much
surprised at the question Mr. Davis put to him.

The latter read the story and then glanced through it a second time.
Then he looked at Jimmy. “Where did you get the idea of writing this
story as you have written it?” he demanded.

Jimmy felt his heart sink. He was sure he had made a failure. But he
answered cheerfully enough: “I wrote it that way, Mr. Davis, because I
couldn’t write it any other way. All I could see when I tried to write
was Warren Long sitting in his burning cockpit and roasting while he
piloted his ship to a point where it wouldn’t do any damage when it came
down.”

“Just keep on seeing things that way,” said the city editor. And without
another word he picked up the story and the photographs and walked away.

Jimmy left the office somewhat puzzled and almost disconsolate. He felt
sure his effort had been a failure. The city editor had not said one
good word about it. And yet what did he mean by telling Jimmy to “keep
on seeing things that way”? Jimmy was sorely puzzled. But if he could
have seen where the city editor went and what he did with the story,
Jimmy would have been amazed. For Mr. Davis went straight to the
managing editor and laid the manuscript and the pictures on the latter’s
desk. All he said was this: “Here is a story young Donnelly just wrote.
He flew over to Ringtown to get a follow-up on this morning’s A. P.
despatch about the parachute jump of a mail pilot there last night. I
wish you’d read it.”

But Jimmy had no way of knowing this, and even if he had had he would
hardly have understood the significance of the thing. He could hardly
have known what it meant for the city editor thus to call the attention
of the managing editor to a story before it got into type. But Jimmy
would have been well enough pleased if he could have heard Mr. Johnson
mutter to himself, after carefully reading the story, “Well, I guess we
made no mistake in making a reporter out of Donnelly. I’ll tell the city
editor to try him out on something bigger than the assignments he has
been getting.”

So was illustrated the law that “To him that hath shall be given.” Jimmy
had demonstrated his ability. And as is always the case, a display of
ability was soon followed by greater opportunity.



                               CHAPTER V

                       The Long Flight to a Fire


Jimmy’s next chance was not long in coming. A few days after he made his
successful trip to Ringtown, Jimmy was called to the telephone in his
hangar. Mr. Johnson was speaking.

“We have just had a ‘flash’ from Cleveland,” he said, “to the effect
that there has been a terrible disaster in a hospital there. The burning
of X-ray films filled the hospital with deadly gases, and apparently
scores of people have been killed. We are getting the A. P. service, but
the story is so big we should like to have our own man on the spot. I am
sending Frank Handley over to you. Be prepared to take off the moment he
arrives. You are to cooperate with him in handling the story. Handley
knows exactly what I want and will give you directions. We especially
want good pictures. In all probability the wires will be clogged with
the volume of news matter filed. I am sending you to make sure that we
get our story and the pictures. Get them back any way you can—by wire
or by plane. But get them back. That is the important thing. Handley is
already on his way and should reach you very soon.”

“I’ll be ready for him, Mr. Johnson,” said Jimmy, “and I’ll do my level
best to carry out your orders. What is my deadline?”

“We want to be sure to catch the state edition. The presses start at
midnight sharp. You ought to be here by eleven, and you _must_ be here
by eleven-thirty at the latest.”

“I’ll be there,” said Jimmy, but little could he foresee what it was
going to cost him to make good that promise.

He hung up the telephone receiver and skipped out into the hangar to
start his engine to warming. Then he gathered up his camera, his
portable typewriter, and all the other equipment he ordinarily carried
in his plane. The cabin of his ship was especially fitted up with a
desk, where he or any one else could write. In this desk he stowed his
typewriter and camera, so they would not be thrown about in the plane in
case of rough going. In the floor of the ship there was a special
opening for the taking of photographs vertically. The sides of the ship
were lined with windows, to permit easy observation in all directions.

“We probably shall not have a minute to get anything to eat,” thought
Jimmy. “I’ll put a lunch aboard and we can eat it as we fly.”

He ran out to a near-by lunch wagon and had some sandwiches and milk
prepared for him. By the time he got back with these, a taxi was just
rolling up with Handley. Jimmy greeted his fellow reporter, whom he
liked very much, and grabbed up the latter’s little typewriter. Handley
followed with a suitcase. They stowed the luggage in the plane, which
was now ready to sail. Jimmy helped Handley buckle on a parachute. Then
he strapped on his own. They stepped into the cabin and in another
moment were climbing aloft as rapidly as Jimmy’s engine would lift them.

Once more Jimmy flew south of west to connect with the Air Mail route to
Cleveland. A slight breeze was blowing at a higher altitude, so Jimmy
went hedge-hopping along to avoid the wind as much as possible. The air
seemed “dead” to him. It felt as though a storm might be brewing. So he
plugged in with his head phones and listened for the hourly report of
the Airways Weather Bureau. He hadn’t long to wait. Soon he heard the
wireless man at Hadley Field broadcasting. Jimmy listened intently. He
learned that the weather was fair all the way to Cleveland. But the sky
was overcast and the ceiling low. Visibility was poor. There was little
wind. The prospect was for increasing cloudiness and bad weather.

“We ought to make Cleveland all right,” thought Jimmy. “It isn’t quite
400 miles from Hadley to Cleveland. There isn’t any wind to speak of, so
I won’t have to stop at Bellefonte for gas. I ought to make the trip
from Hadley in close to three hours.”

Jimmy looked down and saw that he was already almost abreast of that
airport. “In three hours,” he muttered, “I’m _going_ to be in Cleveland.
This ship can do it, and I’ll make her do it.” He opened his throttle a
little wider, and the plane darted ahead faster than ever.

Away they soared, over the flat lands of New Jersey, above the hills of
Pennsylvania, almost straight westward. As they drew near Ringtown Jimmy
studied the country closely. He wondered if Johnnie were down there
watching him.

“If he has a good pair of field-glasses,” thought Jimmy, “he will easily
be able to identify the plane. We are flying so low that he can see my
license number plainly. And he ought to be able to read the name New
York _Morning Press_ painted on the sides of the ship. I guess I’ll drop
him a greeting.”

Hastily he drew a little pad of paper from his pocket, and while he
guided the ship with his left hand scribbled this message with his right
on the pad, which he placed on his right leg.

“Hello, Johnnie. Going to Cleveland. Be back here about 9:30 to-night.
Signal me as I go over. If you have a radio sending set, get in touch
with me then. Jimmy Donnelly.”

Snatching from his pocket his handkerchief and a piece of string, Jimmy
passed them over to Handley. “Tie strings to each corner of the
handkerchief,” he shouted into his ear, “and make a little parachute. I
want to drop a message.”

Handley had the parachute made in no time. Jimmy handed him the message
for Johnnie. “Tie it fast and put a weight on it,” he shouted. “Look in
the desk.”

Handley found some linotype slugs. He tied two or three to the little
parachute. Jimmy motioned for him to toss the thing overboard. Handley
slid a window open and dropped the message for Johnnie. They were almost
directly over the little village. They could see a number of people on
the ground watching them; for Jimmy was still flying as low as he dared
to fly. The improvised parachute fluttered down, and several figures
darted toward it. But long before Jimmy’s message reached the earth,
Jimmy himself was far beyond the town. It was impossible to see what had
happened to his message, but Jimmie had no doubt it would get to Johnnie
Lee promptly.

On they roared. Jimmy’s ship was built for speed. He seldom drove it at
its fastest, for that was hard on the engine. But to-day he pushed it
along much faster than his ordinary cruising speed. He fully intended to
reach Cleveland within the specified time.

As they winged their way westward, Jimmy studied the sky intently. No
ray of sunlight anywhere penetrated the dark cloud masses. The sky had a
sullen, angry aspect. Though the air was quiet, Jimmy felt that perhaps
this was the calm before the storm. He was quite sure that the good
weather could not last until he was safely back on Long Island. So he
listened closely to the weather broadcasts and tried to read the signs
in the sky.

Jimmy made the Cleveland Airport by three o’clock. Before his ship
glided to earth, he and Handley had consumed their little luncheon, and
thus fortified were ready to plunge into the difficult task that lay
ahead of them. They waited only long enough to order their plane
serviced promptly, then they stepped into a taxi and were whirled toward
the city.

At Handley’s suggestion they drove directly to the office of the Police
Commissioner, where Handley presented his credentials and asked that he
and Jimmy be given police passes. This took a little time, but Handley
was too experienced a reporter to take any chances of delay later on.
Their request was promptly granted. Thanking the Cleveland officials,
the two New Yorkers hurried back to their taxi and were whirled off to
the scene of the disaster. So great was the jam of trucks and fire
apparatus and other vehicles that their taxi could not approach within
several blocks of the hospital. Handley paid the driver.

“We shall need you all the afternoon,” he said. “Stay right here and
wait for us. We shall probably have to drive about considerably.”

The driver agreed to wait for them, and Jimmy and his companion raced
toward the hospital. Handley had his typewriter and Jimmy his camera.
Newsies were crying the latest extras of the local papers. The New
Yorkers bought copies of every paper offered for sale and hastily
scanned them, marking names and addresses. Then they pushed on.

Though it was now more than four hours since the explosion occurred,
there was still great excitement and activity about the hospital.
Policemen and firemen were still stationed about the place. The dead and
injured had been removed and the fire extinguished. But the building
still smoked, and the air was heavy with that peculiarly offensive odor
that comes from a burned building, combined with the noxious fumes from
the burned X-ray films and chemicals that still persisted in the
neighborhood.

Coming to the scene so late, Jimmy and his comrade were at a great
disadvantage. The dead and injured had been removed, the former to the
county morgue, the latter to various hospitals within the city. Those
people who had been present when the fire started were mostly gone.
Policemen, firemen, doctors, and officials, nervously unstrung by the
day’s tragedies and taxed by conflict with the surging crowds and by
repeated interviews with newspaper men, were blunt, brusque, and often
rude. Crowds thronged about the place and it was difficult to move.

“We want to get hold of some of the people who saw the thing from the
start and get statements from them,” said Handley. “Then we want to
interview just as many doctors, nurses, patients, firemen, policemen,
and others who were witnesses of the tragedy as we can get in touch
with. We ought to have pictures of the interior of the wrecked building
and the outside. And we should have some showing the work of rescue in
progress. Maybe we can buy these latter pictures. You try for some
photographs and I’ll get interviews. When you get your pictures, hunt me
up. I’ll be somewhere about the place.”

Jimmy thrust his police pass into his hatband and hurried toward the
wrecked building. A policeman was guarding the entrance. Jimmy did not
know whether the policeman would permit him to enter or not. A thought
came to him. He stepped up to the bluecoat. “I’m told that you rescued
more people than almost any other man on the force. I want your picture
for tomorrow’s paper. Just step inside the reception room where I can
get you without this crowd and let me snap a picture, won’t you please?”
And Jimmy darted right on into the hospital.

The policeman, with a self-conscious look on his face followed. Jimmy
didn’t give him time to say a word. “Stand right over there, where the
light’s good,” he said. And when the policeman hesitated, Jimmy took him
by the arm and shoved him against the wall. Then he backed off and
snapped a picture of him.

“That’s fine,” said Jimmy, talking as fast as he could to prevent the
policeman from saying anything, “but it doesn’t show what it should.
This reception room is hardly damaged at all. I want you with a
background that will show the danger you had to face. Some of the rooms
upstairs are pretty well torn to pieces, aren’t they? I want a picture
of you with that background. Come on.” And Jimmy scurried up a stairway.

The policeman followed. By this time he had found his tongue. He seemed
pleased with Jimmy’s interest. “The worst looking room is over here,” he
said, and he led the way through a corridor filled with debris. The
plaster had been blown from the ceiling, the walls were torn and broken,
the window-glass was blown out, furniture was smashed and splintered,
and the entire room was in a state of the utmost confusion.

“Stand right there,” said Jimmy, posing his victim before a shattered
and bulging section of wall. Then he snapped his picture before the
policeman could protest.

“I believe I can get some better pictures up here than any I have,” said
Jimmy, and he took several pictures that perfectly portrayed the havoc
wrought by the explosion.

“I must get back to my post,” said the policeman, suddenly remembering
that he was supposed to be guarding the front door.

Jimmy’s heart fell. He thought he was about to be ordered out of the
building. But he was equal to the occasion.

“You won’t be leaving the place for a while, will you?” he asked. “I
want to talk to you. I’ll look you up at the front door just as soon as
I get another picture or two.”

The policeman hesitated. He glanced at Jimmy’s police pass, and though
he had been ordered to keep everybody out of the building except
policemen, firemen, and hospital employees, he allowed Jimmy to remain,
while he himself returned to guard the front door. Doubtless he thought
that the damage was already done, and that it would do no harm if Jimmy
did get another picture or two. As for Jimmy, the moment the policeman’s
back was turned he scurried higher up in the wrecked building and took
picture after picture.

His remark about the policeman’s bravery had been a shot in the dark.
Jimmy hadn’t any idea whether the man had been present during the
disaster or not. But he knew the weakness most folks have for wishing to
appear like heroes, and he knew that policemen are no exception to the
rule. As luck would have it, this policeman had actually had a share in
the work of rescue. Jimmy found that out when he hurried back to the
front door after getting all the pictures he wanted.

“Please spell your name for me,” he said, as the policeman turned to
greet him. “I want to be sure I get it right.”

“L-a-f-f-e-r-t-y—Dennis Lafferty,” the policeman spelled out, a letter
at a time.

“That’s fine,” said Jimmy. “I just hate to get a man’s name wrong. And
I’d hate mighty bad to get yours wrong after all the fine work you did.”

Jimmy could see the man swelling with pride.

“I only did my duty,” he said.

“Tell me about it,” urged Jimmy. “Maybe the fellow who told me about it
didn’t have the story straight.”

“Well,” said Lafferty, “I was on duty directing traffic two blocks down
the street when the explosion occurred. I heard it and ran up here. A
woman was struggling to get out of the door right where we are, and I
rushed up to help her. Just then I got a whiff of the gas. I knew right
away what it was, for you see I was in the World War. So I jammed my
handkerchief over my nose, grabbed the woman by the arm, and helped her
out of the building. When I turned to go back I saw clouds of yellow gas
swirling out through the door. I knew it was worse than useless to go
back into the building, so I ran around to the side of the structure to
see if there was some other way to get people out.

“By that time the firemen had begun to arrive, and they were driven back
by the gas just as I had been. Battalion Chief Michael Graham was the
first chief on the grounds. When he saw it was useless to try to enter
the first floor, he ordered a motor extension ladder run up to the roof.
Then he and some of his men went up it. I scrambled after them. Two
firemen hacked away a skylight and three or four of us was lowered into
the building by ropes.”

Just then Handley went hurrying past the front door.

“Frank,” shouted Jimmy. “Come here a moment.”

Handley turned, saw Jimmy, and came up the steps to him.

“How are you making out?” he asked.

“Fine,” said Jimmy. “I want you to meet Policeman Dennis Lafferty. He
was one of the first policemen to arrive after the explosion. Mr.
Lafferty, this is Mr. Handley, my fellow reporter.”

Handley held out his hand to the policeman.

“Mr. Lafferty was just telling me about the way he and some firemen got
into the building by way of the roof. They saved a lot of people that
way. I’ve got some good snaps of Mr. Lafferty and I want to be sure to
get his story correct.” Then he turned to the policeman. “Won’t you tell
the story to Mr. Handley?” he asked. “I’ve got to get some more
pictures. Handley and I are working together on this story.”

“Sure,” said the policeman. “It’s all one to me.”

He began to talk to Handley and Jimmy hurried away to get some exterior
views. He was able to climb up on a building across the street and get a
picture of the crowd that jammed the street and the open lawn by the
side of the clinic building. Extension ladders were still raised to the
roof and to different windows, and by good luck a number of firemen were
coming down two of them. From other points of vantage Jimmy snapped the
building and the crowd several times. When he had taken all the
photographs he wanted, he hurried back to the front of the building.
Handley had just met one of the hospital doctors, who had returned to
the building to try to secure some important papers. The physician
courteously stopped to answer Handley’s questions. Jimmy seized the
opportunity to talk to Policeman Lafferty again.

“Did you see any other people who helped in the rescue?” he asked.

“Sure. I saw lots of them. There were dozens of folks who had a hand in
it.”

“Tell me about some of them, won’t you please? What was the most
striking thing you saw?”

“I hardly know,” said Lafferty. “But there was a big colored fellow who
saved a lot of people. You ought to know about him.”

“What did he do and what is his name?” asked Jimmy.

“His name is Chapin—Bob Chapin. He’s a tremendous big fellow. He works
in a garage near here. When he heard the explosion and found the
hospital was afire, he grabbed up a ladder and ran up here quick. He put
the ladder up to a window where a lot of people was trying to get out.
The ladder was too short. So Chapin picked it up, rested it on his
shoulders, and shoved the end up to the window. It just reached. Ten
people come down the ladder while he held it on his shoulders. Then he
ran inside and carried out about as many more. He saved almost two dozen
people.”

Just then Handley came hurrying back. “We’ve got to move along, Jimmy,”
he said. “We’ve played in luck here. I’ve got more stuff than I ever
dreamed I could get. Now we must hustle over to the hospitals and the
morgue and get names and see how the injured are doing.”

They said good-bye to Policeman Lafferty and thanked him for his help.
Then they raced down the street toward the place where their taxi driver
awaited. The man was there. They climbed into the car and were whirled
off at speed to the Mt. Sinai Hospital, where most of the victims had
been taken.

By this time the hospital authorities had secured some sort of order.
Lists of names were posted, which helped the reporters greatly. As the
emergency patients were placed everywhere, in corridors and hallways as
well as in the wards, Jimmy and his comrade managed to reach several of
them and get from them first-hand accounts of what happened in the
hospital immediately after the first explosion occurred. Also they were
able to talk briefly with one or two nurses.

From the Mt. Sinai Hospital they drove to the other hospitals and
finally to the morgue. They secured all the names available of both the
dead and injured.

“We’ve had wonderful luck,” said Handley. “I’ve got enough stuff to
write columns, and I don’t know how much more you have.”

“Let me tell you what I picked up,” said Jimmy. “Some of it may be
better than some of the stuff you have. Anyway it will be different.”

They hurried out to their taxi and got into it. “Here are my notes,”
said Jimmy. “Now let me tell you briefly what they mean.”

Hastily he ran over the incidents he had gathered. Handley followed the
notes as he listened. When Jimmy finished, Handley looked at his watch.
“Give me that typewriter quick,” he said. In another moment the keys
were flying under his fingers.

“Wait,” said Jimmy. “While you write I could be getting rescue
pictures.” Without a word, Handley grabbed his things and stepped from
the cab. “I’ll write right here on the hospital steps,” he said. “Hurry
back.”

Jimmy directed the taxi driver to take him to the nearest big newspaper.
They drove off at speed. Jimmy found the city editor, told him who he
was, and asked if he could buy a few rescue pictures for use in the
_Morning Press_ in New York. He showed his _Press_ credentials. The city
editor turned him over to the photograph staff and Jimmy got several
good prints that showed firemen carrying unconscious victims down
ladders at the wrecked hospital. He thanked the newspaper men for their
help, ran out to his taxi, and was rushed back to his comrade. Handley
was still pounding away on his typewriter, utterly oblivious to all that
went on about him. He hardly even looked up when Jimmy sat down beside
him and started to read the story Handley had written. Jimmy marveled as
he watched his colleague dash off the tale. He wondered if he would ever
be able to write like that. He was amazed at the gripping quality of the
story Handley had written. At last the latter tore the final sheet from
his typewriter. He had made carbon copies as he wrote. Jimmy had already
sorted out the two sets of sheets. He stuffed one copy of the story into
his own pocket and handed the other copy to Handley.

“We’ve certainly played in luck,” he said. “Let us hope I have as good
luck getting back to the office.”

Jimmy glanced up at the sky. So intent had he been upon his work that he
had forgotten about the weather. What he saw now brought a deep frown to
his face. “We’ll have to be stepping,” he said. “It’s already
six-thirty. I should have been off before this.”

“I’ll stay here and get more stuff,” said Handley. “Good luck to you.”
He turned to the driver of the taxi. “To the airport as fast as you can
make it,” he said. “This man has to be in New York by eleven o’clock.”

They dashed off at speed. At the airport Jimmy hurried to the office of
the weather forecaster. There he found Mr. Beverly Graham, who was in
charge of the entire eastern section of the Airways Weather Bureau, and
who had been the forecaster at Hadley Field in the days when Jimmy was
in the U. S. mail service.

“Well, where in the world did you come from, Jimmy?” asked Mr. Graham,
as he jumped to his feet and held out his hand. “I’m glad to see you.”

“Not half as much as I am to see you,” replied Jimmy, shaking Mr.
Graham’s hand heartily. “You know I’m flying for the New York _Press_,
and I’ve got the story of the hospital disaster in my pocket and a
camera full of pictures. I’ve got to reach New York as quick as I can
get there. What’s the weather like along the line?”

Mr. Graham frowned and looked at Jimmy intently. “I’m sorry you have to
fly to-night,” he said. “The weather couldn’t be worse. There’s the
densest kind of a fog from one end of Pennsylvania to the other.”

“I’m sorry, too,” said Jimmy, looking glum. “But it has to be done. The
_Press_ simply _must_ get these pictures.”

“I know how you feel about it, Jimmy. If you must go, perhaps you can
get up above the fog. Be sure to ride high and follow your radio beacon
exactly. That’ll guide you all right if you don’t have a forced landing.
Your greatest difficulty will probably be to get down safely. The fog
isn’t so bad along the coast yet, but we can’t tell what conditions will
be like when you reach there. The wind is pretty quiet. There’s a
twenty-mile wind at 5,000 feet. I can’t tell you what it is like above
that. We couldn’t see our balloons beyond that height, and even this
information is two hours old. Fog and clouds have shut out every thing
up high the past hour. Here’s a weather chart for you with the latest
news we have been able to collect. Fog is solid through Pennsylvania.”

Jimmy studied the chart for a moment. His face grew very serious. Then
he said, “Thanks ever so much. I must be off. Good-bye.” He held out his
hand and the forecaster shook it warmly.

“I don’t like it, Jimmy,” he said. “I hope you get through safely.
Remember to fly high and follow your radio beacon carefully. Don’t take
any chance of getting lost in the fog. We’ll do all we can to help you
make it.”



                               CHAPTER VI

              Flying Blind Over the Graveyard of Airplanes


Jimmy looked very sober as he climbed into his plane. He was about to
tackle the meanest job a pilot is called upon to attempt. Had he been at
the other end of the line, starting westward, with the wind in his face,
instead of starting eastward, with the breeze at his back, he would
hardly have dared to attempt it. But inasmuch as he did not have to make
a landing in Pennsylvania, he was willing to try it, although the
weather man had suggested that by the time he reached Long Island it
might be foggy there also. Jimmy decided to take the chance.

But he wasn’t going to take any more chances than he absolutely had to
take. So he switched on his navigation lights, tested his landing
lights, made sure his flares were hooked, ready for release, and glanced
at his instruments. Then he speeded up his engine and listened to its
roar. The instant he was satisfied that everything was working
perfectly, he took off.

He hopped into the wind, then circled back to the east, and was away
like an arrow. Although the atmosphere at Cleveland was only beginning
to grow foggy, before Jimmy had risen a hundred feet in the air the
bright lights of the airport began to be blurred. As Jimmy passed
directly over the great hangar, after circling, he could barely tell
where it was. In another minute low clouds had wiped out every trace of
the earth. No matter where he looked, nothing was visible but thick,
clinging banks of fog.

Jimmy had been in fog before, but he had never made a trip such as this
one promised to be. Always the fogs he had ridden through had dissipated
after a time, but this fog-bank bade fair to cover every inch of the
four hundred and fifty miles or so to his home field. The possibilities
of getting lost, of crashing, of meeting with dire disaster in a flight
of such length, were too many for Jimmy to allow himself to consider
them.

He did not permit himself even to think of these possibilities. Instead,
he called up every bit of flying ability he possessed to meet the
situation. At two or three hundred feet elevation he had gone blind.
From that point onward, he had to fly wholly by his instruments.

Setting his course by his compass, he sat listening to the guiding note
of the radio beacon, his eyes glued to the instrument board. From his
compass his eyes darted to his turn-and-bank indicator, then to his air
speed indicator. Occasionally he glanced at his engine instruments, to
see that his propeller was making the necessary revolutions per minute,
that the engine temperature was not too high, that his oil pressure
remained constant.

But mostly he kept watch of his speed and of his position. The steel
ball in the centre of the turn-and-bank indicator had to be kept right
in the centre. Every time the ball began to slide one way or the other,
Jimmy had to bring his ship back to a level keel, for the moving steel
ball showed that he was beginning to dip to one side or the other. Sense
of balance told him little or nothing; and had it not been for his
indicator, he might soon have been flying upside down, as many a pilot
before him had done. Nor could he allow his ship to drop below a speed
of sixty miles an hour, lest it come crashing to earth.

All the while the radio beacon signal was buzzing loudly in his ears.
“Dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah,” the signal sounded. It came to him with
startling intensity. That was because his ship was close to the beacon
itself. As he traveled onward, Jimmy knew, the signal would grow fainter
and fainter, for during the first half of the flight to Bellefonte he
would be guided by the signals from the airport he had just left. Beyond
that he would be guided by the Bellefonte signals, and he knew these
would grow ever louder as he neared that field.

Up he climbed, and up and up, seeking to get above the fog. Again and
again he glanced at his altimeter, but though he had risen to five
thousand feet, and then six and seven and eight thousand, he was still
in dense mist. He continued to climb, to watch his instruments, to
listen to the radio beacon. All the time he was trying to check his
position. He watched his air speed indicator. He watched his tachometer,
which indicated his revolutions per minute. He watched his clock. He
checked one against the other. With a twenty-mile wind at his back,
Jimmy figured he must be making fully one hundred and fifty miles an
hour. At that speed he should make his home field in close to three
hours. Then he should have to make the trip to the New York office of
the _Press_. It looked to Jimmy as though he ought easily to reach the
_Press_ office by eleven o’clock. The thought heartened him.

He could travel faster, if he had to, but he did not want to drive his
ship as fast on the return trip as he had driven it in coming west. It
was too hard on the ship. So he watched his instruments and held his
plane to the speed indicated.

All the while he climbed. Up he went steadily. From eight thousand feet
he climbed to nine, then ten. Still the fog was unbroken. But his engine
worked marvelously in the heavy air and he kept his ship nosing higher
and higher. Suddenly, at eleven thousand feet, he shot up above the fog.
The night was clear as crystal. Above him twinkled innumerable stars.
With a deep sigh of relief Jimmy climbed a little higher, then
straightened out and rode on level keel. Below him spread endless masses
of cloud, more wonderful than an ocean, dimly lighted by the stars
above. So long as he could ride above the fog his trip was now an easy
one. He had only to follow his compass and the radio beacon. The
difficulty would come when he had to drop down through the fog and make
a landing.

While Jimmy was thus fighting both to insure his safety and to gain his
goal, agencies of which he was not aware were also at work to try to
make his progress safe. Hardly had Jimmy left the ground at the
Cleveland Airport before Beverly Graham hurried into the radio room.

“Sparks,” he said to the radio man, “I wish you would send a message on
your printer saying that Jimmy Donnelly, flying for the New York
_Morning Press_, just left here, heading for Long Island. The message
will reach caretakers at beacons all along the route. Tell all
caretakers to report his progress to me as he goes over their beacons.
Nobody else is flying east at this time that we know of and it’s very
doubtful if anybody else will go over the route to-night.”

The wireless man turned to his printer and began to pound out the
message on the keyboard. But the machine on which he was writing, though
it somewhat resembled a typewriter, was not a typewriter at all, but an
electric printing or teletype machine, which reproduced the message on
similar machines at Bellefonte and Hadley Field and other stations as
fast as it was written. In no time, therefore, these two Air Mail
stations and the caretakers at various landing fields, knew that Jimmy
was flying east in the fog. Thus as Jimmy passed over Mercer and Clarion
and other points on the airway in western Pennsylvania his progress was
promptly reported to his friend, the chief forecaster.

But long before Jimmy reached the “graveyard of airplanes” he himself
was aware that Beverly Graham was making a special effort in his behalf.
When he was only a short distance out of Cleveland he heard the hourly
weather broadcast from the Cleveland radio man. Jimmy listened intently,
though there was little they could tell him about the weather that he
did not already know. The usual, stereotyped broadcast contained no
reference to the wind. That was the one thing Jimmy wanted to know
about. A moment later he heard the Cleveland radio man saying: “Mr.
Donnelly, in the New York _Morning Press_ plane, will please note that
the wind has shifted slightly from west to southwest and has increased
to twenty-five miles an hour. He will also please listen carefully for a
message when he passes over Bellefonte.”

“Good old Beverly,” said Jimmy. “He never forgets a friend. He didn’t
want me to fly tonight, but now that I am up in the air he’s doing all
he can for me. I wonder what he has instructed Bellefonte to do. I’ll
thank him at once.”

When Jimmy’s plane was built it had been equipped with a radio receiving
set. But about two weeks before he was ordered to Cleveland, Jimmy had
succeeded in having a sending set installed in the plane, thus bringing
his ship right up to date. Not even all the mail planes had sending sets
as yet, though some of them did.

Jimmy picked up his instrument, put the mouthpiece to his lips, and sent
this message into the air: “Jimmy Donnelly, of the _Morning Press_,
speaking. Cleveland weather forecast received. Also special notice as to
force and direction of the wind. Will get into touch with Bellefonte as
I go over. Thanks very much for help. I shall need all I can get.”

He replaced the mouthpiece and settled back in his seat. A quick glance
at his instrument board assured him that all was working well. He looked
at his clock and tried to figure out his position. Suddenly he became
aware that the buzzing in his ears had altered. No longer did he hear
the regular “dah, dah, dah, dah, dah,” which told him he was directly on
the air line. Instead Jimmy heard the signal “dot dah, dot dah, dot dah,
dot dah, dot dah.” He knew he was to the left of the course.

“That’s the work of the wind,” thought Jimmy. “Shifting to the
southwest, it has blown me to the northeast of the line. I’ll move over
to the right a little.”

He kicked his rudder bar, shoved his stick over ever so slightly, and
sat listening. “Dot dah, dot dah, dot dah,” sang the ear phones, but
presently the signal changed. “Dah, dah, dah, dah, dah,” it went. He was
back on the course.

“Gee, but I’m glad I’m flying in the year 1929, and not half a dozen
years ago,” thought Jimmy. “I’d soon be way off my course and never know
the difference if I didn’t have this radio set. I tell you, a compass
doesn’t help much when there’s a cross-wind. Half a dozen years ago,
before there were any radio beacons, I’d have had to make this trip by
dead reckoning, and I’d probably have landed in Connecticut, or
Massachusetts, or any old place except Long Island.”

He flew on, listening carefully to the buzz of the radio beacon, and
intent upon his task. He was pleased to know that his friend, the
forecaster, had taken so much trouble on his account. He would have been
still more pleased could he have known to what extent the weather man
was laboring in his behalf. For after Jimmy left the Cleveland Airport,
Beverly Graham sat down at his desk and devoted himself to doing all
that he could to get Jimmy through in safety.

Suddenly Jimmy heard a sharp signal, sounding above the dull buzz of the
directional beacon. A smile of satisfaction flitted over Jimmy’s face.
“I’m right over Brookville,” he muttered. Quickly he glanced at his
clock, then made a rapid calculation. “I’m right on the line and right
where I ought to be at this minute,” he thought. “I’m making almost
exactly 150 miles an hour.”

What he had heard was a marker beacon. At intervals along the airway,
radio signals are sent up vertically, just as they are sent horizontally
from the radio beacons at Cleveland, Bellefonte, and Hadley Field. These
vertical radio beams are audible only for the brief spaces of time it
takes a plane to sweep over the stations sending them. The present
signal was gone almost as soon as Jimmy heard it, but it gave him a
world of information and assurance. It told him, not merely that he was
on the line, which he already knew, but it also told him the exact point
on that line which he had reached. He soared onward with increased
confidence.

Intently he watched his instrument board. From time to time the radio
beacon warned him that he was being blown from the direct line, and he
nosed his plane back to the path. Everything seemed to be going well.
His clock told him that he should be nearing Bellefonte, the half-way
point between Cleveland and Hadley Field. Also, the radio signals were
now so much more powerful that he knew he must be close to the beacon
emitting them.

For some time Jimmy rode with only the roar of his own engine and the
buzzing of the radio beacon reaching his ears. He was certain, however,
that he must be near Bellefonte. The radio beacon signals came so
loudly. Suddenly, above the steady buzz of the directional beacon came
the sharp signal of the Bellefonte marker beacon. Jimmy drew a breath of
relief. “Halfway,” he muttered, “and everything as fine as silk.”

Hardly had he heard the marker beacon before a voice sounded in his
ears: “This is Bellefonte Weather Bureau speaking to Jimmy Donnelly, of
the New York _Morning Press_. As nearly as we can judge by the sound of
your engine, you are directly over the field. Fog continues bad
throughout Pennsylvania. Wind remains unchanged—southwest, twenty-five
miles an hour. Conditions much better after you pass the mountains. Some
fog in New Jersey and may be more before you get there.”

Instantly Jimmy answered through his sending set. “This is Jimmy
Donnelly speaking to Bellefonte,” he said. “Your message received.
Thanks ever so much. Have you any information about weather between
Hadley Field and Long Island?”

“No,” came the reply, “but will tell Hadley to get latest information
and talk to you as you go by. Good luck to you.”

“Please tell Long Island I am coming,” said Jimmy. “I ought to hit there
about ten o’clock. Please ask the radio man there to listen in for me
about that time. I’ll get in touch with him after I pass Hadley. Thanks
ever so much.”

Jimmy went sailing straight on through the fog. Ahead of him lay the
worst place on the entire mail route, the Woodward Pass. But he was
light of heart. He knew where he was, he knew how high he had to be to
pass safely over the mountains, and he had no fear of losing his way.
Had he been left to reckon out his position himself, he would have been
worried and uncertain, no matter how regularly his propeller turned, no
matter how accurate his clock. But with the radio keeping him on the
course and telling him the precise moment when he passed over
Bellefonte, there could be neither doubt nor uncertainty. So he flew on,
almost jubilant. He was making the schedule he had set for himself. He
felt sure he was going to succeed.

On he went, carefully watching his instruments, and trying to figure his
position from moment to moment. Now he felt sure he was past the
mountains beyond Bellefonte and flying over the lovely Penn’s Valley. In
a few minutes he was approaching Woodward Pass. He pictured Winkelblech
Mountain rearing its great bulk directly in the line of his flight,
where he should turn to the right and shoot through the pass. But
to-night he was not shooting passes. He was thousands of feet above the
pass. Suddenly, for the merest fraction of a second, he thought he saw a
gleam of light. It must have been the beacon on Winkelblech, he thought,
shining through some rift in the fog. In a few moments he knew he must
be past the mountains and sailing over the beautiful Buffalo Valley. But
only his instruments told him so. Below him he could see nothing but
fog.

Ahead of him lay more mountains—wicked ones, too, through the great
reaches of the anthracite coal field, where the earth is as rough and
rugged as the outside of a black walnut shell. But the furrows in the
earth are great mountain ridges, and the wrinkles are hills and
precipices.

On he flew, following the radio beacon intently, watching his time,
calculating his position. He could see absolutely nothing. He wanted to
see nothing but the instruments before him, for it was almost terrifying
to look out into the fog. His instruments seemed friendly to him.

Now he felt sure he was over Sunbury. One hour more would bring him to
Hadley Field, for it was exactly 150 miles between the two points. In
half an hour, three quarters of an hour at most, the worst part of the
trip would be over. The Pennsylvania mountains would be passed, and
underfoot would lie the flat agricultural lands of New Jersey, where he
might hope to land in safety if he were forced down, though there seemed
to be little chance of that.

He rushed on through the night. Ahead of him, he knew, the country was
far less rugged for a distance. The mountains melted into hills of
perhaps eight hundred feet elevation, and there were many farms and
smooth fields. But soon after he should pass Elysburg, just ahead, the
land would rise up sharp again, in hills twelve hundred feet high.
Beyond them was lower land once more, and then the ridges climbed up,
just before Ringtown was reached, until their summits towered two
thousand feet aloft. Little did Jimmy care about that. He was far, far
above them. The mountains meant nothing to him. Already the marker
beacon at Numidia was sounding in his ears. Soon, now, he would be
entirely past the mountains.

Suddenly he noticed that his engine was beginning to heat. He glanced at
his oil gauge and found that it was no longer working. Instantly he
looked at his tachometer. His engine speed was falling rapidly. Jimmy
opened his throttle. There was no answering response from the engine.
Instead, it beat slower and slower. It was making twelve hundred
revolutions per minute. It fell to nine, then seven hundred. His ship
slowed dangerously. He began to lose altitude. There was nothing to do
but come down. Otherwise he would soon fall. He decided to try to make
the landing field at Numidia. Then he saw that he could not do it. The
wind at his back would prevent it. His engine was too weak to fight the
breeze. It would blow him far to one side of the little landing field.

An icy feeling grew about Jimmy’s heart. He knew what was coming—a
forced landing among the mountains, in the densest sort of fog. Already
he was far down in the mist clouds. Vision was absolutely cut off. For a
single instant he felt numb, almost paralyzed. Then he rallied all the
skill he had, to fight for his life.

The next landing field was at Ringtown. It was only eleven miles from
Numidia to Ringtown, and he had already passed over part of the
distance. He must make the landing field at Ringtown. He must keep his
ship in the air until he could reach that field. If only his trouble had
occurred a bit sooner, he could have made the field at Numidia. The
marker beacon would have helped him to get down to the right spot. How
he was going to tell where the Ringtown field was, in this awful fog,
Jimmy did not know. He could not even guess.

Between him and Ringtown were those stern and beetling hilltops—those
mountains that towered heavenward for two thousand feet. Could he get
over them? With his face drawn and serious Jimmy glanced at his
altimeter. He was still well above that height, but he was losing
elevation steadily. Could he get over those mountain crests? Could he
find the landing field if he did get over?

Suddenly he thought of his radio. He put the mouthpiece to his lips.
“This is Donnelly of the _New York Press_,” he said firmly and evenly.
“I am between Numidia and Ringtown. My oil line has gone bad. My engine
is failing. I am losing altitude fast. I am trying to get over the
mountains west of Ringtown and land at that field. May need help.”

Jimmy had no idea whether or not any one would hear his call. Ordinarily
the radio men would not be listening in for messages. Yet there was a
chance that they might be listening to-night, because of the very bad
weather. But Jimmy was reckoning without Beverly Graham. The moment he
found that Jimmy had a sending set, the latter had issued orders that a
constant watch be kept on the air. Hence Jimmy’s message came to waiting
ears. The Bellefonte radio man caught it.

He didn’t even wait to answer Jimmy. There is no caretaker at the little
Ringtown landing field. The Bellefonte operator knew that. But he
snatched up his telephone and tried to get a connection with a man at
Ringtown who had control over the field. The telephone operator was a
long time in getting the connection. When finally the Bellefonte
operator got his man, he said hastily: “A flier is making a forced
landing at your field right away. See if you can do something to help
him.”

But meantime, though the operator almost failed in his effort to get
help for Jimmy, help from another source was at hand. Johnnie Lee had
gotten Jimmy’s parachute message and read it. When night came on, and he
saw what the weather was like, he doubted very much if Jimmy would
attempt to return to New York. But if Jimmy did fly over, Johnnie wanted
to signal him. He wanted his old friend to know that he had received his
message. He knew that it was idle to attempt to send a message up
through the fog with so impotent a thing as his flash-light. And so for
a long time Johnnie had been at work preparing for a bonfire.

Fearful of setting fire to his father’s buildings, Johnnie had been
stacking up old boards and rails on top of a pile of old wood that stood
close to one edge of his father’s farm, and almost adjoining the landing
field. He had thrown coal oil on the pile, saturating it thoroughly, and
he had a bucket of gasoline all ready to throw on the heap before he
touched a match to it.

But that was not all. As Jimmy had suspected, Johnnie had a radio
sending set, like most of the other members of the Wireless Patrol. It
would not carry his voice so very many miles, but Johnnie knew it would
carry well enough for him to hold a conversation with Jimmy as the
latter neared Ringtown. Even now he was at his radio, listening. He had
been there for some time. He had caught the weather forecast from
Bellefonte. He felt sure that if Jimmy had left Cleveland, he ought to
be nearing Ringtown. So he listened hopefully yet fearfully. And
suddenly he caught the very message that galvanized the Bellefonte
operator into action. Jimmy was calling for help. He was near at hand.
He was trying to make the Ringtown field, but there was nothing to guide
him.

The instant Jimmy stopped speaking, Johnnie sent a call speeding through
the air. “Jimmy Donnelly,” he said. “This is Johnnie Lee speaking. I
heard your call for help. I have a big bonfire ready to light. I will
touch it off at once. Maybe you can see it through the fog. The landing
field is just beyond it. Is there anything else I can do to help you?”

Instantly there was an answer. “God bless you, Johnnie. Light your fire
quick. I’m coming down fast, but I believe I’m going to clear the
mountains. Get your fire lighted quick.”

Johnnie did not tarry a single instant. Out of the house he darted and
away he rushed across the fields to his pile of wood, heedless of the
dark and the fog. He knew the way perfectly and his flash-light helped
him to avoid loose stones. He reached his beacon without a fall or a
twisted ankle.

Grabbing up his bucket of gasoline he threw it over his pile of wood.
Then he struck a match and tossed it toward the heap. There was a
terrific burst of flames that shot fifty feet into the air. Then the
oil-soaked pile of wood caught fire. The flames soared upward. The fire
grew intense. The oily wood burned with terrific heat. The glare of the
flames lighted the entire region. Even through the fog the flare of the
fire could be seen for a long distance. It turned the mist into glowing
clouds. It shone through rifts in the fog, like the electric beams of
searchlights penetrating the openings between cloud masses.

Suddenly Johnnie thought he heard the drone of a motor. Then the sound
faded away. The noise of the fire drowned out more distant sounds. The
snap and crackle and hiss and roar of the burning heap shut out every
trace of the hum of a propeller. For a moment Johnnie stood near his
beacon, vainly straining his ears for some further trace of an airplane.
Then he ran hastily off to one side. Again he heard the faint drone of a
motor. Then the sound died away. But Johnnie felt sure he had not been
deceived. Jimmy was going to make it. He was going to reach the field in
safety.

Again Johnnie strained his ears, to catch another shred of sound. A puff
of wind brought him what he was listening for, loudly, unmistakably.
Once more the sound died away. But Johnnie knew he had not been
mistaken. He had heard an airplane. Suddenly the sound came to him with
startling distinctness. He strained both ears and eyes as he peered
upward through the fog.

Suddenly there was a bright glow aloft. Johnnie’s heart stood still. He
listened for an explosion. He was frozen with horror. The plane
overhead—Jimmy’s plane—was afire. He gazed fearfully into the
concealing fog to see where the plane was falling. He saw it coming down
with a rush, flaming fiercely. The cloud of fog was all aglow with the
brilliant light. It shone even brighter than Johnnie’s bonfire.
Regardless of what might happen to him if the plane exploded, Johnnie
rushed toward the spot where it was apparently going to crash. Johnnie
reached the place. He paused, looking upward. He held his breath,
waiting for the smash. Down came the glowing light to the earth. Johnnie
let out a yell of relief. It was not the plane that had fallen, but a
flare that Jimmy must have dropped.

Quickly Johnnie looked aloft again. He stared through the fog banks.
Dimly he saw something glowing. He watched, breathless. Almost instantly
the glow over his head became two luminous spots in the mist. They grew
brighter fast. Now Johnnie was certain he knew what he was looking at.
The luminous spots were the landing lights of a descending plane. They
seemed to be jumping right at him. Johnnie knew the plane was coming
straight toward him. It was almost upon him. He leaped to one side. He
was not a moment too soon. The descending plane swished past him, seemed
to rise lightly, then leveled off, hit the ground heavily, bounced, came
to earth again, and went rolling and jolting straight across the landing
field.

Johnnie raced after the ship. It came to rest. A figure stepped from the
cabin. Johnnie raced toward the man.

“Hello!” he cried.

“Hello yourself,” came the answer. “Who are you?”

“This is Johnnie. Thank God you got down safe.”

They clasped hands and stood silent.



                              CHAPTER VII

                       A Forced Landing in a Fog


For a second the two old friends held each other’s hand. Then some one
was heard running toward them. A man appeared in the fog.

“It’s the man who looks after the field,” said Johnnie, as soon as he
could distinguish the approaching figure. “I suppose he heard you land
and has come to help.”

The man rushed up. “Are you all right?” he asked anxiously. “Did you get
down without much damage?”

“Don’t believe I broke a thing,” said Jimmy.

“You know my plane is built with unusually strong underpinning. Let’s
take a look at her.”

Johnnie’s bonfire gave them enough light to see by. Quickly they
examined the plane. Nothing was wrong externally.

“Let’s take a look at the oil line,” said Jimmy. “Something went wrong
with it.”

He reached into his plane and drew out his flash-light. “Hold it,” he
said, shoving it into Johnnie’s hand. Then he turned and opened the
cowling of his engine.

With practiced eye he glanced along the length of the oil line. At first
nothing wrong was apparent. But on the bottom of the engine compartment
was a telltale pool of oil. Jimmy twisted his head and got a look at the
underside of the oil line. The pipe was cracked open along the seam. The
crack extended for several inches. Practically all the oil had dripped
from the engine.

“Vibration must have done that,” said Jimmy, as he turned to his
companions and explained what was wrong. “Likely it happened when I went
west this afternoon, for I flew the ship pretty hard. I suppose the seam
gave way then, and the hard trip to-night has opened it up. Have you got
any tire tape, Johnnie?”

“Plenty of it,” said Johnnie. “I’ll fetch you some.”

“Bring all you can get,” shouted Jimmy after the fast-disappearing
Johnnie. “And arrange for some oil. I’ll need a lot. Hurry as fast as
you can, Johnnie. I mustn’t lose a minute.”

Jimmie stepped into the cabin of his ship and threw open a locker, in
which he carried odds and ends that might be useful to him in just such
an emergency as this. There were rolls of tire tape here. Jimmy grabbed
them. In another moment he was rapidly taping the broken pipe-line. Over
the actual opening in the seam he wound several thicknesses of the tape.
Then he began to twist the stuff around the remainder of the little
pipe. There was no telling how soon the rest of the seam would open, and
Jimmy meant to play safe. He used all the tape he had, and when Johnnie
came back with additional rolls, he added these to his reinforcements.
When all the tape was wrapped, he breathed a sigh of relief.

“I don’t believe we’ll lose any more oil,” he said, “even if the whole
seam opens up. She’s wound tight and thick. Now, how about oil? Could
you get any?”

“Dad’s bringing all we have,” said Johnnie. “We buy it in thirty-gallon
barrels, as we can get it so much cheaper.”

“Thank heaven you’ve got plenty of it,” said Jimmy. “It’ll take a lot.
How is your father going to get it here?”

“On the truck,” said Johnnie. And even as he spoke they heard the
chugging of a motor and a farm truck came nosing through the fog.

Jimmy stepped to the truck and greeted Mr. Lee. “It’s mighty kind of you
to help me out,” he said. “I thought I was done, when I was forced down.
But now I can take off again and I can still get to New York on time.
I’ll lose half an hour here probably, but there’s still time enough if I
don’t have any more trouble.”

Johnnie filled the oil tank as fast as he could. Jimmy snatched the
opportunity to look his motor over. Everything seemed to be right. Then
he watched the oil gauge and told Johnnie when to stop pouring oil. He
made everything tight about the cowling, gave the ship a final
inspection under the rays of his flash-light, and stepped into his
cabin.

Now he would know whether he might possibly still succeed in his
enterprise. He was fearful that the engine might have overheated and
been injured when it was running with insufficient oil. Would it start
now? And if it started, would it run? Could he depend upon it? Would it
have power enough to lift him from the ground? Could he trust it to
raise him high enough aloft to clear the mountains so close in front of
him?

Fearfully Jimmy pressed the starter. There was an explosion, the
propeller turned over once or twice and stopped. Jimmy’s heart almost
stopped with it. The engine was ruined. It would not go. He had failed
in his effort. He had lost his big opportunity. All these thoughts
flashed through Jimmy’s mind. Then came another. “It’s got to go,” he
muttered.

He choked the engine and again touched the starter. For a moment the
starter whirred noisily, but the engine did not explode. Then there was
a bang, the propeller whirled madly about, and the engine began to hum
smoothly.

“There wasn’t any gas in it the first time,” thought Jimmy.

Then he sat and listened. His motor ran as well as ever it had run. It
was purring as smoothly as a sewing-machine. He ran his eye over his
instrument board. The oil gauge was registering now. Everything looked
right. He did not take time to make his usual tests. Throttling down his
engine, he leaned from the cabin.

“A million thanks, everybody,” he said. “I’ll get into touch with you
later. I’ve got to be off this instant or I’ll be late with my stuff.
Goodbye and good luck to you all. Thanks ever so much.”

He closed the cabin door and stepped into the pilot’s seat. The engine
began to pick up. It beat faster and faster. Presently the plane started
to roll forward, very slowly. Jimmy drove it straight on until he could
see the little, low boundary lights that marked the edge of the landing
field. He drove the ship close to them, turned it about to head it into
the wind, then went charging blindly back across the field through the
fog, almost straight at the reddish blur that he knew was Johnnie’s
bonfire. His engine functioned perfectly. He gathered speed. Suddenly
the plane lifted from the ground and soared almost directly above the
blazing pyre. For a single instant it was visible in the red mist above
the flames. Then it vanished from view in the fog as a stone disappears
beneath the water.

Inside the plane Jimmy sat tense. His first effort was to gain
elevation. Before him, at almost no distance, the hills once more
reached an elevation of 2,000 feet. He had to climb a thousand feet to
reach their tops, another thousand to be safe. But there was this factor
in his favor. He was flying with the wind. The air would rush upward
when it struck the slopes of the mountains and he would be borne upward
with it.

But Jimmy was not waiting for any ascending currents of air to carry him
aloft. He opened his throttle wide and climbed as rapidly as he could
push his ship upward. For a few moments he thought of nothing else. He
wanted to gain altitude. With every second he breathed more easily. His
altimeter showed him he was mounting fast. Now he was at 1,300 feet, now
1,500, now 1,800, now 2,000. Up he went. His altimeter registered 2,500
feet. Jimmy knew he was safe. No hilltop in the region towered so high.
At 3,000 feet he felt still better. But he did not stop climbing until
he was thousands of feet aloft.

All the time he had been climbing, Jimmy had also been trying to keep on
his course. The radio beacon made that easily possible. All the time it
had been singing in Jimmy’s ears, “dah, dah, dah, dah,” and Jimmy
thought he had never heard sweeter music.

Assured of sufficient elevation, certain that he was on the line, Jimmy
felt sure that nothing could now prevent him from reaching his goal. He
was elated. He might have broken his landing gear at Ringtown. The plane
might have nosed over and damaged his propeller. He might even have
crashed. Any one of these things might have happened and one of them
almost certainly would have happened, had it not been for Johnnie Lee’s
beacon. Added to the light of the revolving beam from the landing field
tower and his own flare, it had enabled Jimmy to get down safely. It
wouldn’t matter if he did smash his landing gear when he came down on
Long Island. He would then be at his destination.

So Jimmy sailed ahead jubilantly. And his jubilation increased as he
flew along. He knew just where he was. He glanced at his clock, to check
the time, and ran his eye over all his other instruments. Everything
seemed to be working right.

Meantime, the forces on the ground had not been idle. The moment that
Jimmy took off from Ringtown, the man who had helped Jimmy there hurried
to the telephone and informed the Bellefonte radio man that Jimmy had
landed safely at Ringtown, had repaired a leak in his oil line, and had
taken off again. At almost the same time word came to Bellefonte to the
effect that a plane had just passed over the Park Place beacon. That was
reassuring news, for it told the watchers that Jimmy had gotten safely
aloft once more.

On he went, boring through the fog. To this he gave small heed. His
entire attention was centred on his instrument board. He watched that
like a hawk. From his turn and balance indicator, which told him when he
was on a level keel and was flying straight, his eyes jumped to his
tachometer, to his oil gauge, his oil temperature gauge, his altimeter,
and so on from instrument to instrument. But most often his eye fell
upon the oil gauge. Despite his confident remarks about the security of
the pipe-line, he was none too sure that he would not have further
trouble with it. But none developed, though Jimmy soared along, mile
after mile.

A half hour passed. Jimmy had his eye on his clock. “We ought to be
close to Easton,” he thought. He glanced out through the fog, though he
had no hope of seeing anything but mist. Nor did he see anything else.
Yet the mist had a luminous quality he had not noticed at any other
time. He sped on and presently the mist lost its luminous effect. For a
moment Jimmy was puzzled. Then a look of inquiry came to his face.
“Could that have been from the lights of Easton?” he thought. “If it
was, the fog is not so dense.”

He flew on. The radio beacon kept him straight on the course. His clock
and his tachometer assured him that he was well past Easton. He felt
easier in his mind. There were no more mountains to face. The waves of
land that make Pennsylvania so rugged were flattening out. Nowhere
before him, Jimmy knew, were there hills higher than 800 feet and soon
he would be over country as flat as a sea on a calm day. The thought
cheered him. His radio signals were growing much stronger. He knew that
meant that he was approaching Hadley Field. He began to peer out into
the mist, hoping to find it lessening.

Presently a bright flash of light shone for a second against a bank of
fog. Jimmy almost cried out with joy. It was the beam of a revolving
beacon. Soon he saw another flash of light. He began to descend and came
down cautiously until he was within a thousand feet of the earth. And
now he could see, here and there as he flew, luminous patches in the
fog. He knew well that these bright spots were the lights of towns. He
calculated his position and slowly dropped down another hundred feet.

He knew now that he was nearing Hadley Field. All about him were Jersey
towns. He could begin to make them out more plainly. The mist was no
longer in unbroken clouds. It was growing thin and stringy. Occasionally
through a rift in it he could catch a clear glimpse of lights on the
ground. And now he began to see the beams of the revolving lights at
frequent intervals.

He decided to try to talk with the Hadley radio man. Picking up his
mouthpiece, he sent forth a call: “Jimmy Donnelly, in the _New York
Press_ plane, calling Hadley Field.”

The call was answered as soon as he had done speaking. “Hadley Field
answering Donnelly,” came the reply, sharp and crisp. “Is everything all
right with you?”

“Couldn’t be better,” replied Jimmy, “except for fog. That is growing
less. What can you tell me about the weather between here and Long
Island?”

“It improves all the way. Long Island just told us that there was almost
no fog there.”

“Won’t you ask them to have a taxi ready for me when I arrive,” said
Jimmy. “I’ve got to rush some films to the _Press_ office. I mustn’t
lose a minute.”

“We’ll call them right away and tell them you want a taxi. Have you any
idea where you are?”

“I ought to be near—why, there’s your neon light and the beacon over
the hangar. Now it’s gone again. I must be very close to Hadley. It
didn’t seem to be more than two miles away.”

“We can hear your motor,” came back the reply. “We’ll tell Long Island
you’ll be there very soon. Good luck to you. We’ll call them at once.”

Plainer and plainer Jimmy could see the glowing lights below him. He
dropped down another hundred feet. Suddenly he heard the marker beacon
at Hadley Field. Now he was sure he knew where he was. There were the
lights of New Brunswick. Beyond was Metuchen. Much farther away was a
glow that must be Perth Amboy. Jimmy thanked his lucky stars. No longer
would he have the radio beacon to direct him. He must find his own way.
Unless fog arose immediately, there would be no difficulty about that.
In a few minutes he would be at his airport.

The radio beacon had already ceased to beat in his ears. He was past
Hadley Field. He set his course direct for his destination, noted the
compass direction, and flew on. Soon he was over Staten Island. He flew
above the Narrows and was over Long Island. Below him for miles glowed
the lights of Brooklyn. His plane rushed on like an eagle. Soon Brooklyn
was behind him. His own field lay just before him. There were fog clouds
and shreds of fog, but it was easy enough to see down between them.
Another half hour, Jimmy knew, would probably put the whole island under
a deep blanket of fog. He had often seen the fog making up as it was
now. But he cared nothing at all about what conditions would be like in
half an hour. For he was home. His landing field was just under him.

He nosed his ship downward, shut off his power, and came down in a long
glide. The field was well lighted. He could see the earth perfectly. He
put his ship down in a three point landing, and rolled across the turf.
Then he taxied rapidly to his hangar, gave a shouted order to fill the
gas and oil tanks, threw off his parachute, grabbed his camera, and
rushed out to the waiting taxi. In another second he was speeding toward
Manhattan.

It still lacked several minutes of his deadline when he rushed into the
_Press_ office and laid his story on the city editor’s desk. A copy boy
ran to the photograph department with his camera. Jimmy sank into a
seat. He suddenly felt weak. He was all atremble. It was the let down
after the tremendous strain he had undergone.

The managing editor came walking out of his office. He held out his hand
and shook Jimmy’s warmly. “It was a fine piece of work, Jimmy,” he said.
“Handley telegraphed us about you and the bad night. We have followed
you all the way across. You had us pretty badly frightened when you told
Bellefonte your engine was failing and you were making a forced landing
in the mountains. And our relief was great when we found you were
patched up and on your way again. It is equalled only by our pleasure in
seeing you.”

Jimmy looked abashed. Then he lost all sense of self-consciousness as
the thought of Johnnie Lee popped into his head.

“I might not be here now, Mr. Johnson,” he said, “if it had not been for
my old friend Johnnie Lee. It was his bonfire that saved me. Without it
I should almost certainly have crashed. I owe my life to him and the
_Press_ owes its pictures and its story to him. He wants to be a
reporter, Mr. Johnson. Can’t you help him? Haven’t you a job for him?”

“Has he done any reporting, Jimmy? Has he had any experience?”

“No, sir. But he is clever enough. He could learn quickly, if you would
give him a chance. And I have no doubt he would be glad to work for very
little pay or maybe none at all until he learned how to do the work.
Can’t you take him on, Mr. Johnson?”

“I’m sorry, Jimmy, I’ll gladly send him a check for his help to-night.
We are always willing to pay anybody who helps us get news. But we have
no use for green reporters here. We need trained men. We seldom hire
cubs any more. We want men with experience.”

“But you took me on,” protested Jimmy, “and I was perfectly green.”

“You came on as a flier, Jimmy. And you would be the last man in the
world to say you were green at that job.”

“But I learned how to get news. So could Johnnie.”

“Yes, you did, Jimmy. You picked up the knack readily. And if you
continue to improve, you’ll make a great reporter some day. But you
evidently had it in you.”

“Maybe Johnnie does, too.”

“I’m sorry, Jimmy. We can’t possibly take him on. But if he got some
experience—if he showed us that he knew how to handle a story—I might
give him a chance. I feel very much indebted to him. It was a great
thing for you to get through with that story, even if you were delayed.”

Jimmy looked alarmed. “The story will make the edition, won’t it?” he
asked.

“Absolutely. And we’ll scoop every other paper in town on pictures. The
only other pictures in the city were sent by wire, and they aren’t half
as good as actual photographs. What’s more, we’ll have one feature that
no other paper in the country will have. That is the story of how the
_Morning Press’_ flying reporter dared a fog that stopped even the Air
Mail, and got through. The story is already in type, Jimmy.”



                              CHAPTER VIII

                      Jimmy Saves a Boyhood Friend


Jimmy was almost startled at the managing editor’s announcement. Then he
felt embarrassed. It had never occurred to him that his paper would
print the story of his flight. He had not thought his flight worth
telling about. In fact, he had not thought of anything except getting
back with the news. Had not Handley wired the managing editor about the
perilous trip Jimmy was making, and had not that enterprising individual
gotten into touch with the Airways Weather Bureau and urged its
personnel to do everything possible to insure Jimmy’s safety, the tale
would probably never have been known in the _Press_ office. For Jimmy
would doubtless have walked in and apologized for being delayed. He
would probably have said that he had had engine trouble and had landed
at Ringtown to fix an oil pipe that was leaking. That would have been
just like Jimmy. And no one would have known the difference.

But the managing editor, despite his accustomed gruffness and sharpness,
was at heart the kindest of men. His harsh exterior was merely a mask he
wore. He was fond of Jimmy. He had been truly worried about his flying
reporter. He understood Jimmy well enough to know that the lad would
make every effort humanly possible to get back with the photographs and
the story.

Indeed, that was the real reason he liked Jimmy so much. Loyalty and
enthusiasm counted greatly with the managing editor. And he knew that
Jimmy was one hundred per cent. faithful. So he had taken the matter of
Jimmy’s flight in hand, and had done all he could to help his pilot get
through. By telephone he had been kept informed of the lad’s progress,
and he had even been in conversation with the field worker at Ringtown.
That was how he knew all about the matter. Ordinarily he had little to
say to any one by way of commendation or praise. But this time he forgot
his own rule of “not spoiling good reporters by praising them.” He had
spoken from his heart.

There really wasn’t much danger of the managing editor’s spoiling Jimmy,
or of anybody else’s doing it, for that matter; because Jimmy was so
intent on doing something, on accomplishing something, on getting ahead
and climbing up, that he had little time to think about the things he
had done. What interested Jimmy was the things he _hoped_ to accomplish.
He was always studying how to be a better flier and how to gain more
ability in his new task as a newspaper man.

For a short time he had no assignments that taxed his abilities in
either direction. He took the _Morning Press_ camera man out to take
pictures, on several occasions; he transported photographs himself; and
he did one or two little tasks of reporting. But things moved so slowly
for several days after the flight from Cleveland that time began to hang
heavy on Jimmy’s hands and he was growing restless for a task that
seemed to him worthwhile.

It came, as most newspaper stories come, unexpectedly. Early one evening
an A. P. “flash” was received, saying that a great dam had burst in
northeastern New Hampshire. A town had been partly wiped out by the wall
of water that poured down the narrow valley. Scores were dead or
missing. Hundreds were homeless. It was a disaster of the worst kind.

Managing Editor Johnson saw at once that this was no mere local story.
This was a story of the widest interest. It was almost a “national”
story. The destroyed town was far up in the northern part of the State,
is a rough and rugged region. It would be utterly impossible to get one
of his own men there in time to get a story for the next day’s paper. He
would have to depend upon local correspondents. Fortunately the _Press_
had a correspondent at Berlin, which was not many miles distant from the
wrecked village. Mr. Johnson ordered this correspondent to the scene at
once, and made what arrangements he could with the telegraph company to
expedite the handling of the despatches that might be filed. Then he
called up Jimmy.

“We have just had a flash from the A. P.,” he said, “about a dam that
has burst north of Berlin, New Hampshire, partly wiping out the town of
Northend. It won’t be possible for you to do anything to-night, I
suppose, but I wish you would take off at daybreak and get up there as
quick as you can. The place is in the very peak of the State. It’s the
northernmost town. We will get the general story through the A. P. and I
have sent our Berlin correspondent. But we want a story by a staff
member. Get all the incidents you can—the sort of stuff you and Handley
gathered at Cleveland—and in particular get lots of pictures. We need
the pictures especially. Get back here at the earliest moment you can.”

“All right, Mr. Johnson,” said Jimmy, “but I won’t wait until morning.
I’ll take off at once. I can follow the New York to Boston lighted
airway and stop at Springfield for the night. I know the way well. I
could go all the way, but I don’t know anything about the airports up in
the White Mountains. I might have trouble in landing. So I’ll stay at
Springfield for the night and hop off from there at dawn. That will get
me there early in the morning.”

“Good,” replied the managing editor. “That ought to get you back here by
late afternoon. Good-bye and good luck to you.”

Jimmy hopped off as soon as he could get ready. He was glad to be in the
air again, happy to have a real task ahead of him. To be sure, there was
nothing apparently difficult about this job. There was plenty of time,
and the work ought to be easy. But Jimmy already knew enough about
newspaper work to understand that one can never tell what will develop
in any story. Before he got through with it, this assignment might bring
him some thrilling experiences. At any rate, here was another chance to
make good. This time he was wholly on his own.

Furthermore, the night was perfect. In flying language it was a “C. A.
V. U.” night—a night with ceiling and visibility unlimited. Not a cloud
flecked the sky. The deep blue inverted bowl of the heavens seemed
immeasurable. Myriads of stars hung in the firmament. So clear was the
atmosphere that they made the night luminous. Indeed, the stars alone
would have lighted the earth. But a glowing young moon added its
brilliant beams, making the night almost like day. It was an evening to
gladden a pilot’s heart.

It did gladden Jimmy’s. He felt so gay and frolicsome that he could
hardly refrain from doing a few barrel rolls, or looping the loop, or in
some other way giving expression to his mood. But when he remembered
that he was a fully accredited member of the staff of a great newspaper,
and saw that it would not be seemly for a real reporter to be doing
somersaults like a child, he restrained himself and flew along soberly
enough. Yet his heart was singing gaily.

It was little more than nine o’clock when Jimmy hopped off from the Long
Island airport. He had only a trifle more than 100 miles to go. He could
make it easily in an hour, and in much less time if he chose to do so.
But there was no call for haste, and Jimmy didn’t want to get to
Springfield too soon. He was enjoying the night and the ride altogether
too much. So he flew along at a lazy gait.

He had crossed the upper part of New York City, so that he could fly
over the East River rather than the Sound. And he had picked up the line
of beacons that marks the airway from Newark to Boston. Ahead of him he
could see revolving beacon after beacon, at ten-mile intervals, as one
sees street lamps stretching along a city boulevard. The way was as
evident as Broadway at noon. But on a night like this Jimmy didn’t need
any lights on earth to guide him. The beacon lights in the heavens would
have guided him anywhere.

It seemed to him that he reached Hartford, the capital city of
Connecticut, in no time. Below him he could see the lights of the city,
stretching in long rows for miles, like orchards of lights. Ever so
plainly he could see the familiar landing field, where the pilots stop
to pick up mail. It was all aglow with its encircling white boundary
lights, its green lights that show the descending pilot the best way of
approach, its red markers on top of buildings and telephone poles, to
tell the pilot where danger lurks aloft, and its clustered lights and
beacons at the hangar. Jimmy had been there often and knew the place
well.

From Hartford to Springfield was such a mere hop that Jimmy didn’t want
to stop when he reached the latter city. If he could not play, at least
he could express his feelings by extending this wonderful flight a
trifle. He wondered where he should go. Then he thought of an old
friend—a lad he had not seen for a long time—another member of the
Wireless Patrol—Carl Dexter.

Jimmy had visited him once, after Carl moved away from Pennsylvania. He
knew where Carl’s home was. It was in the town of Wilbraham, in
Massachusetts, only a few miles from Springfield. Of course, Jimmy had
no hope of seeing Carl, but he thought he would fly over the lad’s home
and take a look at the region. He liked it greatly, and it held pleasant
memories for him. If he could not see Carl he could at least drop him a
note, saying that he had passed in the night. Perhaps Carl might even
see his plane and remember about the incident. He would circle around
the place and perhaps the family might notice his plane. So, instead of
landing at Springfield, Jimmy remained in the air.

He flew lazily over the city, to take a look at it by moonlight. He
could see everything plainly. There was the peaceful Connecticut River,
asleep under the rays of the moon, and the brightly lighted memorial
bridge that crossed it. At a distance rose the high tower he had had in
mind as a guiding light, with its great lamp glowing aloft. And only a
few miles distant, shining almost level with his eyes, was the flashing
beacon on Mt. Tom. It was all familiar to Jimmy. He was glad to see it
again.

When he had flown over the city, he banked sharply to the right and
turned to the east, trying to pick out the clustered lights of the
village of Wilbraham, which was less than nine miles distant. In five
minutes he was over the place. Just beyond, he could plainly see the
bulk of Springfield Mountain. It lay dead ahead of him. At the foot of
it he saw a long line of lights that marked the country highway. Here
and there shone the lamps of snug little homes. On the slope of the
mountain scattered lights betrayed the presence of other country
dwellings. If he kept straight on, Jimmy would have to fly right over
the mountain. But just now he had no intention whatever of attempting to
fly over the mountain. He kicked his rudder and shoved his stick over
until he was flying parallel with the ridge. Then cautiously he began to
descend. He was trying to find the house in which his friend lived. It
was on the slope of the mountain, perhaps a mile or two from the
village. Jimmy recalled that fact distinctly.

He dropped down as low as he dared. He was within four hundred feet of
the ground. He could see every feature of the landscape sharply in the
bright moonlight. But it was a little difficult to pick out one
particular house, when he had visited the neighborhood only once and had
never seen the region from the air. So he had to swing about in a great
circle. That took him a little closer to the mountain than he had
intended to fly. But the air was calm and he did not anticipate any
danger.

Now, as he circled close to the slope of the hill, he saw, here and
there, little homes tucked away in little farms on the wooded side of
the mountain. The moonlight glistening on the dewy roofs made them shine
out startlingly.

But suddenly he saw something that made him catch his breath. From a
window of one of these hillside homes flames were licking upward. At
first Jimmy doubted his own eyes. But a second glance told him he was
not mistaken. The flames grew swiftly in intensity, and leaping tongues
of fire were soon shooting from several windows. Even from his position
high in the air Jimmy could see that the fire was in the first floor of
the building. The flames were now lighting the place up brightly.

Jimmy came down a little lower and circled above the house. Nowhere
could he see a sign of life. He glanced at his clock. It was almost
ten-thirty. “All abed and sound asleep,” muttered Jimmy. “They’ll all be
roasted sure if some one doesn’t waken them.”

He circled lower. Nowhere could he see a soul. Yet the place had the
appearance of being inhabited. Close by, in the barnyard, Jimmy saw
cattle. Then he _knew_ the place was occupied. Now he saw a dog running
about excitedly. Meantime, the flames grew brighter and brighter. The
first floor windows were fairly belching smoke and flames.

Something must be done to save the family so sound asleep in this
isolated home. For a second Jimmy glanced about to see if there was a
field handy where he could land. It was some distance to the nearest
one. Whatever was to be done must be done instantly. There was no time
to hunt out a landing place.

Without a moment’s hesitation Jimmy circled back toward the house. He
shoved his stick over and nosed his plane downward. Then he gave her the
gun. The ship shot earthward like a meteor. She gained tremendous speed.
Jimmy flew her straight at the blazing house. When he was so close it
seemed as though he could not possibly avoid crashing into the
structure, he pulled back on his stick and zoomed up over the housetop,
his engine beating with a thunderous roar.

Swiftly he circled and bore back toward the doomed habitation. Again he
dived at it, like a hawk after a pigeon, and again he zoomed up over the
housetop. His engine, racing at full speed, set the mountain to echoing
with mighty reverberations. The dog, the poultry, everything that could
make a noise was adding to the uproar, so terrified were they.

Now Jimmy came close to the house and on level keel circled as close to
it as he could. All the while his engine was thundering at high speed.
Round and round he circled, watching the place closely, hoping that he
would accomplish his purpose before it was too late.

At last he saw a head poked from a window. Another followed. The family
was at last awake. Jimmy drew a breath of relief and instantly lifted
his plane to a higher altitude. He had gotten dangerously close to the
tree tops.

There was nothing more he could do in his plane. He wanted to help these
unfortunate folks. Perhaps the barn and the live stock could be saved,
even if the dwelling was doomed. But Jimmy could give no assistance in a
plane. He must get to the ground.

He flew out toward the open farm land. There were fields everywhere.
Most of them were too little for his purpose. But not far away he saw a
field that seemed to stretch for hundreds of yards along the roadway,
which here parallels the mountain. Jimmy could see it plainly in the
moonlight. It looked smooth and safe. Jimmy judged it was a mowing, or
hayfield. He swooped toward it. At the far end of the field he could
dimly discern on a little ridge of land a great barn with a huge silo. A
low white dwelling rose between it and the road. The sight reassured
him. The field _must_ be a smooth mowing. He felt certain now that he
could land in safety. He circled, so as to approach the field again from
the lower end, dropped a flare, switched on his landing lights, and came
down sharply over the trees that lined the end of the field. He could
see well. He noticed that the field sloped upward slightly toward the
distant house and barn. Bringing his plane down almost to the earth, he
straightened her out, and just as his wheels were about to touch the
ground lifted her nose a trifle. A second later he set her down
perfectly, shut off his gas, and let the ship roll up the little slope
to a standstill.

Jimmy was out of the ship and out of his parachute like a flash. But
already near-by dwellers were collecting around his plane.

“There’s a house on fire on the mountain,” cried Jimmy. “Everybody in it
was sound asleep until I woke them a moment ago. They need help. They
may be burning to death. Come on. Who knows the way?”

“This way,” shouted a lad who had just come up. “Follow me.”

The entire group raced after him, as he ran down the highway, then
turned into a wood road that led directly up the slope of the mountain.

Now it was plain enough that something was burning. Through the trees
shone a red glare, and the sky above was rosy with the flames. Showers
of sparks could be seen shooting skyward. The wood road appeared to lead
directly toward the burning house, which was located at no great
distance from the main highway.

Up the road they raced as fast as they could travel. The entire
countryside seemed to be lighted by the fire. In no time they reached
the burning building. The first floor was a mass of flames, and the fire
was rapidly eating its way to the roof. The owner had escaped, with his
wife and two children; but a grown lad, who slept on the third floor,
was trapped and could be seen leaning from an attic window. The father
was trying to rescue him.

He had gotten a ladder, but it was many feet too short. There was no
apparent way to reach the lad. The father was part way up the ladder. He
was calling to the boy to jump into his arms.

“Wait!” cried Jimmy, as he rushed up. “Don’t do that. You’ll both be
hurt. There must be some other way.” His mind was working fast. An idea
came to him. “Have you a rope?” he demanded.

“Sure. A long hay rope.”

“Let me have it quick,” said Jimmy. “We can save him with that.”

The rope was fetched. From his pocket Jimmy took a ball of twine he had
been using back at his hangar. The twine was thin but strong. He picked
up a long, thin stone, tied one end of the twine to it, called to the
lad in the window to catch it, and threw the stone up to him. The first
attempt failed. Jimmy threw the stone up again and the lad caught it.
Jimmy tied the twine to the hay rope. Fearful lest the heavy rope break
the twine, he mounted the ladder almost to its topmost rung, gathered up
a great length of the rope to take the weight from the twine, and held
the rope up toward the lad above him.

“Pull it up carefully, but hurry,” he said. “It’s hot on this ladder.”

Quickly the lad hauled up the twine, then carefully raised the rope
until he could clutch the end of it. A cry of relief went up from the
watching crowd as he grasped the rope. The lad disappeared within the
attic, dragging the rope behind him. In a moment he reappeared at the
window, slid out over the sill, and on down to the ladder. He had
fastened the rope within the attic. Jimmy tarried on the ladder until
the lad’s feet were firmly planted on a rung. Then he scrambled to
earth, quickly followed by the lad he had rescued.

Once they were on the ground, the lad turned to Jimmy and held out his
hand. Both boys gave a cry of astonishment. The lad who had just slid
down the rope was Carl Dexter, Jimmy’s old friend in the Wireless
Patrol. They grasped hands eagerly and greeted one another in a manner
that astonished the crowd.

“Carl!” cried Jimmy. “I had no idea that was you. The light was so
flickering and uncertain, and your hair is rumpled and I just didn’t
recognize you. I didn’t know your father, either, but that is not
strange. He has grown a beard since I saw him. I suppose I have grown so
in the years since we met that he didn’t know me either. I’m awfully
glad to see you. It has been more than two years since we met.”

“No more than I am to see you, Jimmy. But it’s terrible to see you under
these circumstances. How did you get here? What brought you here?”

“I’ll tell you all about that later,” said Jimmy. “We’ve got to try to
save the barn just now. The house will go sure.”

They ran to the endangered structure and found most of the neighbors
battling hard to protect it. A bucket brigade had been formed. Water was
being thrown on roof and wall. The dwelling was absolutely doomed. In
the end, after a hard battle, the firemen succeeded in saving the barn,
some other outbuildings, and all the stock and implements.

When a lull came in the fire fighting, Jimmy and his old friend drew off
to one side, and Jimmy began to tell Carl how he happened to be flying
in the neighborhood and how he discovered the fire. Suddenly he stopped
talking and a strange look came into his face. He seemed to be debating
something in his mind.

“Carl,” he said, “I’m in a queer position. I have no business to be here
at all. I ought to be in Springfield. My managing editor thinks I am
there. Gee! He might even have been trying to get me. He may have some
orders for me. I never thought of that. I could slip right back there
and maybe he’d never know the difference. But here’s a story. It’s a
good story, even if I did have a part in it. The _Press_ ought to have
it. Maybe we can scoop the other New York papers on it. I’m going to
shoot it in as quick as I can, no matter what the Old Man says about my
taking too much rope. He can fire me if he wants to. But I’m not going
to see the _Press_ beaten on its own story. Gee! He’d fire me for that,
sure. How can I get to a telegraph office quickest?”

“In a motor car, I should think. Thank heaven the barn didn’t burn. Our
car is in it. I’ll pull on some trousers and——By Jove! I don’t own any
trousers. They are all burned up. I’ll go as I am. And I’ll get you to
the telegraph office as fast as gasoline will take us.”

He did. Jimmy ran into the office and began to write. He handed the
sheets to the operator as fast as they were written, with the injunction
to rush the stuff. The operator ticked off the story as Jimmy wrote.

Because he was full of the matter, and because he could see so vividly
in his mind the scene he was describing, Jimmy once more wrote a
gripping story. He told in simple words how the pilot of the _Morning
Press_ plane, flying over Wilbraham, had noticed flames issuing from a
hillside home; how the pilot had awakened the sleeping inmates by diving
at the house with roaring motor; how later the pilot and a farm boy had
saved the life of a lad trapped in the third floor of the burning
building; and how this rescued youth had proved to be a lifelong friend
of the pilot.

“Gee,” said Jimmy, when he had finished the story, “I slipped up there.
I forgot to get the name of that farm boy. I’ll let it go now, but I’ll
be more careful next time.”

Then he wrote another message. It was to the managing editor.

At once the managing editor got into touch with him by telephone.

“We have further news about the New Hampshire flood,” he said. “It’s
even bigger than I thought. I’m sorry I didn’t send another man with
you.”

“I’ve got a friend here,” answered Jimmy, “who could help me if you are
willing. It’s the lad we just saved from the fire. He’s an old friend. I
can make good use of him. Shall I take him?”

“Get anybody you can who can help you,” was the answer.

Jimmy called out to Carl: “Could you go on up to New Hampshire with me
and help me cover a flood story?”

“If they can spare me at home, I’ll go gladly if it will help you any.”

Jimmy turned back to the telephone. “I think it is all right, Mr.
Johnson,” he said.

“Very well. Make all the speed you can. This is a big story and all the
papers will be after it hot. Use the telegraph or the telephone if you
break down. Make sure that we get the story and get it in plenty of
time. And don’t forget that we want good pictures. They are more
important than the story. We’ll get a story from the A. P., anyway. The
telegraph editor tells me you just sent in a rattling good story about a
fire. Keep it up. Get us an even better one about the flood. Good-bye.”



                               CHAPTER IX

                   Covering a Great Flood by Airplane


When Jimmy explained to Mr. Dexter that he needed help the next day and
had asked Carl to assist him, Mr. Dexter reluctantly consented for Carl
to go with him. Carl was really needed at home in this emergency, for
there would be much to do. But Mr. Dexter was so grateful to Jimmy for
saving his son’s life, and for perhaps saving all their lives, that he
did not feel as though he could refuse the request. So it was settled
that Carl and Jimmy should take off at dawn the next morning.

Neighbors lent the lad some shoes and clothes. And though these did not
look very well, they answered the purpose all right. The question of
shelter for the night was solved with equal ease. Neighbors took the
homeless family into their own homes. Jimmy wanted to be near his plane.
The lad who had guided Jimmy from his plane to the burning home said
that his grandfather lived in the white house by the mowing where the
plane was standing, and would be glad to take the two fliers in for the
night. So Jimmy and Carl found themselves housed for the night in a very
comfortable home, close by the airplane. They were assured that no one
would molest the ship, for the big farm dog would drive off all
intruders.

Relieved in his mind, Jimmy prepared to get some sleep, in preparation
for the hard day he foresaw for the morrow. But before he went to bed,
he got out his maps and studied the topography of the region over which
he had to fly the next day. Northend, the town that had been wiped out
by the flood, was some miles north of Berlin. It was at the lower end of
a little valley, which was almost entirely surrounded by mountains. The
Androscoggin River flowed through the little city.

“It’s plain enough what has happened,” said Jimmy to Carl. “There must
have been a dam up the river and it gave way. There was no place for the
wall of water to go but straight through the heart of Northend. These
two mountains at the southern end of the town are like the shoulders of
a bottle. There’s only a narrow neck between them, for the water to pass
through. If this jammed up with debris, the whole town would be under
water.”

They studied the map in silence for a few moments. “Gee!” said Carl.
“There’s plenty of mountains up there. How are you going to get there?”

“We’ll fly directly up the Connecticut River, between Vermont and New
Hampshire, until we pass South Columbia. Then we’ll fly east past the
mountains until we strike the Androscoggin. We’ll follow that stream
south to Northend. What we’ll do for a landing-place I don’t know. The
map doesn’t look very promising. But I suspect we can pick out some
place that will answer. Anyway, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to
it. But you can remember to watch for possible landing-places after we
leave the Connecticut to-morrow. That’s a rough country up there in
northern New Hampshire.”

Their thoughtful hosts looked after the lads’ every need, even to
lending them an alarm clock. Soon the boys were sound asleep in a bed as
soft as down. It had been an exciting day for both of them, and each was
ready for slumber.

When the alarm rang, Jimmy sat up in bed indignantly. “Confound that
thing!” he said. “Something’s wrong with it. We haven’t been abed ten
minutes.”

But his watch showed him that the only thing wrong was his own sense of
time. It was almost dawn. The boys arose instantly and dressed quietly,
so as not to disturb their hosts. They tiptoed down-stairs, their shoes
in their hands. But when they reached the kitchen there was a surprise
in store for them. Their hostess was not only up and dressed, but a
substantial breakfast awaited them. Jimmy hardly knew what to say or how
to thank her. She told him the best thanks would be for the two boys to
eat a good breakfast. In that way they thanked her heartily enough.
Then, bidding their kind hosts goodbye, the two lads hastened to the
plane, started the engine, and soon hopped off.

Straight to Springfield they flew, and there Jimmy landed and had his
supply of gasoline and oil replenished. Then they took off for the
north, sailing straight up the valley of the Connecticut. On another
occasion Jimmy would have been glad to fly leisurely along this
beautiful river and enjoy the fine scenery. But to-day he had no time
for anything but his job. Well he knew that hard on his heels would come
rushing a whole company of newspaper men, if indeed some of them had not
even preceded him in the dark. His job was to get to Northend as quickly
as he could, and collect the material he needed. An hour’s start, he
knew well, would make all the difference in the world to him. So he
opened his throttle and pushed his ship along at a fast pace. He had
considerably more than 200 miles to go, for he was playing safe by
doubling around the mountains instead of flying directly over them. But
in considerably less than two hours he had covered the route selected
and was flying south along the Androscoggin, close to Northend. So far
he had not seen a plane anywhere, and he believed he was the first news
flier to reach the scene.

As he came south along the little river, the land began to rise in
swelling heights to right and left, and the level bottom-land became
narrower and narrower. Presently the _Morning Press_ fliers found
themselves almost surrounded by mountains. It was like flying through a
break in the side of a bowl into the bowl itself. Ahead of them, behind
them, and to right and left of them, mountains rose, steep, rugged, and
menacing. And in the very centre of this bowl-like valley lay Northend.

At the present moment the valley was in very truth a bowl, for it was
fairly covered with water. From mountain to mountain the water reached,
and what had been the city of Northend looked like a collection of tiny
islets in the centre of the vast lake. Individual houses and blocks of
buildings lifted their dark roofs above the turbid waters.

“Makes you think of huckleberries floating in a bowl of milk,” Carl
shouted to Jimmy.

And that was what the scene did resemble. The huckleberries, of course,
were houses. In the centre of the town the buildings rose in solid
blocks, like squares of brown bread that had gotten in with the
huckleberries. But in the residential districts the houses stood apart,
well separated, and on the very outskirts of the town they were farther
and farther apart. Isolated homes rose from the flood out in what must
have been the suburban or rural regions. Nowhere within the limits of
the city was there a foot of dry ground visible.

“It’s terrible,” shouted Jimmy. Carl nodded his head.

Jimmy made a complete circle around the little valley, at a good
elevation. From that height he and Carl could see everything. Their
vision ranged from mountain to mountain, unobstructed. Nowhere was there
another plane. Nowhere was there evidence of activity, save in one or
two places where small boats were being navigated from house to house.
Jimmy was thrilled at the thought that he was the first outside
correspondent actually to reach the scene. He resolved that he would
also be the first to take to the outer world an eye-witness story of the
disaster. He knew he must work fast to do it. Other newspaper men would
soon be on his heels. They would be coming in droves.

“Get my camera,” he shouted to Carl, “and take a snap or two of the
scene. Get a picture that shows the whole valley under water, with
Northend in the centre of it.”

Carl could handle a camera, and leaning through an open window, he got
several good pictures. The rising sun was shining down into the valley
by this time, illuminating it well.

Now Jimmy brought his ship down in an easy glide until he was not more
than 200 feet above the flood. He flew back and forth over the town.
Carl snapped pictures as they flew and Jimmy watched every feature of
the scene before him. Now he could see many people looking out of the
upper floors of their homes. He could trace the course of the river by
the line of debris and wreckage. For the flood had gone tearing through
the city, wrecking, smashing, demolishing everything in its pathway.
Before it had been swept a vast mass of material, consisting of
outbuildings, uprooted trees, broken telephone poles, railroad ties, old
boats, wooden bridges, sawlogs, pulp timber, porches, fences,
boardwalks, demolished homes, and a thousand other objects that the
rushing waters had wrenched loose or broken down or torn up. And all
this mass of debris, jamming at the bottle neck, had backed the water up
and submerged the town. Jimmy had read his map aright.

As he flew, Jimmy made mental note of striking things he saw. Here was a
house tilting at an unbelievable angle, its underpinning evidently
washed away. Here were motor cars standing on their roofs, only their
four wheels showing above the flood. Here were the remains of an iron
bridge that must have weighed scores of tons. Yet the iron work was
rolled into a great mass, like a ball of rope, and the whole thing
rested on a smashed front porch of a home. The entire front of the house
was caved in by the force of the blow struck by the iron. Here were
railroad cars turned upside down.

Through the centre of the town was a wide gap between rows of buildings.
At first Jimmy did not catch the significance of this. He thought it was
the river bed. Then something reminded him of the stream as he had seen
it a few miles above Northend. There it was only a little river, a few
rods wide. This breach in the centre of the town was of vast width.
Suddenly Jimmy understood. Whole blocks of houses had been washed away.
They must be jammed up with the other debris at the bottle neck below.
He shuddered at the thought. The loss of life must have been appalling.

Along either side of this wide pathway of death, the flood waters had
left their marks. Debris of every conceivable sort had been washed up on
either side of the furrow the flood had plowed through the town, and
there a million odd things had lodged. Old boxes, chicken-coops, boards,
timbers, door-steps, wooden gates, tin cans, and a multitude of other
things had been forced in between houses or up on porches, or through
first floor windows, until the scene was terrible beyond description. It
was plain enough where the wall of water from the broken dam had gone
surging through the town. Like a giant among pygmies, it had mowed down
everything in its path.

Back and forth Jimmy flew over the distressed city. On the flat tops of
business buildings he saw many people. The upper floors of buildings
seemed to teem with people. On the hills opposite the town he now saw
figures moving. He judged they were people who had reached the heights
before the flood overwhelmed the city, or else they were folks from the
neighborhood who had come to the assistance of the marooned townspeople.
Long ago, all those who could be rescued had been rescued, or had gone
to their deaths. How many of them there were and who they were Jimmy
could not even guess. But he knew the total must be terrible. He could
not help to save anybody, but he could get into touch with the survivors
and get the story of the disaster. He began to look about for some means
of accomplishing this end.

Near the centre of the town was a building that stood up one or two
stories higher than any other structure in the city. It was a great
squarish building, that looked as firm as Gibraltar. Jimmy had noticed
it as soon as he reached the town. He couldn’t help noticing it. And he
also saw that there were people on the flat roof. Now he flew toward
this building, dropping as low as he dared to come. Suddenly his eye
shone with pleasure. On the front of the structure he caught sight of a
large sign, with the gilded name “Northend _Daily News_.” He glanced at
the group of people on the roof. He was so close to them that he could
almost tell the color of their eyes. To his astonishment he saw that a
desk had been carried to the roof, together with many chairs, and that a
man was seated at the desk, busily typewriting.

The sight stirred Jimmy’s heart. “It’s the editor of the Northend _News_
writing the story of the flood. I’ll bet a dollar it is,” thought Jimmy.
“If only I can get that story, the _Morning Press_ will have the biggest
scoop in years.”

He pulled out a pad and scribbled on it as he flew: “Have you the story
of the flood? Can I get it from you? I am from the New York _Press_.”
Then he turned to Carl. “In my tool kit you’ll find a large spool of
safety wire,” he said. “Get that out, put a weight on it, and tie this
note to it.”

Carl fished out the wire, weighted one end of it with a monkey-wrench,
and tied the note to it. Then Jimmy headed directly into the stiff
breeze which was coming up, and when they neared the building again
throttled his engine down until the ship seemed hardly to have any
forward motion. Carl, meantime, had paid out the wire. Several men on
the roof grabbed for the message, but all missed it. Jimmy made a circle
and once more flew over the roof. This time some one caught the note.

Jimmy circled the town and flew back over the _News_ building. Now he
saw white marks on the roof. Some one had been making great letters with
a piece of chalk. They were a message for him. This is what they said.
“Have entire story. Press room flooded. Have made mats. Can you take to
Berlin and arrange to have edition printed and sent here? A truck can
reach west side of town by the hill road.”

When Jimmy read that he couldn’t suppress a whoop. “Carl,” he cried.
“Just think! He’s got the story set up and the mats made for casting the
stereotype plates. If we can get those mats, we can get proofs of the
whole story. It’ll be the beat of the year.”

He scribbled another note. “Will land and try to reach you. Have
everything ready. Will fly to Berlin with the mats and make arrangements
for edition for you.” The next time he flew over the _News_ building,
this message was skilfully dropped by Carl and caught by the group on
the roof.

“They got it,” shouted Carl.

Jimmy smiled and nodded. Then he pulled back on his stick, lifted his
plane to a higher elevation, and went soaring straight toward the
nearest hillside, looking for a possible landing-place.

On a hillside farm he found a place that looked favorable. Twice he flew
over the place studying it. The ground seemed rough. He was fearful of
it. But he saw no better place and decided to chance it. He came down in
a long glide, barely missing some trees. Then he straightened out for a
landing. His plane was just skimming the ground, and Jimmy was waiting
for it to lose flying speed when he noticed a low stone wall at the
other end of the field. Jimmy knew he was overshooting too much to dare
attempt to kill his surplus speed by fish-tailing. He burst the gun wide
open and eased back on the stick. In a second the ship was once more
over the tree tops, and Jimmy circled back again into the wind for
another try at the field. He did a nose high slip and then proceeded in
disgust to pancake her in. It was a dangerous move, even for the most
skilled pilot, for always there is danger of falling off on one wing,
due to a lack of flying speed. The ship was settling vertically. Just
before she hit, Jimmy burst the gun half open to give her a little more
forward speed, so she would not settle so hard on her undercarriage.
Then she struck, but not hard enough to break anything. Rapidly she came
to rest. With a sigh of relief he throttled down his engine and climbed
from the plane. He let his motor idle for a few minutes, then cut the
switch.

“We’ll go over to those folks yonder and talk to them,” he said,
starting toward a group of people who were doing something at a
distance.

They hurried to the workers. A number of people who lived on the hills
were busy making rafts at the water’s edge to rescue the marooned; for
there were many folks in the flooded area whose position was still
precarious. Jimmy talked to the workers. They told him the story of the
breaking of the dam. This was a huge reservoir in the hills, only a
short distance above the city. Continuous rains to the north had swollen
every brook and rivulet until the impounded water had reached a
threatening height. There was anxiety about the dam, but no actual fear
of its breaking. Then suddenly, without warning, the dam had slid from
its foundations, releasing the entire body of water at once. That was
what made the catastrophe so awful.

A wall of water thirty feet high had swept down the valley. Naturally it
followed the trough of the Androscoggin. That stream, already bank full,
could not hold another drop. The result was appalling. Straight through
the town the huge wall of water had gone, thundering and destroying,
smashing and devastating, sweeping away houses as though they had been
chips. Whole blocks of buildings, on either bank of the stream, had been
picked up and swept down-stream. Jimmy’s guess was correct.

Scores had been killed or were missing. Had the disaster occurred in the
daytime, it might have been possible to save many of them. But coming as
it did, just at nightfall, the flood had done its worst. To venture out
into the roaring waters in the dark was sheer suicide. There had been
some rescues. They told Jimmy about those they knew of. There had been
many deeds of daring. Jimmy learned the stories. Now a great effort was
being made to save those who were still in danger. For the waters were
yet deep and the current swift. Indeed, in the centre of the town the
water was still eight feet deep and sweeping along swiftly, cutting away
ground, undermining houses, uprooting poles, and spreading destruction.
The work of rescue had been made difficult through the loss of boats.
Most of the boats in the town had been swept away in the first fierce
rush of water.

There was one little boat at hand. It was a rickety, sorry-looking
craft, and it evidently leaked badly. But still it was a boat. Jimmy
looked at it. He decided that it would hold together for a few hours
longer.

“Who owns this boat?” he inquired.

“I do,” said a farmer. “But it ain’t much of a boat. I caught it in the
flood last night.”

“I’ll give you five dollars for it for one hour,” said Jimmy.

“You can have it,” said the farmer, “but I warn you it ain’t safe to get
in it. We tried it and had to come back. The thing almost sunk with us.”

“We’ll try it,” said Jimmy. “Got something we can bail with?”

The farmer got them an old pail. There were oars in the boat. Jimmy got
two strong poles from a pile of wood that lay near.

“Come on, Carl,” he said, stepping toward the craft. “Let’s empty her.”

They drew the boat ashore and turned it on its side. When the water had
run out, they pushed the craft into the flood, stepped carefully into
it, and shoved off. The farmer’s description had not been exaggerated.
Water began to seep into the boat rapidly.

“Take the oars and row as hard as you can, Carl,” said Jimmy. “I’ll bail
and tell you how to pull.”

Carl began to row rapidly, and Jimmy started to throw out the water. By
bailing vigorously he could just about keep up with it. They made good
progress until they came to the built up part of the town. Here the
water rushing between the houses caused eddies and delaying currents.
But they kept on steadily, Jimmy telling Carl which way to pull, while
he himself tossed out bucket after bucket of water. Without the bucket
they would have sunk in a short time.

They drove straight out toward the street on which the _News_ building
stood. There they turned and floated straight down the street with the
current. The waters were still tearing along between the houses at a
terrifying rate. It was appalling to think what it must have been like
when the flood was at its crest. There was little to do now except bail
and steer. There was still plenty of drifting debris in the water, and
this made it dangerous. Always there was the chance that some half
sunken log, swirling up beneath them, would overturn their boat and
catapult them into the flood.

They drew near the _News_ building. “We’ve got to be sure we make it,”
said Jimmy. “If we are carried past, it will be a deuce of a job getting
back. Get your rope in hand. Put your oars in the boat. I’ll steer her
with a pole. Grab a window-frame. I’ll knock out the glass if
necessary.”

They drew swiftly near the _News_ building. It had suffered, like every
other building in town. The water was up to the second story. Apparently
it was going to be difficult to make a landing.

“Get ready now,” cautioned Jimmy. “If we miss her, I’ll try to shoot the
boat around the corner of the building. There’ll be an eddy there. Grab
anything you can catch hold of, and hold fast to your rope.”

Jimmy forced the boat toward a second-story window. The window was
closed. It looked as though they would have a hard time to make an
entrance. Jimmy raised his pole to smash the glass. He was just about to
strike, when the sash was flung up and a man’s head thrust through the
window.

“Give me your rope, quick,” said the man.

Carl thrust out his hand with the rope. The man took the rope and
carefully snubbed the boat. “Look out,” he cried. “Watch that you don’t
get thrown out.”

The boat swung round in the current and came to rest alongside the
building. Jimmy and Carl climbed carefully through the window, helped by
the man within.

“We are the fliers who dropped you the message,” said Jimmy. “We’ve come
for the mats.”

“Good,” said the man. “Come up on the roof and talk to the boss.”

They ran up the steps to the roof. There sat the man Jimmy had seen at
the desk. He was still typewriting. Jimmy made himself known.

“I’m from the New York _Morning Press_,” he said. “Tell me about the
flood, and about your own situation and what you want me to do.”

“No use to tell you anything,” said the editor. “Every word I know about
the flood is already in type. You can have complete proofs of it if you
will take my mats to the office of the Berlin newspaper and get them to
print the edition. I want 5,000 copies. They can send them back here by
truck or any way they wish, but I must have them at the first possible
moment. We’ll establish headquarters over on the shore, near the place
from which you started. We’ve been watching every move you made. That’s
near the highway that skirts the west side of the valley. Tell them to
send their papers there just as quick as they can get them printed. By
that time the water will have gone down some and maybe altogether. They
are making arrangements to dynamite the jam at the gorge below town.
That will let the water drain out.”

Meantime, a printer had been wrapping the mats up carefully in oiled
paper. Another man had attached a long rope to Jimmy’s boat and had
worked the boat around into the eddy at the down-stream side of the
building. Still another printer came to the roof with duplicate sets of
proofs for Jimmy.

The latter assured the _News_ editor that he would not fail to carry out
his commission. “I ask just one thing,” he said. “Give me an assurance
that I have a start over the next reporter.”

“I’ll do that,” said the editor. “I can’t hold out any news, if any
reporter questions me, but I’ll give out no more proofs. That’s only
fair. It’s in return for your help. Now you’ll have to be hurrying, for
there comes your first competitor.”

Jimmy whirled and looked upward. Sure enough, there was another plane
coming down the valley.

Jimmy delayed only long enough to talk to some of the men on the roof.
He soon found they knew little except the general story of the flood.
They were all employees of the _News_. All had been at work in the
building when the flood overwhelmed the town on the previous evening.
They had remained there because they believed they were safe in the big
steel and stone structure. But reporters had managed to get abroad and
before the telephone lines were all down they had telephoned in dozens
of stories about the flood. Later some of them had made their way back
to the _News_ building in a boat, with detailed stories of rescues,
deaths and drownings, heroic acts, and the names of the flood victims
whose bodies had been recovered and identified. And now Jimmy had proofs
of all their stories, together with all the tales he and Carl had picked
up, and their photographs and mental pictures of what was left of
Northend.

No wonder Jimmy wanted to be off with this treasure trove, when he saw a
competitor winging toward the town. Bidding farewell to the _News_
editor, Jimmy and Carl carefully entered their boat, bailed it, and
shoved off. The trip back was even harder than the journey out to the
_News_ building, for now Jimmy had a great roll of mats to keep dry. He
was forced to bail with one hand. It was difficult work to keep up with
the incoming water, but he toiled like a Trojan and almost kept up. By
the time they reached the shore there must have been two inches of water
in the boat, but that meant nothing to either lad.

Jimmy paid the farmer for the use of his boat. He delayed a little to
ask further questions about the flood, and picked up additional
incidents; for several people had joined the rescue group while he and
Carl were gone. Just as Jimmy was starting for his ship, he saw that the
other airplane was landing close to where his own ship stood. He delayed
to see who the newcomer was. He was sorry enough he had waited, when the
latter stepped from his plane. It was Rand, a man who formerly worked
for the _Morning Press_ and who had been discharged by Mr. Johnson
because he utterly failed to solve the problem of the air mail bandits,
whereas Jimmy had uncovered the whole story.

Even before that event occurred, Rand had disliked Jimmy. But since Rand
had been discharged by the _Morning Press_ he had hated Jimmy with
malignant intensity. He had done everything he could, at every turn, to
trick and discredit him. And Jimmy knew well that the fellow would
hardly stop at anything to accomplish his purpose. Now Jimmy walked
briskly by him, merely nodding. But Rand answered the nod with a cutting
oath.

In a few minutes Jimmy and Carl hopped off for Berlin. Almost straight
south they flew, with the Milan Hills on their right and the
Chickwolrepy Mountain on their left. It was no distance at all to
Berlin. At least, it took almost no time at all to reach that city. But
Jimmy had to circle several times before he was willing to land. Even
then he was fearful of the result. For the only place that looked
possible was the flat land along the river, and this had been under
water. Even yet there were little pools here and there in the
depressions. Jimmy was afraid his plane might bog down and nose over. If
it did, that was the end of his flight—the flight that promised so much
for him.

For a moment he was tempted to go on, and mail the mats back from the
next town. But he had promised to put them in the hands of the Berlin
editor. Jimmy always tried to make his word as good as his bond. So now,
after studying the ground carefully, he picked out the most promising
looking spot and came down in a long glide. Just as his ship was about
to hit the ground, he gave her the gun for a second, to increase her
momentum, set her down on three points, and held his breath. The field
was not as wet as it looked, and the mud was only surface mud. His ship
rolled safely to a stop.

Jimmy was out of her in a flash. Throwing off his parachute, and leaving
Carl to guard the plane, he hurried off with his mats. In no time he
found the editor of the Berlin paper, delivered the mats and the
message, and was back at his ship. But on the way he had stopped at a
garage to engage some gasoline. Soon a tank wagon rolled up, and Jimmy’s
tanks were quickly filled. Then, waving good-bye to the circle of
admiring small boys, Jimmy hopped off.

A great, bald-faced, precipitous hill rose to the west of the town.
Jimmy circled over the city, to gain altitude. Below him he noticed the
great pulp mill and the enormous pile of pulp wood, that rose like a
little mountain close beside the river. The whole atmosphere was
redolent of the sulphur used in making paper.

But Jimmy had little interest now in sightseeing. The instant he had
gained sufficient altitude, he darted away to the west, shot between the
hills, and sped straight as an arrow to Lancaster, the nearest town on
the Connecticut.

Then he banked to the left and with throttle opened wide went roaring
down the valley of that river, over the same route by which he had come.
He dropped Carl at Springfield, after getting his promise that when
things were straightened out at home Carl would come to New York to
visit him.

Again he took off, and this time he did not come to earth again until he
landed at his home field. A taxi once more took him to the _Press_
office, where he delivered his news proofs and films to the city editor,
then sat down and for a long time worked industriously at his
typewriter, putting down on paper the description of what he had seen
and learned at Northend.

His trip back to Long Island was a pleasant one. Again he had been equal
to the occasion. Once more he had made good. But there was one memory of
his recent trip that left a bad taste in his mouth. That was the thought
of Rand. On several occasions now he had gotten the better of the
fellow. Each time Jimmy had triumphed over him, Rand had made his hatred
more evident, had tried meaner tricks to thwart Jimmy. But never before
had Rand cursed him at sight or seemed so venomously hostile.

“I’ll have to watch him carefully,” thought Jimmy. “He is vicious enough
to do most anything.” And Jimmy was right, as coming events were to
prove.



                               CHAPTER X

                 Jimmy Visits a Lightship off the Coast


For some time after his flight to Northend Jimmy found life rather tame.
No really big stories happened in the eastern part of the country. So
Jimmy was occupied from day to day with minor tasks that provided little
excitement. Yet all the while he was learning more about his job. From
day to day he talked with fellow pilots at the Long Island airport, and
drew from them as much as he could in the way of helpful suggestions
about flying. For some of them had had extremely trying experiences.
Whenever he was with newspaper men Jimmy asked as many questions as he
could about reporting and news coverage. He bore in mind what the
managing editor had said to him: “If you continue to improve, you’ll
make a great reporter some day.” It was Jimmy’s ambition to be one of
the very best. So he welcomed every experience that added to his
knowledge.

Even when his work seemed tamest he was acquiring facts and knowledge
with surprising rapidity; and all that he learned enlarged his
background and was just so much preparation for the day when he should
truly become a great reporter. One of his assignments was to fly out to
an incoming steamer in a seaplane and bring ashore some important news
photographs from Europe. It was on this flight that Jimmy had his first
sight of a lightship anchored at sea. He was instructed to meet the
incoming ship near the Ambrose lightship, off the entrance to the
Ambrose Channel that leads from the deep water of the sea up to the New
York harbor.

Jimmy knew the approximate hour of the steamship’s arrival at that
point. He flew out to sea a little early, to be certain that he was on
time. He was to get the pictures when the ship slowed down to pick up
the pilot who was to guide her up the channel to her dock. Arrangements
had been made by wireless with the photographer, who was aboard the
liner. He was to get the pictures down to Jimmy in the seaplane.

When the latter reached the lightship, the ocean liner was not yet in
sight. Jimmy decided that he would not fly out to sea to meet her. He
was a little distrustful of all this vast stretch of water about him. He
had been ordered to meet the ship when she picked up her pilot. The
pilot boat was cruising not far away. Jimmy decided that he would come
down on the water, which was very calm, and take a look at the
lightship. So he flew close to the vessel, then came down in a long
glide, and was soon bobbing safely on the gentle swells of the Atlantic.

The lightship was only a few hundred feet distant. Jimmy turned the nose
of his plane toward the vessel and taxied to a point close to leeward of
it. He had never seen such a curious craft. It was a clumsy, bunty sort
of ship, apparently not more than a hundred feet long, with bulging,
bulky bow, like that of a Dutch canal-boat. The sides of the vessel were
very high for a ship of her length. The ship was a straw color; and
painted on her hull in huge letters was the word _Ambrose_. She had two
masts, and at the top of each mast was apparently a guide light,
protected by a circular black iron grating, to flash out warning signals
in the dark.

Jimmy taxied as close to the ship as he dared. The crew of ten or a
dozen men was lined up along the leeward rail, watching him. Apparently
the men thought he wished to board the ship, for one of them had a light
line in his hand. Seeing that, Jimmy decided he would go aboard. He
scanned the sea and saw no sign of an approaching liner. Then he forced
his plane a very little closer to the lightship and waited. At once the
man with the coil of rope drew back his arm and flung the line straight
toward Jimmy. It sped through the air, uncoiling as it flew, and dropped
lightly on the fuselage of the plane. Jimmy stepped out on a wing and
secured the line. In another moment he had been drawn close up to the
ship. A port opened. A sailor skilfully drew one wing up to the side of
the ship, holding it so it would not bump the vessel. Jimmy walked out
on the wing and climbed aboard the vessel. At once his plane was allowed
to drift a few fathoms to leeward, where it was safe.

The sailors, eager for news from shore, flocked around Jimmy. They plied
him with questions. When he had answered all they asked, he put a few
questions himself. He wanted to know about all the interesting things he
saw. The huge anchor chain and the anchor itself interested Jimmy. The
chain was the thickest chain Jimmy had ever seen. The links were made of
iron two inches thick, and each link was strengthened by a cast-iron
stud. Jimmy whistled when the captain told him that a single fathom of
the chain weighed close to 200 pounds, and that the entire chain,
measuring only 120 fathoms, weighed about twelve tons. Of course, the
chain had to be moved by an engine.

The anchors, too, attracted Jimmy. One of them was at the bottom of the
sea, of course, but the other was stopped fast at the bow of the vessel,
ready to be let down at a moment’s notice. It was a mushroom anchor, and
got its name from its shape; for it looked for all the world like a huge
metal toadstool. The circular edge of the anchor was sharp, so it would
bite into the bottom of the sea easily.

But the thing that interested Jimmie most was the light. This, the
captain said, was an occulting white light, that was visible for twelve
out of every fifteen seconds. The light at the forward masthead is
always used, excepting when that light is out of commission. Then the
after light shines.

“If there was a string of lights like this one, each with a distinctive
flash,” said Jimmy, “a fellow could find his way by night at sea as
easily as he can follow his route on land when he follows the Air Mail
beacons.”

“There is a string of lights all along the coast,” said the captain,
“and each has its distinctive flash. Most of them are on land, but a few
are floating lights, like this, which mark danger points far out from
shore.”

Jimmy discovered that the great twelve-inch steam fog-whistle blows for
three seconds in each fifteen, when the fog is bad at this light
station, and the fog bell rings once every thirty seconds. Once every
twelve seconds the submarine bell strikes two groups of two strokes
each. And the radio fog-signal of the _Ambrose_ lightship is a
continuous string of dashes, exactly like the signal of the radio
beacons along the lighted airway. Thus, whether a passing ship’s captain
sees the light or merely hears the fog-horn, or detects the radio
signal, he knows what lightship he is passing.

Jimmy was so much interested in learning about the lightship that he
could have spent hours aboard of her, but the captain warned him that
the liner was visible on the horizon. Jimmy knew it was time for him to
be stirring. His plane was drawn up to the ship and he got carefully
aboard of her. Soon he was in the air. He came down close to the
pilot-boat, which was ready to put a pilot aboard the approaching
steamer. The men on this boat said they would get his photographs for
him when they put the pilot aboard the liner.

The big steamer came plowing along, her speed gradually lessening, until
she was practically at a standstill. Meantime a rowboat had taken the
pilot from the pilot-boat to the side of the liner. The pilot climbed up
the ladder at the side of the ship and spoke to the photographer who
stood at the rail, ready with his photographs. These were carefully
wrapped for protection. He handed them to a sailor who slipped down the
ladder with them and put them in the hands of one of the men in the
rowboat. The little craft headed about and pulled for the pilot-boat.
The liner began to move slowly and presently was steaming away at a
rapid rate.

Jimmy was all ready to board his plane when the men got back with his
pictures. He stowed them in his coat, climbed carefully aboard his ship,
and floated away to a safe distance. Then he rose from the water, headed
his plane straight for his landing-place on the southern shore of Long
Island, and went streaking back with his pictures. He gave them to a
waiting messenger and hustled to get back to his own field.

As he drew near the hangar he noticed great activity. Mechanics were
bustling about, ships were on the line, ready to take off, and pilots
were getting into their flying togs. Jimmy knew something was in the
air. He was just about to ask some one what was up when a mechanic who
looked after his ship spied him and shouted: “Call up your office. You
are wanted. There’s a big story that broke up in Pennsylvania. I’ve got
your ship ready to go at a moment’s notice. She’s been warming up for
half an hour.”



                               CHAPTER XI

                     Jimmy is Tricked by His Rival


In a moment Jimmy was in telephonic communication with his chief. “There
has been a big coal mine disaster, Jimmy,” said Mr. Johnson. “We have
just received a despatch from Shenandoah about it. The mine is near that
city. More than one hundred men are believed to have been imprisoned in
the mine. It is not known how many are dead or whether any of the
entombed miners are still alive. We want as complete a story of the
disaster as you can gather in a short time, and we particularly want
photographs. You’ve got just about time enough to get there and get some
photographs before dark. You can pick up your story after you get your
pictures. Then hustle back here. If you make as good time as you have
made on some other assignments, you can get back here before 10:30. You
ought to make it by 11:00 for sure, and you _must_ be here by 11:15. I
would send Handley with you, but he is in Phillipsburg on a story. I
will try to get into touch with him by phone, and order him to go to
Shenandoah, to follow up the story to-morrow.”

“I’ll do my best, Mr. Johnson,” said Jimmy. “Good-bye. I’m off.” And in
less than no time he _was_ off.

The minute Jimmy had reached a safe altitude and was straightened out on
his course, he began to consider how he should cover this story. He had
never reported the story of a coal mine disaster. He was a little
uncertain as to how to get at it.

First of all, there was the matter of topography. Shenandoah was in the
very heart of the anthracite region in Pennsylvania. That meant it was
right among the hills. Jimmy knew the region well. It was almost on the
Air Mail route. In fact, in a straight line it was only three miles from
Ringtown. But a great ridge—the North Mahanoy Mountain, that towered
aloft almost 1,900 feet—rose between Ringtown and Shenandoah. The
highway between the two places, circuitous and winding, was probably
twice that distance. Jimmy was of course sure that he could make a
landing at Ringtown. But whether he could do so at Shenandoah or not, he
did not know. The town itself occupied almost every foot of the level
land in the little bottom in which it stood. On every side the ground
rose sharply.

Jimmy managed to get the proper topographic map from his map case.
Folding it in small compass he studied it as he flew along. The only
place where there seemed to be even the possibility of making a safe
landing was in the tiny bottom along Lost Creek, southwest of the town.
But the more Jimmy studied the map, the more impossible this place
seemed for his purpose. Jimmy finally decided that he would not take a
chance. He would land at Ringtown, get a motor car, and drive to
Shenandoah.

“If Johnnie Lee is home,” thought Jimmy, “there won’t be a bit of
trouble about that. Johnnie will take me over there in his car. That
will be just the thing, too. Then he can help me cover the story. I can
tell him what to do and he can do it readily enough. It will give him a
start toward reporting. Johnnie will know the country round about, too,
and that may be a very great advantage. For I see now that it is going
to hustle me to get back on time. I’m sure glad this has turned out this
way.”

A load seemed to drop from Jimmy’s mind. He had come to a decision as to
his course. Now he had only to drive ahead as fast as possible along the
way he had chosen. He felt his confidence growing.

Suddenly he heard his own name sounding in his head phones. “The New
York _Press_ speaking to Jimmy Donnelly,” said the voice. “We have been
in touch with Handley at Phillipsburg. He will go with you to
Shenandoah. Land at Easton and wait for him. He is on the watch for
you.”

Jimmy hardly knew whether to be pleased or sorry. He would be glad
enough of Handley’s help. Even the two of them could not clean up the
story in the short time Jimmy would have at the scene of the disaster.
But now that Jimmy saw an opportunity to help his friend Johnnie Lee, he
rather regretted that Handley was to join him. They could hardly bother
with Johnnie now.

These thoughts went through Jimmy’s mind in an instant. They did not
prevent him from answering promptly the _Morning Press_ message. He put
his mouthpiece to his lips and said: “Jimmy Donnelly talking to the New
York _Press_. I have your message about Handley and will wait for him at
Easton.”

When Jimmy reached that city, it looked for a little time as though he
would not be able to keep his word. It hardly seemed possible to make a
landing. But west of the city Jimmy found some fields and got down
safety, though he had a scare when he saw a fence loom up suddenly
before him. His plane struck sand and came to a stop within ten feet of
the fence.

Jimmy hopped out of the ship and looked about him. Handley was nowhere
in sight. “He’ll have to come along pretty soon if we are to get the
stuff back to New York in time,” thought Jimmy. “I wonder if there is
anything I could do to help matters.”

He thought of Johnnie Lee. “If I could talk to him,” muttered Jimmy, “I
could put him right to work.”

With Jimmy, to think was to act. Not far away was a house. Jimmy raced
over to it, and was rejoiced to see that telephone wires ran to the
house. He knocked at the door. A pleasant faced woman answered his
knock.

“Good afternoon,” said Jimmy, politely. “I need very much to use a
telephone. May I use yours?”

The woman looked him over. “I take it you are the pilot of the plane
that just landed,” she said.

“I am,” said Jimmy, “and I am in a trying situation. It will help me
greatly if I may use your phone.”

“Go ahead,” she said. “You are welcome. I’ll be glad if it will help
you.”

Jimmy called for the long-distance operator and asked for the Lee home
in Ringtown. He begged the operator to hurry the call, as it was an
urgent one. In a very few moments Jimmy had his connection. To his
delight, Johnnie himself answered the telephone. Jimmy recognized his
voice at once.

“Hello, Johnnie,” he said. “This is Jimmy Donnelly. Have you heard
anything about a mine explosion in your neighborhood?”

“We sure have,” said Johnnie. “It was near Krebs. It was a terrible
affair.”

“Where’s Krebs?” demanded Jimmy.

“About two miles from here. It’s at the foot of North Mahanoy Mountain.”

“What do you know about the disaster, Johnnie?”

“A lot, Jimmy. My father’s first cousin, Pat Healy, telephoned us all
about it. He’s a foreman in the mine, and was just on his way out when
the explosion occurred. He got out all right, though he was hurt some.
But he says there are scores of men entombed.”

“Can you get hold of him again, Johnnie?” cried Jimmy, his voice almost
shaking with eagerness.

“Sure. He lives near us. Why?”

“It’s like this, Johnnie. I’m on my way out to cover this story. I’ve
got to get pictures and as much of the story as I can pick up in a
little while. But I had to land in Easton to pick up Mr. Handley. That’s
going to delay me a lot. This is a chance for you to show what you can
do in collecting news. Will you try it?”

“Will I? You bet your neck I will. What do you want me to do?”

“Have you got a camera?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Then get some pictures of the wrecked mine if you can, and of the mine
entrance, injured miners, crowds at the shaft, or anything else that
will illustrate the story.”

“I can do that easily. I can drive to the mouth of the mine in less than
ten minutes. I’ll hustle right over and get all the pictures I can.
Anything else?”

“Sure. Get the story. Get hold of your father’s cousin again. Find as
many survivors as possible. See anybody you can who is in authority at
the mine and get a statement from him. Get all the details you can.”

“Just what do you want, Jimmy?”

“Find out what happened, when it happened, where it happened, how it
happened, why it happened, and to whom it happened. Get every detail you
can about every phase of the story. Get the names of the dead and
injured, if possible. Find out how many are still in the mine. Maybe Mr.
Healy can tell you. Get a story of the explosion from him. Find out how
it happened and what caused it. Get Mr. Healy to tell you about the mine
itself—what it is like, whether there is any chance for rescue, whether
there are places where the imprisoned men can take refuge in the mine.
Ask all the questions you can think of. Try to get enough stuff together
so you can tell me a complete story of the disaster when I get there.”

“I’ll do it, Jimmy. I’m off this minute. Good-bye.”

Jimmy said good-bye and rang off. “That was a lucky thought,” he
muttered, “to set Johnnie to work. He’s evidently got the inside track.
He may be able to get the whole story.”

Jimmy ascertained the amount of his tolls and paid the woman. She had
heard his talk with Johnnie and was intensely interested. She asked
Jimmy question after question about his work as a flying reporter.
Before Jimmy knew it, half an hour had passed. Then he noticed a clock
and frowned. He looked out at his plane. Some small boys had gathered
about it, but there was no sign of Handley. Fifteen minutes more passed,
and Jimmy was growing desperate. Finally he reached for the telephone
again. “Please get me the New York _Morning Press_” he told the
operator.

When Jimmy finally got his connection, he called for Mr. Johnson. “Have
you any idea how long it is going to take Handley to reach me here at
Easton?” he asked. “I’ve waited for him more than an hour already. I’ve
got to push on if I am to get any photographs.”

“What’s this about Handley and Easton and waiting an hour? What are you
talking about?” demanded the managing editor.

“What am I talking about!” exclaimed Jimmy. “I am talking about Handley.
You ordered me to wait for him in Easton. I’ve been here at Easton for
more than an hour. Can you give me any idea how soon he will arrive? I
can’t possibly wait much longer if I am to get back with the story in
time for the midnight edition.”

“You’re in Easton! Waiting for Handley! What are you talking about? I
never ordered you to stop at Easton. You ought to be in Shenandoah this
very minute.”

“You never ordered me to stop at Easton!” cried Jimmy. “Somebody did. I
received a radio message forty minutes after I took off, telling me you
had ordered Handley to join me here and ordering me to wait for him. I
acknowledged the message and supposed you had my acknowledgment.”

“Somebody has put one over on you, Jimmy,” said the managing editor.
“It’s a pretty bad business. But we have no time to discuss it now. Get
on to Shenandoah as fast as you can and do the best you can. I want to
see you about this as soon as you get back here. Now hustle.”

Jimmy was mortified, angry, and anxious. His face showed his anxiety. He
paid his telephone tolls and raced back to his plane. As fast as he
could, he got his ship into the air. Then he opened his throttle as far
as it would open and went streaking along the Air Mail route for
Ringtown.

In less than half an hour he dropped down on the landing field at that
place. He leaped from his plane, threw off his flying togs, and raced
for Johnnie Lee’s house. Johnnie’s mother met him at the door.

“Johnnie’s expecting you,” she said. “He called up a few minutes ago and
said you should call him at Healy’s when you arrived. Come in. I’ll get
the connection for you.” And in no time she had it. She asked for
Johnnie and handed the receiver to Jimmy.

“Hello, Johnnie,” he said. “This is Jimmy. I just arrived at your house.
Where are you? How can I get into touch with you?”

“I’m at Healy’s. It’s straight down the road. Mother will show you the
way. Come over as quick as you can. Mr. Healy is talking to me now.”

Jimmy hung up the receiver, got directions from Mrs. Lee, and raced down
the road. In ten minutes he was in the Healy home.

“What have you done and what have you learned?” Jimmy demanded, after
Johnnie had introduced him to Mr. Healy.

“I went right over to the mine with my camera, after you called me, and
I have a whole roll of films for you—a dozen pictures. They ought to be
good, for the conditions were just right for taking them. I got a
picture of the mine mouth, the crowd about it, some snaps of the rescue
crews descending into the mine, one of an injured miner who was hurt in
the attempt at rescue, and other similar pictures.”

“Good! They are just what I want. What about the story?”

“I believe I have the whole thing. Mr. Healy was in the mine when the
explosion occurred. In fact, he was close to the very spot where it
happened. He saw the explosion occur. He was injured slightly, but not
disabled. He gathered together all the men within call and started for
an old opening that is no longer used. The explosion had prevented
escape through the shaft used nowadays. Gases began to spread through
the mine, and the men with Mr. Healy were overcome one by one. Those
still able to walk tried to drag the others out. But the only man who
got out on his own feet was my cousin. He dragged out one man. Then he
collapsed himself. He came to in about half an hour and managed to
stagger home. He telephoned about the man he had dragged out, and some
miners came and got him. We heard about it over the telephone, just
before you called me from Easton.”

“Won’t you repeat your story to me, Mr. Healy?” asked Jimmy. “Just start
at the beginning. Tell me what the conditions were like in the mine when
the explosion came. That is, about how many men you think went into the
mine, how many were still in it, and what the mine is like. Give me a
mental picture of it, so I can follow your story. Then start again with
the explosion and tell me what you saw and did.” For half an hour Mr.
Healy talked steadily, stopping only when he was interrupted by Jimmy
with a question. He gave Jimmy an excellent picture of the mine
workings. Mr. Healy had been a foreman in this particular mine for
years, and knew every foot of it as workers above ground know the cities
in which they live. Then he told of the explosion, pictured the damage
it did, showed how it shut off escape by the newer shaft, and pictured
the situation of the imprisoned men. He estimated their number at more
than one hundred.

“If the gas was as severe in other chambers as it was where we were,” he
said, “most of those one hundred men are now dead. I have been using the
telephone, and so far as I can learn, we two men who got out through the
old drift are the only men who have escaped. Unless some of the miners
were able to retreat to dead ends of passages, ahead of the gas, and
make air-tight barricades to keep the gas out, I fear every man in the
mine is past help. But we shall not know for sure until the rescue crews
have searched every foot of the workings. That will take many hours, and
perhaps some days.”

Jimmy checked back over his notes. His story seemed to be very complete.
He asked for a few more details about this point or that. Then he thrust
his notes into his pocket. “You have given me a very complete account,
Mr. Healy,” he said. “I can write a mighty clear story just from these
notes. But I must see the mine myself, and the mine mouth, and the
crowds, and if possible I must talk with some of the officials. You
don’t feel well enough to go over there with me, do you?”

“Yes, I am all right now,” said Mr. Healy. “I’ll be glad to go with
you.”

They hurried out to Johnnie’s car and were rushed over to the mouth of
the mine, which was hardly more than a mile distant. Parking the car,
the three walked about through the crowd, observing, asking questions,
gathering up what incidents they could.

“There’s the superintendent,” said Mr. Healy, as a large man came out of
one of the mine buildings. “Would you like to talk to him?”

“I surely would,” answered Jimmy.

“Then come on.”

They walked toward the man. While they were still at some distance from
him, they saw a young man hurry up to him and lay a detaining hand on
his arm. The superintendent looked surprised. The young man said
something. The superintendent brushed him roughly aside and went on. He
seemed angry. He was still frowning when he came face to face with Mr.
Healy and the two lads.

“Pat, I’m mighty glad to see you,” said the superintendent, “but I am
mighty sad to see you alone. I fear it’s all up with the men
underground.”

“This young man wants to talk to you,” said Mr. Healy. “He’s a reporter
from New York.”

“So was that jackass that just tried to stop me,” said the
superintendent. “I don’t want to talk to reporters.”

“But this lad is a very good friend of mine,” urged Mr. Healy. “And he
is a gentleman. I know you will be willing to talk to him.”

“Well, what is it?” said the superintendent. “I haven’t much time to
spare. This is a crowded hour for me.”

“Thank you very much,” said Jimmy. “I know how you feel. I don’t blame
you for not wanting to talk about this terrible affair. I appreciate
your courtesy.” Then Jimmy began to ask questions, in a courteous,
considerate manner. The mine official gave him all the information he
asked for.

When the interview was ended, the superintendent walked on. So did the
Healy party.

Presently Jimmy heard a voice saying: “There he is. He’s the only man
who escaped unaided. He dragged out another man, and they are the only
men who have reached the surface so far.”

“I’ll get a statement from him,” replied another voice.

Jimmy knew this latter voice well—too well. He began to tremble with
anger. A sudden light shone in upon him. Now he understood the game that
had been played upon him. Now he knew who had tricked him into landing
at Easton. The voice he was listening to was the voice of Rand.

Like a shot Jimmy turned to Johnnie. “If you think anything of me,
Johnnie,” he said, “don’t let your cousin talk to the fellow who is
coming to interview him. It’s Rand, the fellow I have told you about. It
was Rand who stopped the superintendent a little while ago, though at a
distance I did not recognize him. But I know well enough now who it
was.”

Johnnie laid his hand on Mr. Healy’s arm. “Pat,” he said, “this fellow
who is approaching to talk to you is Jimmy’s worst enemy. He has just
played a dirty trick on him. Don’t say a word to him.”

“Played a dirty trick on Jimmy, did he? Very well. He gets no news from
me.”

A moment later Rand stepped up and began to question the mine foreman.
“I have nothing to say. See the superintendent,” snapped Mr. Healy. And
turning on his heel, he strode away, with Johnnie and Jimmy at his
heels.

But as Jimmy walked away, he said: “Rand, dirty tricks don’t pay. You
thought you had put over a clever one when you got me down at Easton
to-day, but your game failed. This is what came of it. You lose out
yourself.” And Jimmy hurried after Mr. Healy and Johnnie, while Rand
stood and cursed him. “I’ll get you yet,” Jimmy heard him say. But Jimmy
wasn’t caring about Rand’s threats. He held all the aces in the pack
himself.



                              CHAPTER XII

                     Jimmy Lands a Job for Johnnie


When Jimmy had finished writing his story, after a fast trip back to his
office, where he arrived well ahead of his deadline, he reported to the
managing editor.

“Well, I see you got here in time anyway, Jimmy,” smiled that official.
“Your photographs are fine, but they are a little small. Why didn’t you
use your regular news camera?”

“I didn’t take the pictures, Mr. Johnson. Johnnie Lee took them. He had
to use his own camera because I was miles away, at Easton. He got the
story, too, and he got the details in fine shape. If it hadn’t been for
Johnnie, I guess I’d still be at the mine.”

“This sounds interesting. How did your young friend get into the affair,
anyway? Tell me about it.”

“There isn’t much to tell, Mr. Johnson. When I landed at Easton, and
didn’t see Handley anywhere, I suspected I might have to wait some time
for him, so I called Johnnie up at his home. By good luck he was right
at hand. He lives within two miles of the wrecked mine. I asked him to
see what he could do for me. He skipped right over in his car, got the
photographs, rounded up the only man who escaped from the mine on his
own feet, and had the whole story in hand when I reached there. He
introduced me to this survivor, who is a foreman in the mine, and so was
able to give us such a comprehensive description of the place. Then
Johnnie took us both back to the mine, so I could see the place and the
crowds for myself. The foreman got me an interview with the mine
superintendent. And by the way, the superintendent had just refused to
talk to Rand.”

“Rand, eh? So he’s working on this story.” The managing editor’s eyes
narrowed to mere slits. He looked at Jimmy intently. “You don’t suppose,
Jimmy, that Rand——”

“Yes, sir, I _do_ suppose so,” interrupted Jimmy. “I’d be willing to bet
my last nickel that it was Rand who tricked me into landing at Easton.
You know the paper he works for has a plane at the same field where we
keep ours. I didn’t see Rand at the field before I took off, but I
believe he was there. And I believe that in some way he got wind of the
fact that you had ordered me to Shenandoah. I have no proof of that, and
I don’t see how I can get proof. He might easily have picked up the fact
from employees about the field. My mechanic knew that you wanted me to
make the trip. He told me so the instant I got in from my flight out to
sea. He might have mentioned the matter to other people about the field.
Of course everybody soon knew about the disaster, and it was a safe bet
that I would have to fly to the scene. Rand would know that.”

“Yes, or some one may have tapped our wire. Or some one may be paying
mechanics at the field to keep tabs on you. I know of at least one
newspaper in this town that wouldn’t be above such work. You just watch
yourself, Jimmy. Keep your eyes and ears open and see if you can’t find
out more about this matter. Everything turned out well this time, but
you won’t always have a Johnnie Lee on the spot to pull you out of a
hole.”

“That’s what he did, Mr. Johnson. Johnnie pulled me out of a great big
hole. I might have rounded up the story after I got there, but I could
not possibly have gotten the pictures also. It grew dark soon after I
reached the mine. Johnnie made a fine job of it. I believe you will say
so, too, when you read his story.”

Just then a copy boy thrust some proofs into Mr. Johnson’s hands.

“Here it is,” said the managing editor. “Now we’ll see what your story
is like.”

“It’s really Johnnie’s story, Mr. Johnson,” protested Jimmy. “Please
read it and see if you don’t think Johnnie has shown enough ability now
to start in as a cub.”

Mr. Johnson smiled. “What a fine world it would be, Jimmy,” he said, “if
we all had such loyal friends as Johnnie Lee has in you.”

Then he began to read, and the expression on his face showed well enough
that he was interested. When he had finished, he laid down the proofs.
“It’s a good story, Jimmy,” he said. “Then does Johnnie get his job?”
demanded Jimmy.

“You are nothing if not an ardent partisan, Jimmy. I hadn’t any idea of
employing Johnnie; but he has been so useful to us that if he wants to
come on here and start in as a cub, at the lowest salary we pay cubs,
we’ll give him a chance. I somehow have a feeling that he has good stuff
in him.”

“Indeed he has, Mr. Johnson. You’ll never be sorry you hired him. When
do you want him to report for work?”

“There’s no hurry, Jimmy. I’ll drop him a line in a few days. I want him
to understand exactly the terms on which he comes and the amount of pay
he will receive while he is learning his job.”

“Thank you ever so much, Mr. Johnson. I’ll do all I can to help him make
good.” And Jimmy walked out of the managing editor’s office as happy as
a lark. Altogether, it had been a mighty good day for Jimmy.

“It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good,” he thought. “If Rand hadn’t
pulled me down at Easton, Johnnie would never have gotten this job. It
just seems to me as though most of the things that look like
difficulties when they occur are really opportunities. It’s been that
way with me more than once. The main thing is to keep a stiff upper lip,
use your head, and just keep on going. I’ll try to remember that the
next time I get in a pinch.”

Jimmy went back to his ship, to see that she was put in shape for
instant use again. He was very happy. Not only had he made good again
for himself, but he had helped his old friend. He had secured for him
the opening that Johnnie so much desired. He wanted to write to Johnnie
and tell him about the situation, but he decided not to do it. “Mr.
Johnson evidently prefers to write to him himself,” thought Jimmy. “I
don’t want to do anything that could possibly gum things up.” So he
restrained himself.

It wasn’t long, however, before Jimmy had abundant opportunity to tell
Johnnie all about the matter. A new and important airport was to be
opened in central Pennsylvania. Celebrated fliers by the dozens were to
be on hand. An attractive program of races and flying stunts had been
arranged, and the affair had been given great publicity. Mr. Johnson
decided to send a man to cover the story. Quite naturally, he selected
Jimmy.

“Go up there and get us a good story, Jimmy,” he said. “If all the
fliers are present who are advertised to be there, this will be a very
interesting gathering. And by the way, I suppose you will fly out along
the Air Mail route. If you do, stop at Ringtown and take Johnnie Lee
along with you. I wrote him two days ago, offering him a job, and I just
received his reply. He is eager to come. Pick him up and take him to the
airport opening with you. I’ll give you credentials for him. He can
start right in with you. And remember, I expect you to help him learn
his job.”

“Thank you, Mr. Johnson,” replied Jimmy. “I’ll do my very best to help
Johnnie. You won’t be sorry you hired him. I’ll pick him up as I fly
out, and bring him back to the city with me.”

“That’s exactly what I wish,” replied the managing editor.

So it happened that when Jimmy flew to the air races, he stopped at
Ringtown and picked up his old friend. Then the two flew on to the
airport.

The aviation meeting was all it had been advertised to be. Scores of
pilots were present, many of them famous veterans of the air. The edge
of the flying field was lined for hundreds of yards with ships that were
crowded so close together their wing tips almost touched. There were
flying machines of almost every known variety. Tiny Moth planes stood
wing to wing with huge tri-motored cabin ships that would hold a dozen
passengers each. There were monoplanes and biplanes, and even some
gliders were to be seen. The Army and the Navy were represented by
several fliers each. The planes of the latter instantly caught the eye
as they stood on the line in military formation, noticeable among all
other planes for their blazing insignia on their wing surfaces. It was a
sight to delight a pilot’s heart.

Yet the ground show was nothing compared to the exhibition in the air.
Aloft there was a constant stream of ships. Some were arriving, some
departing, some were carrying passengers at so much a ride, some were
stunting, and others were merely aloft for the pleasure of it. Then came
races. The air was cleared of all other fliers, and the speedsters had
their innings. Back and forth they darted along a course many miles
long, one end of which was in the centre of the new airport. Around the
striped pylon they roared, some darting upward on the turn, others
roaring around on level keel. And so steeply were the ships banked that
each seemed fairly to be standing on one wing as it whirled around the
pylon. It was a stirring sight.

But the performance that stopped every heart and made every onlooker
hold his breath was the parachute jumps. Jimmy and Johnnie had gone
aloft again by the time the jumping started. Ever since Jimmy had
received the piece of Warren Long’s parachute, he had felt a particular
interest in parachute jumps. He believed he could see the jumps better
if he were in the air, about on the level with the jumpers, than he
could see them if he were on the ground. Likewise, he wanted to get some
photographs of the jumpers, taken from aloft. So he and Johnnie had gone
aloft once more.

They flew along lazily, to the rear of the ship that held the jumpers.
And they were a little lower than this ship. Jimmy wanted to see just
how the parachutes worked. He had selected an excellent viewpoint; for
when the first jumper walked out on a wing of the ship and calmly
dropped toward the earth, Jimmy could see his every movement. Down
dropped the man, straight as a plummet, hardly moving his body or limbs,
until he was well below the plane. Then Jimmy saw him reach for the
rip-cord, grasp the metal ring, and give it a sharp jerk. With an
instant response the covers of the parachute pack snapped open, the
folds of the white silk “umbrella” were caught by the wind, ballooning
out and opening full with a crack that could be heard all over the huge
airport. The downward flight of the jumper was checked. With a jerk he
spun upright, then settled toward the earth under his wide-spreading
canopy. He landed safely, amid great applause. Johnnie got several fine
snaps with the camera while the jump was taking place.

Another jumper followed. This one elected to come down awhirling. He
stepped off backward, and went spinning toward the earth like a ball.
When he pulled his rip-cord, his parachute pulled him upright with a
jerk that, as Jimmy phrased it, must have splashed his liver against his
backbone like a butcher throwing a slab of beef on the block. But the
jumper landed safe and sound and appeared none the worse for his
experience.

The best performance—at least the one that most attracted the
crowd—had been reserved for the last. A woman was to do some stunts and
then put on a parachute and jump. She was a slender young flier, whom
the _Morning Press_ men had noticed at the hangar. She was clad in a
light flying suit, and her short hair was bound tight with a broad red
ribbon wound about her brow.

When she came out on the wing of the plane, preparatory to giving her
exhibition, Jimmy could feel his pulse quicken perceptibly. The sight of
men about to risk their lives had not stirred him so much. They were
fliers, like himself, and every pilot expected that some day he might
have to make the trip to the ground in a parachute. But to see a young
woman risking her life, merely to make a show for a curious multitude,
stirred Jimmy as it did others. He knew well enough that the crowd on
the ground was standing in breathless suspense. He flew his plane as
near to the jumper’s ship as he dared, so Johnnie could get some
close-up snapshots.

Jimmy watched the woman like a hawk. He noticed her every movement. She
made her way along the wing of the plane. A rope ladder had been
fastened to a strut. This the woman untied and lowered. Then she swung
over the edge of the wing and made her way down the rope ladder. She had
no parachute. Should she lose her grip or be jolted from the ladder she
would fall straight to earth and be crushed. Jimmy almost shuddered as
he looked at her. It seemed terrible to him that any one should risk
life in this way. He could hardly bear to watch her. Yet he had come
aloft to see the performance and he steeled himself to watch. He kept
his plane moving at the same rate as the exhibition ship but at a lower
level.

Down the rope ladder came the young woman. This swung and swayed
uncertainly in the breeze. At the bottom of the ladder was a strong
metal rung or crossbar. It helped to keep the ladder from blowing
backward too far. When the performer came to this metal bar she did not
pause but grasped it with both hands and lowered her body into space.
There she dangled, a thousand feet in air, with nothing between her and
an awful death but her own good grip. Jimmy could feel chills of horror
running up and down his spine. He prayed that the air would stay calm.
He could hardly bear to look at the woman when she released one hand
from the bar and swung for a moment by a single arm. It was too much for
Jimmy. He looked away.

When he brought his glance back to the woman she had altered her
position. Now she was hanging by her knees, her head down, as the ship
flew along. For several minutes she did acrobatic stunts at the end of
the swaying ladder. And during all that time Jimmy was in a tremble. But
the young woman was as steady as Gibraltar. She lost neither her nerve
nor her grip. Presently she climbed back up the ladder, rolled and
fastened it to the strut, and then climbed to the upper wing, where she
braced herself and stood upright with nothing whatever to hold to, while
the ship shot through the air at seventy miles an hour.

Again Jimmy was in a fever of fear. If she slipped, if the plane plunged
and threw her off her balance, if the air grew bumpy and tumbled the
ship about, there could be but one end to the exhibition. The young
woman would be thrown off her balance and blown out into space. Once
more Jimmy turned his look away. He could not bear to look at her.

When he glanced again at the ship he was following he saw something that
electrified him, that shocked him into instant activity. From the
crankcase of the ship ahead of him flames were leaping.

Quick as thought Jimmy turned to his companion. “Get the tie rope,” he
shouted, indicating with a sweep of his arm where he kept the rope with
which he tied his plane down when he had to leave it out over night.

Johnnie had the long, strong rope out in no time. He knotted one end of
it fast in the cabin, so it could not get away from him. Meantime Jimmy
opened his throttle and his ship darted upward and to one side. In a
moment it was almost wing and wing with the exhibition ship.

The other pilot glanced out and saw Jimmy’s plane. Johnnie leaned from a
cabin window and began making vigorous gestures. He pointed to the woman
on the upper wing of the exhibition plane. She was utterly unconscious
that anything was wrong. Then Johnnie held up his rope and made a
gesture to indicate that he would try to pick up the woman on the plane
wing. For a moment the pilot looked at Johnnie as though he did not
comprehend. It came to Johnnie that the pilot did not yet know his ship
was afire. The flames were underneath the engine, and he had not yet
noticed them. Violently Johnnie gestured toward the crankcase. The pilot
got partly to his feet and peered over the edge of his plane. Instantly
he saw what was wrong. Johnnie once more held up his rope and pointed to
the woman on the upper wing. The pilot nodded agreement.

“He understands,” shouted Johnnie.

With a suddenness that almost threw Johnnie off his feet, Jimmy banked
his plane and circled. In a moment he was once more to the rear of the
exhibition plane, but now he was above it. The ship was flying slowly,
on level keel. Very carefully, like a refueling plane about to fuel
another ship, Jimmy flew his craft over and a trifle ahead of the other
plane. Johnnie was watching carefully.

“There!” he shouted. “You’re just right. Slow her up a bit.”

Jimmy followed instructions. In a moment he was keeping pace with the
other ship, but was slightly in advance of it. Johnnie leaned through
the open window and started to lower the rope. The wind blew it almost
straight back. He drew the rope in and fastened the starter handle to it
with a loose knot. Then he leaned from the window once more and
carefully but swiftly lowered the rope.

Meantime the young woman on the wing below him had been watching with
curious interest. She did not understand what was afoot. It was well she
did not. She might have lost her nerve. She caught the rope as it came
level with her and held it uncertainly, meantime looking up at Johnnie
questioningly. Johnnie saw that she did not comprehend the situation. He
pointed toward the blazing crankcase. The girl held fast to his rope and
took a step toward the leading edge of the plane wing. The moment she
saw the flames she shrank back in evident terror, and Johnnie’s heart
almost stood still with fear lest she fall from the plane wing. But she
recovered her nerve in an instant. Grasping the starter handle, she
quickly untied it and laid it down on the wing. That one act told
Johnnie that she had a complete grip on herself. Otherwise she might
thoughtlessly have tossed it into the air. In a second the girl had the
rope around her body, just below her arms. She tied it tight, with knot
after knot. Then she looked up and nodded.

Johnnie braced himself and began to haul on the rope. A foot at a time
he dragged the girl upward, while she clung with both hands to the life
line. It was fortunate she was light in weight. Johnnie was working at a
disadvantage. He could not get all his muscles into play. Yet slowly he
lifted the girl upward until she could grasp the window-frame. Then
Johnnie threw open the cabin door, which was immediately beside the
window, and reached out and grasped the girl. At the same time she slid
her foot within the cabin of the plane and pulled herself, with
Johnnie’s help, after it. Even above the roar of both motors Johnnie
could hear the tremendous cheer that came up from the ground. Johnnie
slammed the door shut and fastened it. Then he turned to the girl. She
had slumped to the floor, as pale as death. But it was merely the
reaction after her moment of peril.

Meantime, Jimmy opened his throttle, pulled back on his stick, and shot
his plane upward for hundreds of feet. By the time he leveled off, the
pilot below him, who had seen a part of the rescue, had acted to save
his own life. The fire had spread rapidly. Flames were beginning to
shoot into the cockpit. Adjusting the stabilizer of his ship so that she
was slightly nose heavy, the pilot headed his plane toward a near-by
woods. Then he stepped over the side, and a moment later was floating
safely downward under his open parachute. He landed near the flying
field, without a scratch.

Seeing the pilot safe and the air clear, for the burning plane soon
crashed in the woods, Jimmy swooped down and landed in the middle of the
flying field. His plane rolled rapidly toward the judge’s stand and he
taxied it close to the railing that kept the crowd from the field. A
doctor and several officials rushed out to the ship to look after the
young woman. She was still in a state of collapse. Carefully they
assisted her to the hangar and gave her the necessary attention.

Jimmy was glad enough to have her off his hands. He was waiting for his
engine to cool a bit before cutting the switch. Then he intended to
hurry to the telegraph station and send off a wire. His whole attention
was now centered on the story he must send.

What was his astonishment, then, when the crowd broke through the
barriers and a veritable mob came charging toward him as he stepped from
his ship. For a second Jimmy was dumbfounded. He did not understand what
was happening. But it did not take him very long to learn. As he and
Johnnie stepped clear of the ship the crowd thundered up. A hundred
hands were thrust out at them. A babel of voices arose in shouted
greetings. Men and women swarmed about them, patting them on their
backs, slapping their shoulders, and reaching for their hands. Then
somebody caught them both from behind, eager hands lifted them bodily,
and in another moment they were riding from the field on the shoulders
of sturdy men, while the crowd yelled itself hoarse.



                              CHAPTER XIII

                Jimmy Has an Adventure with a Bootlegger


It was nearly ten o’clock that night when the two young fliers walked
into the _Morning Press_ office in New York, tired but happy. Jimmy had
filed his story as soon as he could get away from the crowd and write
it. A hasty bite to eat had followed, and then the two young reporters
had hopped off for Long Island, which they reached quickly and without
incident. Now Jimmy was waiting to see the managing editor.

He did not have to wait long. Mr. Johnson soon sent for him. Jimmy took
Johnnie with him, and the two stepped into the managing editor’s office.

“Well, Jimmy, I’m glad to see you back safe and sound,” said Mr.
Johnson. “Sit down and tell me about your trip. I have about come to the
conclusion that any time news is scarce hereafter I shall send you out
on an assignment. You seem to have more adventures than any reporter I
ever heard of. When I hired you, it was to _get_ the news. I never
dreamed that you would also _provide_ the news. As I recall it, I paid
you a certain sum to act as pilot, and I had to increase your pay
considerably when you blossomed out into a reporter as well as a pilot.
Now I suppose you’ll be asking for still more money because you _make_
the news as well as report it.”

Jimmy laughed with the managing editor, who was evidently feeling well
pleased. “I’ll be glad to tell you about my trip, Mr. Johnson,” he said,
“but first I want to introduce my friend Johnnie Lee. He’s your new
reporter and he helped to make the news to-day.”

“Johnnie, I’m glad to know you,” said Mr. Johnson, shaking the lad’s
hand warmly. “You certainly made a fine start with the _Press_. It was
my idea that you were to come here as a cub, and start at the very
bottom of the ladder. But it looks as though you have been learning some
tricks from Jimmy. I suppose you’ll want a raise right away.” And the
managing editor laughed heartily.

“No, sir,” said Johnnie. “I don’t want anything more just now than a
chance and enough to live on.” Then he added, “But I’ll try to deserve
the raise before very long.”

“You had better borrow a rabbit’s foot from Jimmy,” chuckled Mr.
Johnson. “He carries them in every pocket. He has—excuse me, until I
look at these.”

A copy boy had just brought him proofs of Jimmy’s photographs.

“Jimmy,” said the managing editor, after looking at the proofs, “just
what breed of rabbit is it that you get your rabbit feet from? You have
the greatest luck of any fellow I ever knew. You’ve got the most
remarkable picture here that’s been taken since—since—well, since
Clint Murphy snapped Forest O’Brine working on the engine of the
endurance plane, the _St. Louis Robin_, 3,000 feet above the ground.
That picture was a wonder. But you’ve got one here to equal it. It’s a
close-up snap of that woman parachute jumper dangling from her plane.”

“I’m mighty glad it came out good,” said Jimmy, “but I didn’t take it.
Johnnie snapped all the photos while I flew the ship. It’s his picture,
Mr. Johnson.”

“It doesn’t matter who snapped the camera,” said the managing editor.
“It took two of you to get it. We’ll surely beat the town on this.”

“Yes, we shall,” replied Jimmy. “There wasn’t another plane in the air
when she was performing except our two ships. Nobody else could have
gotten a close-up of the thing.”

“I’d just like to know, Jimmy,” grinned the managing editor, “exactly
what breed of rabbit you cultivate. You take a tip from me, Johnnie, and
get some feet from this same breed. Now you boys run along. I’ve got to
get to work.”

Jimmy introduced his friend to Mr. Davis, the city editor, who would
henceforth be Johnnie’s boss. Then he made Johnnie known to several of
the reporters. Finally the two young men left the office and went to
Jimmy’s boarding house, for they had decided that they would room
together. In a little while they were both asleep, but at intervals
through the night Jimmy dreamed about the accident to the parachute
jumper that he had witnessed.

He saw little of Johnnie thereafter, for their hours did not
synchronize. Most of the time Jimmy’s work was done in daylight hours,
whereas Johnnie went to work early in the afternoon and worked until
late at night. But they roomed together, sleeping in separate beds, and
left notes for each other, and could of course see each other when
occasion demanded.

The days passed quickly. Johnnie learned rapidly. Jimmy had few
assignments of an exciting nature. His luck seemed to have deserted him.
He carried pictures, transported reporters, covered a few unimportant
stories. Time hung heavy on his hands. Meantime the autumn passed and
winter came. It came with a rush and it came early. Almost over night
the balmy days of Indian summer changed into days of fierce winds and
icy chill. From all parts of the country came reports of intense cold.
Almost in a twinkling navigation in the north was tied up. The lakes and
streams were frostbound and frozen. Steamers were caught in the ice, far
from land. Suffering was intense. Deaths were reported in many quarters,
due to the cold. Isolated lighthouse keepers and the dwellers on remote
islands were cut off from communication. In many of these isolated
places food and medicine ran low. The weather itself, with the attendant
difficulties of travel, the deaths, the hardships, all consequent upon
the intense cold and the deep snow and ice, became a leading story.

Day after day, belated tales of freezing, hardship, death, heroic
rescues, blizzards, storms, and other phases of the weather, or stories
incident to the abnormal cold, came trickling belatedly into the office.
The managing editor watched this news with growing interest. He had
lived, in his younger days, on the very northern border of the country
and even in Canada. He knew what these periods of cold and storm meant
to the people living in isolated places. And so, when one day there came
a belated despatch to the _Press_, saying that a feeble wireless message
had been received by a boy wireless operator in Smithville, in northern
New York, telling of the plight of people on a neighboring island, in
Lake Ontario, the managing editor was filled with both interest and
sympathy. The island was absolutely cut off from communication with the
mainland by the terrible ice, food was running low, and a whole family
was dying of pneumonia because of the lack of certain medicines.

“It’s really a story for the Montreal or Rochester papers to cover,”
thought Mr. Johnson, “but up to this time they haven’t done it. If we
could slip in there ahead of them, we’d not only do some real good, but
we’d bring a lot of credit to the _Morning Press_. I believe I’ll see
how it looks to Donnelly.”

He called Jimmy on the telephone and told him about the situation. “Do
you think you could reach the place safely with your plane?” he asked.

“Let me look at my maps before I answer you,” said Jimmy.

Jimmy studied them a moment. “If I flew to Smithville, which is only six
or seven miles south of Sackett’s Harbor,” he said, “and hopped off from
there, I should not have to fly over more than a few miles of water.
There are several islands in a straight line close to Smithville. In
case of a forced landing, I could probably make one of those islands. I
think I can do it all right, and I’ll be glad to go. It won’t take so
very long to make it, either.”

“Then get your ship ready at once. I will have a physician make up a
package of medicines and write down some directions to be followed in
caring for patients with pneumonia. You take the stuff out to the island
and find out how many are ill and how ill they are. Leave the drugs and
the directions. Fly back to Smithville and communicate with me from
there. Then we can determine what should be done further. Perhaps you
will have to take a physician to the island. We’ll do all we can to help
these poor people on the island.”

When all was ready, and Jimmy had his medicines aboard, he hopped off
and headed straight for the Hudson, up which river he flew as far as
Albany, where he swung to the left and followed the Mohawk River to
Rome. Thence he followed the railway tracks direct to Smithville, where
he landed in a great snow-covered field. He had had his plane equipped
with skis, and the snow did not bother him at all.

Jimmy climbed out of his plane and walked into the village to ask some
questions. He wanted to know about the possibility of making a safe
landing at the island, whether or not he had selected the safest route,
and what was known in Smithville concerning the condition of the people
on the island. He found the lad who had heard the wireless message, and
he got information on all these points. He was soon satisfied that the
islanders needed help, and that he had chosen the very best way to get
there. The villagers told him he had estimated the distance correctly
and would have to cross only a few miles of the lake. But there was
little open water, they said, and the chances were that in case of a
forced landing he could get down safely on the ice, which was very
thick, and also rough. Jimmy said he had a radio sending set and asked
some of the radio fans to listen in for him during the next half hour.
Then he prepared to hop off.

To his surprise, another plane soared into the sky from a point near the
lake shore on the other side of the village, just as Jimmy was about
ready to take off. He looked at the plane with dismay. Another newspaper
was going to beat him, he thought, and beat him by the tiniest of
margins. But when he suggested as much to the townsfolk who had gathered
about his plane, they laughed. Also they winked their eyes.

“Never mind about him,” they said. “The only medicine he carries is for
snakebites. He flies back and forth between Canada and points along the
shore hereabout. Just what he carries we don’t know for sure, but we can
all guess. He’ll go right on over to Canada.”

Relieved, Jimmy hopped off, headed straight out over the frozen lake
toward the first island, and opened his throttle. He did not like the
looks of the rough ice beneath him, and he meant to reach the island as
speedily as possible. Soon he saw that he was flying faster than the
bootlegger ahead of him. But as he had only a few miles to go, he
thought he should hardly overtake the man.

On they flew, Jimmy following straight after the other plane, and all
the time creeping up on it. To fly to the island took less than ten
minutes. Yet Jimmy was glad enough when he neared the shore, for he did
not like the looks of the rough pack ice beneath him. He had just
started to circle over the island, in order to search out a landing
place, when he noticed the bootlegger’s plane acting crazily. Jimmy saw
at once that something was wrong with the craft. Also, he saw that the
pilot, who was already at the farther end of the island, was making a
desperate effort to turn and effect a landing. The ship came down fast,
landing on ground that was none too smooth, but was apparently not
harmed, though the running gear might have been broken. About that,
Jimmy could not be sure without a close inspection.

Sweeping completely around the island, Jimmy saw that there was no
better place to land than the open space in which the bootlegger had
been forced down. So he came down cautiously, in as easy a glide as he
could make, ready to give her the gun instantly, should the place prove
impossible. But he found a long, fairly smooth stretch before him, and
set his ship down neatly in the snow. She slid for some distance, then
came to rest in perfect safety.

Jimmy hopped from his plane and looked about him. On one side was the
other flying machine, and the pilot of it was walking toward him with
great speed. On the other hand, at a considerable distance, was a little
group of houses, doubtless the residences of the stricken islanders. But
they were evidently not all stricken, for several men could be seen
coming toward him.

For a moment Jimmy stood looking at them, trying to count them. He was
curious about these isolated islanders, and not a little sympathetic
toward them. He wondered what sort of people they would prove to be. And
he was eager to get their story, and to deliver the medicines. He was
also curious to know what manner of man the bootlegger would prove to
be. And presently, hearing the latter’s step at hand, he spun about to
face him, and found himself looking into the barrel of a revolver that
the approaching bootlegger had leveled at him.

Jimmy’s heart began to beat violently. He was so utterly taken by
surprise that he did not know what to do or say. For a moment he was
silent. The bootlegger did the talking.

“Get back into your plane,” he said sharply.

Jimmy did as ordered. There was nothing else to do. To his astonishment
the bootlegger climbed into the plane after him, shut the door, and sat
down in one of the seats. The revolver he still held in his hand
menacingly.

“Take off as quick as you can,” he said gruffly.

Jimmy glanced at the advancing islanders and played for time.

“What’s the big idea?” he asked, trying to appear calm, though his heart
was beating a tattoo against his ribs.

“I just put a connecting-rod through my crankcase,” growled the man.

“Then you want to be ferried ashore,” said Jimmy. “Just as soon as I
speak to these men I’ll take you. I’ve got a package for them.”

The man raised his pistol. His face was black as a thunder cloud. “If
you know when you’re well off, kid,” he snarled, “you’ll do what I tell
you. Hop off and hop off quick, or I’ll drill you full of holes and fly
your old crate myself.” Jimmy saw that he was in a tight place. He swung
about and hopped off. He headed straight back for Smithville.

“Turn her in the opposite direction,” growled the man, “and just keep
going.”



                              CHAPTER XIV

                   Taking Help to Marooned Islanders


Jimmy obeyed the command with alacrity. There was nothing else to do. In
a moment he was flying on precisely the same course he had followed in
coming to the island from Smithville. Soon he was beyond Duck Island and
heading for Prince Edward, that great, bold Canadian peninsula that
thrusts out far into the lake. A long point of land reached straight out
toward Duck Island. Jimmy could see this point easily, for it was hardly
more than a dozen miles in an air-line. At some distance from the end of
this point were small islands, and they were almost in Jimmy’s line of
flight. Five or eight minutes of flying would take him to land again, so
he had no apprehensions about the short flight over this reach of open
lake.

But Jimmy wasn’t at all comfortable in his mind about other aspects of
the situation. If the bootlegger wanted simply to be carried across to
Canada because his own plane had gone bad, that was one thing. Jimmy
didn’t in the least object to ferrying a man over a dozen miles of
lake—even a bootlegger—if the man was in trouble. But would that be
the end of the matter?

Now that the bootlegger’s own plane was out of commission, he might
decide to take Jimmy’s. That wasn’t such a pleasant prospect. But there
was still another angle to the situation. If the man seized the plane,
would he not almost necessarily feel compelled to get rid of the
evidence of his crime? In short, would he not find it expedient to get
rid of Jimmy? When Jimmy thought of the old saying, so commonly quoted
by criminals, that “dead men tell no tales,” he could feel the cold
shivers run up and down his spine.

Jimmy wanted to turn around and talk to his captor. He felt as though a
bullet might come crashing through his back at any instant. It seemed to
him that he simply must look around and face the bootlegger. Yet he
hesitated. The man had told him to fly straight on. That was evidently
what the fellow wanted—to get to his destination. He was getting there,
and he seemed satisfied. Jimmy decided that the best course was to
attend to his flying and make careful note of the country over which he
passed, together with the compass bearings, rate of speed, prominent
landmarks, etc., so that if he had the opportunity to fly back, he could
find his way. So he centred his whole attention on the matter of
navigation and soon found that he felt relieved in mind. He could think
better. He was not so oppressed by fear.

But Jimmy had far less time for thought than he had anticipated. In six
or seven minutes he had reached the tip of the Prince Edward peninsula,
and in twenty minutes he was over the very heart of this body of land.
Still he kept on as straight as the crow flies.

Now, for the first time, his unwelcome passenger spoke. “Set her down in
the open space just ahead,” he said gruffly.

Jimmy eased his plane toward the ground and throttled down his engine.
The uniform whiteness of the snow made it difficult for him to
distinguish the contour of the ground. But as he came lower, he saw that
there was a great, smooth area ahead of him that had quite evidently
been used for landing planes. The snow was streaked with the long
parallel marks of giant skis. Jimmy picked out a pair of ski marks and
set his ship down safely almost in the very treads he was watching. The
plane slid safely to rest. The landing ground was in a lonely region,
and not a house or a human being was in sight.

“Get out,” said the man brusquely.

Jimmy stepped from the plane. His captor followed.

“Now that you succeeded in tracking me down, what do you intend to do
with your information?” he demanded, as he toyed with his revolver
suggestively.

“Tracking you down!” exclaimed Jimmy, amazed. “I don’t even know what
you are talking about. I never saw you before, never heard of you, and
certainly never tried to trail you. Where did you get that idea?”

The man looked at him uncertainly. “Ain’t you one of them government
prohibition agents?” he asked.

A great light dawned upon Jimmy’s mind. He actually laughed. “That’s a
good one,” he exclaimed. “So you took me for a ‘dry’ agent. No, I’m not
a government agent. I’m a newspaper reporter. I represent the New York
_Morning Press_. Look at the name on the side of my ship.”

“I can’t read,” said the man. “It makes no difference if you are a
newspaper man. You was on my trail.”

“You’ve got another guess,” said Jimmy. “I flew up here to carry
medicines to some people on Duck Island who are sick. We just got a
newspaper despatch telling about them. There’s a whole family dying over
there because they lack medicine. Nobody could get to them because of
the ice. My boss used to live up this way, and when he read the despatch
he sent me up to help them.”

The bootlegger looked at Jimmy intently. “You don’t look like you was
lyin’,” he said.

“Of course I’m not lying,” protested Jimmy.

“Here’s the medicine.” And stepping into the plane, he picked up the
bulky package he had been transporting and opened it.

The rum runner looked at it and then at Jimmy. “Say, kid,” he blurted
out suddenly, “you’re all right. To think you’d come clean from New York
and risk your life flyin’ over the lake just to help some sick folks. By
Joe! I’ll look in on them folks myself, next time I go over the island.
If they need help, they need it quick I reckon. So you’d better be on
your way. I’m much obliged for the ride. Maybe this’ll square things
with you.” And he reached into his pocket, pulled out a huge roll of
bills, peeled off a one hundred dollar gold certificate and thrust it
into Jimmy’s hand. “Now you better hustle,” he said.

Jimmy was too much astonished for words. He did not want to take the
man’s money. He wanted less to cross the fellow, for the rum runner was
quite evidently a desperate character. Wisely, Jimmy decided to go while
the going was good. He handed the bill back to the man.

“Thanks,” he said. “It will be worth more to me if you will look after
those people on the island. Spend the money for them. I probably can’t
get up here again. Good-bye.” And climbing into his plane, Jimmy was off
as soon as he could lift his ship from the snow. He opened his throttle
wide. In a minute he was far away, beyond the possible range of any
pursuing bullet that might come his way. He breathed freely again, and
flew straight as an arrow back toward the island.

Once fairly aloft, Jimmy began to meditate on his adventure. Suddenly an
idea came to him. “Gee!” he thought. “I’m sure glad this was such an
isolated place we landed in. I don’t believe there was a soul within
miles. It was a good thing, too. Nobody could get my license number. If
any one had noticed it, I might get into a jam with the Canadian
officials for landing on Canadian soil without clearing the customs.
Well, I guess I had a good excuse, anyway. But just the same, I’m glad
nobody could get my number.”

As he approached the island, he saw a group of people clustered about
the bootlegger’s airplane. They were examining it carefully. Evidently
they had been much mystified by what had taken place. They came
thronging eagerly about Jimmy’s plane as he set it down in the snow.

Jimmy stepped from his ship, with the medicines in his hand. “I am from
the New York _Morning Press_,” he said. “We received a despatch a few
hours ago from Smithville, saying that you were cut off here by the ice
and that people were very sick with pneumonia and lacked medicines. My
paper has sent you the drugs you need, and some directions for using
them.”

When Jimmy saw the expressions of gratitude that came on the faces of
the people about him, he felt that he was more than repaid for anything
he had done or could do to help them.

“Come with us,” they said. “We want you to talk to some of the people
that are in trouble.”

Jimmy went with them. Neighbors were caring for the stricken family. One
or two of the ailing ones were too sick to be seen. But Jimmy was able
to talk briefly to the mother of the family and the oldest boy. He got
from them their story, which was a startling tale in itself. The entire
family of seven—father, mother, and five children—had gone, some days
previously, to pay a visit to friends on the mainland. The lake was not
then frozen so solidly. There were wide, open leads of water, which made
it easily possible to reach the mainland. The visit lasted several days.
Just before the return home, the great cold wave came. When they were
half-way to the island, their motor went dead. A storm came up, and they
drifted helplessly before it for twelve hours. The waves washed into
their boat until they were all drenched. They could do nothing but sit
in their boat and pray that the ice would not crush it. Their situation
had finally been discovered, and hardy neighbors, taking their lives in
their hands, had launched the most powerful boat on the island and
fought their way to them. Thus their lives were saved for the time
being, although every one of the seven was stricken with pneumonia, and
it looked as though two of the seven might die. There was just a chance
that the arrival of the medicine might arrest the disease.

Jimmy was powerfully affected by this recital. He had seldom been so
close to human suffering. Never had he been in touch with people so
pitifully situated as these folks had been. Glad, indeed, was he that he
had attempted the journey, and that there were great newspapers like his
own, to take upon themselves the relief of suffering and the righting of
wrong when other agencies failed.

One thing was sure, Jimmy thought. These suffering ones certainly must
have medical treatment. And so, taking a hasty departure, he flew back
to Smithville and got into touch with his chief, setting the story
before him fully.

“Get a doctor and rush him to the island,” Mr. Johnson wired back.

Jimmy secured the only physician in the neighborhood, loaded the doctor
and the necessary supplies in his plane, and was soon back on the
island. The medical assistance came in time. The doctor was able to give
immediate treatments and to leave directions for further care.

As for Jimmy himself, nothing was too good for him on the island. The
inhabitants would have given him almost anything he asked for, so
grateful were they for his efforts in their behalf. But Jimmy wanted
nothing. He was more than repaid by their gratitude and their
friendship.

It was with real regret that Jimmy said goodbye to these new-found
friends. He was amazed to see how rapidly a mutual feeling of regard had
sprung up between these people and himself in such a short time. He
understood, of course, that this was because of the unusual conditions
under which they had come to know one another. When the time for
departure came, he shook hands with them all, promised to come back to
the island some time, and then ferried his doctor back to Smithville.
And now he went winging his way home across the great Empire State, to
his old quarters at the Long Island flying field.

Weeks later Jimmy learned that the rescue efforts he had set in motion
had been wholly successful. Every one of the seven sufferers had
recovered. But more astonishing than that was the news that for a week
after Jimmy’s departure, the sick islanders had daily treatment from the
Smithville physician. The rum runner from Canada had flown the physician
back and forth every day, as long as it was necessary, in a new plane,
and had concluded the matter by paying the doctor handsomely for his
services.

Jimmy mused over this for quite a while. “It just shows,” he concluded,
“that the poet was right when he said there is so much bad in the best
of us and so much good in the worst of us that we ought to be mighty
careful what we say about anybody.”



                               CHAPTER XV

                    Jimmy Joins the Caterpillar Club


For many weeks after Jimmy’s return from this trip he found life tame
and colorless, although he was busy enough. There were flying
assignments aplenty; but Jimmy found them very ordinary experiences. The
day had long since passed when Jimmy could get a thrill merely by making
a flight in the air. And that was about all his assignments now amounted
to. One of the first of these flying assignments was a commission to
hunt for a lost yacht. A small pleasure craft had disappeared somewhere
along the Atlantic coast between New York and Boston. It was not known
whether the craft was floating helplessly on the sea, or whether it had
put in at some isolated harbor, or whether it might have gone down, with
all on board. The owner was a man of importance. With a small group of
friends he had ventured out on the ocean, and the party had utterly
vanished. Great anxiety was felt for their safety, and because of the
social and business prominence of the missing man, the newspapers joined
in the hunt.

Jimmy had little expectation of finding the lost yacht. The story
promised to be an easy one to cover. Jimmy would fly until he found the
boat or failed to find it. In the one case there would be nothing to
write, or next to nothing, whereas in the other there would be little to
do, probably, except drop a note to the boat, promising aid, then fly
back to land and send out a relief ship, and finally to write a story to
the effect that the missing boat had been found.

Jimmy secured permission to take Johnnie with him on this trip. Or, to
be more exact, the city editor assigned Johnnie the job of flying with
Jimmy. And that was about all the assignment amounted to. They flew for
hours, and covered a tremendous stretch of shore-line and coastal
waters, but discovered no trace of the missing ship. They got back to
the hangar cold, hungry, and stiff, and Jimmy at least was thoroughly
disgusted. To Johnnie the trip was thrilling enough.

Soon afterward Jimmy made a flight that was far more interesting. The
managing editor telephoned him to get ready to fly to Auburn, New York,
where rioting had broken out in the state prison. Handley was sent along
to write a story, for this was a two-man job. The flight up state was
ordinary enough, but the riot within the prison walls was far different.
Buildings were afire, prisoners were armed, guards were located in
strategic positions, and a real battle was in progress within the walls,
while outside were ranged troops and policemen, hastily collected and
thrown about the institution to prevent a general escape of prisoners.

When Jimmy reached the place he found his was the first airplane on the
job. He flew over the prison so that he and Handley could get a good
view of what was going on within the walls. He saw in a moment that a
real battle was raging. From the building that had fallen into the hands
of the rioters bullets were evidently flying in volleys. Prison guards
were answering with an incessant rifle fire. Within the walls things
were smashed and broken. Flames were blazing high. Structures had been
set on fire by the rioters. It was impossible for firemen to get into
the buildings to fight the flames.

Again and again Jimmy circled over the prison, while Handley took
snapshots of the scene. Then Jimmy landed his ship and Handley left him,
to gather the remainder of his story on the ground and put it on the
wire, while Jimmy himself sped back to New York with his photographs.

Long afterward he learned that, altogether unknown to himself, he had
played a most important part in subduing the mob and restoring authority
and order in the prison. For some of the rioters later told the guards
that when Jimmy’s plane appeared and began to circle above the prison,
the rioters were certain it was an army bomber, hovering above them with
intent to blow them all to eternity should they get the upper hand of
the guards. That belief broke their fighting spirit. They knew they
hadn’t a chance to succeed. And scores of rioters gave up at once.

The prison riot assignment was followed by one to cover a big railroad
wreck, and that in turn by an order to assist in a search for four
coastwise fliers who had taken off in the South, with intent to race a
fast train to New York, and who had utterly disappeared. Jimmy flew for
hours along the Atlantic coast, but like other fliers who were engaged
in the same task, discovered absolutely no trace of the missing airmen.

By this time Jimmy’s engine was in need of overhauling. Indeed, it had
somewhat alarmed him on his homeward flight from the search for the lost
fliers. But he had made his airport safely, though he felt sure he could
not have flown much farther. His engine was not only beginning to miss
badly, but it quite evidently needed attention.

At once Jimmy got the managing editor on the telephone. “Mr. Johnson,”
he said, “the engine in my plane will have to be ‘pulled’ right away. I
can’t make another flight until it has had a thorough overhauling. I’ve
flown this ship more than 500 hours, with only one top overhaul of the
motor. In the Air Mail we used to 'pull’ the motors every time they had
done 500 hours. I just barely got back safely to-day.”

“Very well,” said the managing editor. “Arrange to have your plane
overhauled at once. How long will it take?”

“It’s a pretty long job, Mr. Johnson. I should judge it would take two
weeks. As long as the ship has to be laid up, we might as well have it
checked over thoroughly. While they are working on the engine, we ought
to have the wings inspected internally, to see that all the fittings are
in shape and to see if any drag wires need tightening. We might need new
pins in the hinges of the control surfaces, and some of the control
cables may need replacing. The brakes should be taken up, too. In fact,
there’s no end of things that ought to be checked over. It’s a big job,
but it must be done. It isn’t safe to fly the ship any longer without a
complete overhaul.”

“That’s too bad,” said the managing editor, “but if it is necessary have
it done. The difficulty is not about the repairs, but about the loss of
the use of the plane. We simply can’t get along without a plane. Is
there a ship you can hire if the need arises?”

“Yes, sir. There’s an old open cockpit _Travelair-Whirlwind_ here, Mr.
Johnson. It’s an old-timer, but it has a good engine and flies well. We
can hire it for very little. But I suggest that you do not wait till the
need arises, for somebody else might have the plane out at the very
moment we want it.”

“Then go hire it at once, Jimmy, for as long a time as you think you
will be without your ship.”

“I think they will rush my work if I ask them to do it,” said Jimmy. “I
am sure they can have the job finished inside of two weeks. Suppose I
charter this old ship for that period.”

“Very well, if that is long enough. If it isn’t, make it longer. We
mustn’t be caught without a plane. You never can tell when a story will
break that will have to be covered by flight.”

Jimmy rented the old _Travelair-Whirlwind_ and had it moved to his
hangar. His own ship was rolled away to the shop, where the mechanics
could work at it conveniently. Then Jimmy transferred to his new plane
all the equipment that he ordinarily carried in his own ship—maps,
camera, flash-light, and similar necessary articles. Also, he got out
his flying suits, for now he would have to ride in the open.

It was well that Jimmy acted promptly about the old ship; for hardly had
he gotten her ready for flight before the managing editor was on the
wire again.

“Jimmy,” he said, “I’ll have to ask you to jump right out on another
flight. Is everything all right about your new plane?”

“Everything is O. K., Mr. Johnson. I’ve had her rolled into my hangar
and serviced. I’ve put all my outfit aboard of her. She’s ready to fly
at a minute’s notice, and so am I. Where do I go this time?”

“Jimmy,” said the managing editor, “this is a very serious and important
mission which I am about to entrust to you. One of the under secretaries
of war from Washington was here to talk to me about certain matters that
are to be decided at the peace conference in London, now in session. I
cannot tell you what these things are, but they are affairs of great
moment. The under secretary left my office to go to Chicago. I have just
found that he left some very important papers behind him. These he
absolutely must have in Chicago, where he is going for a conference
before he starts for Europe. I could stop him by a telegram sent to his
train, but it is highly important that he be in Chicago at the earliest
possible moment. He must not be delayed a second. At the same time, he
absolutely must have these papers. What I want you to do is to get them
into his hands. Deliver them to him in person and to no one else.”

“Yes, Mr. Johnson. Have you any suggestions?”

“I’ve been studying maps and time tables, Jimmy, and I think you can do
this nicely. If you fly to Bellefonte, which is right on the lighted
airway, you can there take a motor car to Tyrone, which is perhaps
thirty miles distant. The train on which the under secretary is
traveling is due to stop at Tyrone. There you can board his train and
put the papers into his hands. I will wire him on the train that the
papers he left in my office are going ahead by plane, and will be handed
him at Tyrone.”

“You couldn’t possibly have planned the thing out any better, Mr.
Johnson,” replied Jimmy. “I know that whole section well. From
Bellefonte I shall drive to Milesburg, where I hit the new cement road
from Lock Haven to Tyrone. It is as fine a strip of cement as there is
in the United States. It runs along the Bald Eagle Creek, and for miles
is as level as a floor. A motor car can almost fly along there. But you
should have a car at the flying field to meet me. The field is several
miles outside of the town of Bellefonte, and I’ll save a lot of time if
the car is on hand when I arrive.”

“Very well. I’ll telegraph for a car and it will be at the flying field
when you arrive. How soon can you take off, and how long will it take
you to reach Bellefonte?”

“It’s 215 miles from here to Bellefonte, by the lighted airway. I can’t
expect to get much more than 100 miles an hour out of this plane, and if
there is a strong west wind I can’t do nearly as well as that. It will
probably take me two hours and a half and perhaps even three hours. I
should be in Tyrone within another hour, easily.”

“That ought to give you plenty of time, Jimmy. The secretary’s train was
due to leave Philadelphia at 6:30 p m. So it has been under way about
fifteen minutes, for it is now quarter of seven. It takes the train five
hours and a quarter to reach Tyrone from Philadelphia. That should put
it there at 11:45. If it should be late, it may not reach there before
midnight. You should have an hour’s leeway.”

“I will if I can get off soon,” said Jimmy, “but what about the papers?
How am I to get hold of them promptly?”

“They should be in your hands within a few minutes. Handley is rushing
them to you in a fast taxi. He also has some money for you. You may need
more cash than perhaps you have in your pocket.”

“Very well, sir. I’ll start my engine to warming, and be ready to take
off the instant Handley gets here. Good-bye. I’ll do my best, Mr.
Johnson.”

“Good-bye, Jimmy. The best of luck to you. Let me have a wire from you
as soon as you put the papers in the secretary’s hands.”

Jimmy rang off and ran out into the hangar to warm his engine. Then he
inspected his ship to make sure he had every necessary piece of
equipment. Before he had finished his inspection, a taxi rushed up and
Handley stepped out.

“Here are your papers and your money, Jimmy. I suppose the Old Man
phoned you about them. I hope you have a quick trip. The best of luck to
you.”

Jimmy thanked his colleague and stowed the papers and the money in an
inner coat pocket, where he could not possibly lose them. Then he pulled
on his flying suit, buckled on his parachute, climbed into his cockpit,
nodded good-bye to his mechanic, and soared up into the night.

As he left the earth, Jimmy glanced at his clock. It was exactly seven.
He looked aloft, into the night. The sky was a deep, dark blue. Stars
shone dimly through a slight haze. He could see quite well. “If it stays
like this,” he thought, “I won’t have a bit of trouble to get there. But
I sure do wish I had my own ship. These open cockpit planes certainly
are back numbers.”

Jimmy centred his attention on his instruments, and was soon satisfied
that everything was working perfectly. His plane seemed to function
better than he had expected it would. He covered the thirty-five miles
to Hadley Field in a fraction more than twenty minutes. “That’s almost
105 miles an hour,” thought Jimmy. “I didn’t believe the old boat would
do it. But it will be a different story when I turn west and face the
wind. There’s only a twelve-mile breeze blowing, they said, but even
that will cut me down to ninety miles an hour.”

He flew along the old familiar airway. The visibility was good. Beneath
him he could see the clustered lights of town after town, as he roared
across New Jersey. He knew every town as he passed over it. He checked
time and distance as he flew along. It seemed almost no time before he
was approaching Easton. He thought of Rand, and the latter’s effort to
trick him; and he was glad it had happened. It had resulted in Johnnie
Lee’s getting the job he was so eager to have.

Westward Jimmy roared along, straight as the crow flies. Beneath him, on
hill and meadow, shone the beacon lights, stretching out before him in
an endless row of revolving lights. For miles ahead of him he could see
these friendly beacons.

Before he knew it he was over Sunbury. He noticed that the haze was
increasing rapidly. He thought it might be fog rolling up from the
Susquehanna. Soon he was at the Woodward Pass. There was the lofty
beacon on the brow of Winkelblech Mountain. Jimmy was high above it. Now
he was past the mountain and soaring over Penn’s Valley. A very few
minutes would put him into Bellefonte. He glanced at his clock. He had
made amazingly good time. He was going to reach Bellefonte in close to
two and a half hours after all.

Now he was passing Millheim, with its blazing beacon on the crest of
Nittany Mountain. The mist was increasing. It bade fair to be bad. But
it could not gather quick enough to interfere with him. In no time he
would be in Bellefonte. But suddenly his struts and wires began to hum
and vibrate. The vibration rapidly grew worse. The humming grew into a
screech. Jimmy’s blood began to run cold. His plane was icing up. The
thing most feared by airmen was happening to him. Along the edges of his
wings, he knew, ice was forming, as the mist froze fast to the fabric.
If it continued to form, it would destroy the shape of his wings. They
would lose their lifting power. Then nothing under heaven could keep him
aloft.

And his wings _were_ icing up rapidly. He could tell that from the
feeling of the plane beneath him. It no longer slid through the air with
its smooth, hawk-like passage. Its flight was becoming uncertain. It
trembled and shook. The ship responded but slowly to his control.
Desperately he strove to climb. If he could reach either a colder or a
warmer stratum of air, the ice would melt. He dared not descend, for
beneath him were these terrible mountains. He found it impossible to
climb. The ship had utterly lost its power to do so. Yet Jimmy fought
with all his ability to force the craft upward. He tried every trick he
had ever heard of, to lift the plane higher. He could not gain an inch.

On the other hand, Jimmy knew full well that he was coming down. His
altimeter showed that he was losing altitude steadily. He had been
flying at 5,000 feet elevation. Already he was down to 4,500 feet. The
mountain beneath him towered up to 2,000 feet. If only he could make the
next few miles, and get over the high crests near Bellefonte, he would
be all right. The landing field was at an elevation of only 1,200 feet.
He believed he could glide down into it in safety.

But suddenly his plane began to spin. It was absolutely out of control.
Frantically Jimmy kicked at his rudder, shifted his ailerons, tried
every trick he knew of to get the ship out of the spin. He could do
absolutely nothing with it. The plane was beyond all control.

With dismay Jimmy realized that he was in a flat spin. He thought of
Jack Webster, the mail pilot, who had been caught in exactly the same
way just a few miles farther west only a few months previously. The
thought made Jimmy’s heart stop beating. For the centripetal force of
that spin had held the mail pilot fast in his cockpit, and he had fallen
with his plane and been cruelly injured.

Jimmy knew that there was not a second to lose. He must get out of the
ship, and get out quick. He thought of Warren Long. He tried to keep his
head. He reached for his switches and shut off his ignition, to prevent
an explosion when the ship struck. Then he dropped both of his flares.
They burst on the night like magnificent rockets, lighting up the
mountain below them, like noonday. Jimmy took a single look over the
side of his ship and began to struggle frantically to get out of his
cockpit. Below him was nothing but jagged rocks and menacing tree
growths.

Vainly he struggled. He could not lift himself out of the ship. Had the
craft been under control, he could have flipped it over and catapulted
himself out of the cockpit. But the plane was going down on level keel,
whirling about like a top. Again Jimmy struggled. Desperately he fought
to get out of his seat. With all his strength he pulled at the sides of
the ship and shoved upward with his legs. Still he was held fast, as by
a giant hand. Again he heaved his body upward, convulsively,
frantically, with terrible effort. This time he was successful. He
gained his feet. As he did so, he could see over the side of his ship.

The mountain was rising up to meet him at a terrifying pace. He was
frightfully close to the ground. Snatching up his flash-light, he
stepped out on the wing, then dived headlong into space.

He held his breath, fearful lest the whirling plane should strike him.
It missed him by inches. He fought for self-control, lest he should pull
the rip-cord too soon and cause his own death. Plainly he could see the
spinning ship above him. He was going down head first, just as Warren
Long had gone. Now he judged he was safe. Instantly he tore at the
rip-cord. The steel ring came away in his hand. The parachute snapped
out with a crack. It came ballooning open. With a jerk that almost
knocked him senseless, Jimmy was snapped into an upright position. Then
he went floating straight down.

Instantly he looked below him to see what was there. Then he glanced
above, fearful that the falling ship might drop on him. The wind bore
him slightly to one side of the descending plane. Jimmy drew a breath of
relief and centred his attention on the ground at his feet. The flares
were dying out. He snapped on his flash-light. At first it seemed
terribly feeble. Then his eyes grew accustomed to the altered light. He
saw he was going to land in some saplings. His feet went crashing down
through the tree tops. Branches broke beneath him. They also broke his
fall. Jimmy reached out and grabbed a little limb. It tore away from the
tree trunk under his weight. But it almost stopped his descent.
Desperately he clutched at another branch. This one was tougher and
bigger. It held. Jimmy found himself motionless, not ten feet from the
ground. He had suffered only a few bruises and scratches. He slid the
rest of the way down the tree. He was on his feet, safe and sound.

But he was in a terrible plight. Five minutes more in the air would have
put him into Bellefonte in safety. Now he was miles from the flying
field, deep in the mountains, in the black of night.

Yet he had one advantage. He was not lost. He knew almost exactly where
he was. Even as he was falling he had noticed the beacon at Mingoville.
Now as he turned his powerful flash-light this way and that, he saw that
he had landed in a notch. He knew it must be the Mingoville notch. And
if it was, there was a trail running through it. He tore off the
parachute and made his way down the slope of the notch to the bottom.
Sure enough, here was the trail. Jimmy knew it led directly into
Mingoville.

Recklessly he raced down it. The powerful ray from his flash-light
illuminated the path ahead of him. Its beam, almost horizontal, showed
him the irregularities of the way better even than the noonday sun would
have done. Under other circumstances he would not have dared to run down
this rough mountain path as he was now tearing along it. But he used the
utmost care in striding, and succeeded in missing loose stones that
would have turned his ankle.

Down the trail he ran, panting, sweating, his heart pounding in his
breast. But never for a moment did he slacken his speed. In ten minutes
the trail opened into a road. Not far away was a house, and through a
window a light was shining.

Jimmy ran toward the house, shouting as he ran. A man stepped out of the
door as he came panting up.

“I just jumped out of an airplane,” said Jimmy, “and I’ve got to get to
Bellefonte at once. Have you got a car?”

“Sure,” said the mountaineer deliberately.

“I’ll pay you $25 to take me to Bellefonte. And if you get me there
quick, I’ll make it $30,” said Jimmy. “I’m trying to catch a man for
whom I have important despatches. I have to get there in the least time
possible.”

“I’ll take you,” said the mountaineer.

“Hurry,” panted Jimmy.

The man ran for his barn. The car was inside. It was an old Ford. Jimmy
groaned when he saw it. The man started to crank it. To Jimmy it seemed
as though the thing would never start. But finally it coughed, then
began to explode regularly. The motor sounded good to Jimmy. The man
drew on an old overcoat that was in the car. “Get in,” he said. Jimmy
obeyed with alacrity. The man let in his clutch and the car rolled out
into the road.

“Drive as fast as you can make her go,” urged Jimmy. “I have very
important despatches for an official of the government. I simply must
catch him. He’s on his way west. If you hurry, there’s a chance.”

The man threw caution to the winds. Twenty-five dollars was more money
than he had seen at one time in years. He opened the throttle wide. The
little Ford tore along the road. It roared and rattled. It bounced and
swayed. When it struck a bump it leaped like a rabbit. But the man never
slackened his speed and Jimmy clung to the seat desperately.

“I want to go to the flying field,” said Jimmy. “There’s a car waiting
for me there to take me to Tyrone.”

“I’ll put you there in no time,” said the mountaineer.

Jimmy looked at his watch. There was just a possibility that he could
make it if everything went well. Jimmy sat in silence. But his heart was
beating fast with anxiety and apprehension.

On they raced through the night. The man seemed to know the road
perfectly. He tore around sharp bends, dashed into dark hollows, went
roaring along the straight stretches, almost without altering his pace.
Suddenly he applied the brakes. Then he shot around a sharp corner.
Ahead of them lights were gleaming. Jimmy recognized the flying field.
He thrust his hand into his pocket, drew out his roll of bills, and
counted out $30. As the Ford came to a stop before the hangar, Jimmy
thrust the money into the driver’s hand, leaped from the car, and raced
for a powerful, big motor that stood a few rods distant.

He ran up to the driver, who was sitting on the front seat.

“Is this the car engaged by the New York _Morning Press_ to take a man
to Tyrone?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the driver, in surprise. “He’s coming in by plane and ought
to have been here some time ago. I’m beginning to be alarmed about him.
Know anything about him?”

“I’m the man,” said Jimmy, climbing into the car. “My plane iced up and
fell near Mingoville, but I wasn’t hurt. Get started, please.”

The driver was off like a shot. Jimmy looked at his watch.

“You’ve got thirty-five minutes to make it,” he said.

The driver’s only response was to put on more speed. Over rough roads he
went spinning, as recklessly as the mountaineer had done in his Ford.
But the great car he drove took up shocks and the speed did not seem so
great. Jimmy wanted to protest, but when he glanced at the speedometer
he thought better of it. He sat in silence, watching the road, as they
went roaring along.

Once on the cement highway, the driver opened his throttle, and Jimmy
watched the indicator on the dashboard creep up. From forty-five miles
an hour it climbed to fifty, to fifty-five, to sixty, to seventy, to
eighty miles an hour. And there the speedometer finger stood as though
glued to the spot.

They neared Tyrone. Jimmy watched the lights draw near. The driver began
to slacken his speed. They reached the fringes of the town. Close at
hand Jimmy heard a long, shrill blast of a locomotive whistle. He knew
it was a train blowing for Tyrone. It was going to stop. He glanced at
his watch. It lacked two minutes of being 11:45.

“Step on it,” begged Jimmy. “That’s the train I must catch.”

The driver turned a corner and straightened out for a dash. He shoved
his speed up and up while Jimmy sat with his heart in his mouth. They
could never stop if anything came out of a side street.

But nothing did. They roared on to the station. The train was standing
at the platform. The locomotive was panting restlessly, as though eager
to be off.

“All aboard,” came a deep voice through the night.

Jimmy leaped from the still moving car, and raced down the platform
toward the train. The train began to move. Jimmy put everything he had
into a last desperate sprint. He reached the car vestibule just as the
conductor was closing the door. Jimmy grabbed the hand rail and swung up
on the step. The conductor slammed the door open and grabbed him.

“Is the—assistant secretary—of war—on this train?” panted Jimmy.

“He is,” said the conductor.



                              CHAPTER XVI

                 The Bootlegger Repays Jimmy’s Kindness


Jimmy delivered his papers to the under secretary and got a receipt for
them. He left the train at Altoona, wired the managing editor a brief
statement of his experiences, then registered at a hotel and went to
bed. Utterly worn out by his trying efforts, he slept like a stone and
did not awaken until almost noon the following day. Then he ate some
breakfast, hired a taxi-cab, and drove back to Mingoville. He sought out
the mountaineer who had driven him to Tyrone on the preceding night, and
the two climbed the notch and found the fallen _Travelair_. It was a
complete “washout,” but Jimmy found that his camera was not much harmed,
and he secured his maps, a compass that was still intact, his parachute,
and a few other articles. Then he had the mountaineer drive him back to
Bellefonte, whence he made his way by train to New York, where he
reported at once to the managing editor.

“So you decided to join the Caterpillar Club, did you?” said Mr.
Johnson, speaking jestingly but shaking Jimmy warmly by the hand. “I’m
mighty glad to see you back, _mighty glad_. I had some real shivers when
I read your telegram saying that your plane had fallen and that you had
had to jump for your life. And I was more than amazed to learn that,
despite your accident, you still succeeded in accomplishing your errand.
It must have been a tight squeeze, Jimmy. I want to know how you did
it.”

Jimmy fished out one of his topographic maps. “I fell right here,” he
said, putting his pencil point on the spot that represented the gap
above Mingoville. “It was great luck. Had I been a mile distant in
almost any direction, I could never have made that train at Tyrone.”

“It was a wonderful achievement, Jimmy. I want to hear every particular
of the story.”

Simply Jimmy related what had happened to him, beginning his tale with
the moment when he felt his plane icing up.

“It’s a great story, Jimmy,” was the managing editor’s only comment.
“You should have told me about it in your wire last night. I want you to
tell Handley what you have just told me. It will make a great story for
the _Press_. Of course we must not betray the fact that the under
secretary of war lost some state papers. For the purpose of this tale
you were merely bearing confidential despatches to him from the
_Press_.”

So it happened that Jimmy once more figured in the news columns. He
disliked so much publicity. But he understood that this was a great
story for his particular newspaper to print. The thing that pleased him
most was the fact that he had made good. He had delivered the message to
Garcia. Nor was Jimmy at all displeased when he found at the end of the
week that he had been given a nice bonus for his work.

His own ship was ready for flight once more within the period that Jimmy
had designated as the time allowance for the job. But for some time
there was again a dearth of interesting assignments. Meanwhile winter
was succeeded by early spring, the snow disappeared in the region of New
York, though there was plenty of it left in the far north and would be
for weeks to come. Jimmy had the skis on his plane replaced by wheels,
for everywhere in the territory that he was likely to cover there was
now bare ground.

The first break in this new stretch of uninteresting days came when
Jimmy was sent to the pine barrens of New Jersey, to take photographs of
a great forest fire that was sweeping through the pines. Jimmy had seen
forest fires in Pennsylvania, but nothing like this crown fire that was
roaring through the pine woods in a line twenty-five miles long, laying
waste not only thousands of acres of timber land, but utterly destroying
scores of homes within the forested area.

On another occasion he was sent down the Bay to take photographs of an
incoming steamer from Europe that had effected a daring rescue in
mid-ocean of the crew of a sinking freighter.

But the assignment that gave Jimmy the greatest thrill he had had in a
long time was an order to fly to the eastern end of Lake Ontario once
more, and cover the wreck of a lake steamer. This craft, one of the
first ships to make its way from its winter harborage through the
disintegrating ice of the lake, had been caught in a terrible gale and
dashed on one of the small islands just off Smithville.

Jimmy was atingle with enthusiasm the instant he got word from the
managing editor. It was already well into the evening. Only a flash had
come—the merest hint of the great story that eventually
unfolded—saying that the steamer had gone aground on the island. The
storm had somewhat abated, though it was still blowing hard. But at the
Long Island hangar there was small evidence of any disturbance in the
air.

“Would it be possible for you to get up there to-night?” asked Mr.
Johnson. “Or is it better to wait until morning? If you _could_ reach
the scene to-night, we could almost certainly get something into our
city edition about the wreck. That goes to press at 3:30 in the morning.
But we could hold it, or we could get out an extra. What do you think
about it, Jimmy?”

“We ought to be able to do it, Mr. Johnson. Of course, it depends upon
what the flying is like farther north. But right here the air is quiet
enough. At the very least, I could fly until I was forced down. Then I’d
be just so much nearer the spot, and could doubtless get there quickly
by motor. The only difficulty is the one of landing. There are no beacon
lights to guide me and no illuminated landing fields. A fellow always
runs a chance of 'washing out’ a ship when he lands in the dark.”

“Then you don’t think it advisable to attempt the trip to-night?”

“I didn’t say that, Mr. Johnson. I’m going to make the trip. But I
wanted you to understand the difficulties. I’ve been over the route, and
I can cover it again without difficulty. The night is clear and there is
starlight enough to illuminate things a little. I know a number of
people at Smithville. I’ll wire to the postmaster and ask him to burn a
bucket of gasoline in the field where I landed last winter. I can get
down all right, I’m sure. But the wire facilities are not very good up
there.”

“All right. I’ll get into touch with the Western Union and see if we
can’t get a wire ready for your use. You make whatever arrangements are
necessary and get off as soon as you can. How long should it take you to
reach Smithville?”

“Unless I have to fight a stiff wind, I ought to make it in two hours
and a half. It’s almost nine now. I ought to get there by midnight at
latest. In two hours more I ought to have a story on the wire for you.
We ought to catch the city edition without difficulty.”

“Very well, make your arrangements and get off. Have your mechanic
telephone me the moment you start.”

Jimmy instantly called the Western Union and dictated a telegram to the
postmaster of Smithville, asking him to burn a bucket of gasoline in the
best landing field possible, when Jimmy approached and circled the town.
Unless held up by wind, he said, he should be due in two hours and a
half. Then, without waiting for a reply, Jimmy hopped off as soon as he
could.

Straight up the Hudson flew Jimmy, speeding along at 120 miles an hour,
the pace he knew he must make to land him at Smithville within the
designated time. He had no trouble in following the Hudson to Albany,
nor in going up the Mohawk to Rome. His troubles began after he left
that point and started to follow the railroad to Smithville, for the
wind, which had been freshening ever since he left Albany, was now
blowing half a gale. But it was a quartering wind for Jimmy and did not
delay him nearly so much as a head wind would have done. It did make the
flight very rough and bumpy. But Jimmy wisely flew at a good altitude,
even though the wind was stiffer up high, and in a little more than two
hours and a half was approaching Smithville.

He could make out the tossing expanse of the lake. The lights of
Smithville showed him exactly where the village was, and his memory told
him just where the field should be in which he had once landed. He nosed
his ship downward and started a big swing around the town. Lower and
lower he glided, waiting for the expected flare. He was sure his running
lights must be visible from the ground, for the night was still
perfectly clear, though he was not so certain that the roar of his motor
could be heard. The blustering of the wind might drown out the sound. At
any rate, they would be looking for him, and they would see him. So he
eased his plane earthward, gliding lower and lower, and waiting for the
flare.

Suddenly it came. A burst of flame sprang up, though it was not where
Jimmy had expected to see it at all. It lighted up a wide expanse of
land. The place looked wet to Jimmy, but he could not be sure about
that. At any rate, it undoubtedly was the best landing place possible.
He knew his friends would not pick out any other landing place. So Jimmy
shoved his stick over a little more, shut off his engine, and glided
down. He leveled his ship off, let her lose flying speed, and set her
down. Instantly he knew that something was wrong. Water began to fly.
His wheels gave forth squdgy, wallowing sounds. In a second his plane
bogged down. Over she nosed into the soft ground. His propeller was bent
almost double. His under-carriage seemed to give way. His engine plowed
into the mud. His tail was standing high in air.

Fortunately Jimmy had braced himself at the first sound of splashing
water. He was thrown forward, and though his face was somewhat cut and
he suffered several hard bumps, he was not really injured. Instantly he
cut his switch and shut off the gas. Then he leaped from the plane to
see what had happened. He found he was in the centre of a great stretch
of bog. His plane was hopelessly mired and out of commission for days.

At a distance he saw men with lanterns. He splashed through the swampy
ground toward them. They came hurrying in his direction. Foremost was
the village postmaster.

“What in thunder did you make a flare in a swamp for?” demanded Jimmy,
mad as hops. “My plane is completely out of commission.”

“We did just what you asked us to do,” replied the postmaster, somewhat
taken aback by Jimmy’s fiery greeting.

“What I asked _you_ to do!” said Jimmy. “Why, I asked you to light a
flare in the best landing place available. Is that your idea of a good
landing place for a plane?”

“But in your second telegram you said to put the flare in a swampy place
as you would fly still farther north from here and your ship still wore
skis.”

“My second telegram! My ship still wore skis! I never sent you any
second telegram. I never told you I had skis on my ship.”

“Well, somebody did. Here’s the telegram. It’s signed New York _Morning
Press_.” And the postmaster fished out of his pocket two yellow telegram
blanks and thrust them into Jimmy’s hand.

“Somebody has played another trick on me,” said Jimmy. “But it won’t do
any good. My ship may be disabled, but I am not. There’s still the
telegraph to fall back upon. I can get a message back to New York that
way.”

“But you’ll need your plane to fly out to the wreck.”

“Thunderation!” said Jimmy. “Isn’t there a boat to be had?”

“Yes, but it’s terribly rough. Nobody around here would go out on the
lake in a sea like the one that’s running now.”

“Well, can I get the story of the wreck here?”

“No. Nobody knows a thing about it except that the ship has piled up on
the nearest island. We can see her with our glasses. But that’s all we
know. That’s all we had to send to the newspapers.”

“Isn’t there any boat that can make it out to the island? I’ll pay
anybody well who’ll take me out.”

“The only fellow who would dare it is that bootlegger who held you up on
your former trip here. He stops at nothing. He’s got a boat specially
made for rough weather.”

“Where is he?” asked Jimmy. “Can I get in touch with him?”

“Yes, you can. He’s been in town for several days. The lake has been too
rough even for him. I’ll show you where he hangs out.” And the
postmaster tramped off, with Jimmy at his side and a group of villagers
following behind them.

They found the rum runner. The man jumped up suspiciously as they
entered the house where he was staying. He glanced from the postmaster
to Jimmy and back again. At first he did not know the stranger. But
before the postmaster could say a word he remembered Jimmy’s face.
Instantly he held out his hand.

“Hello, Kid,” he said. “I reckon I know what brings you back here. You
gave me a ride across the lake some time ago and I suspect you want one
in return? Do I win or lose on that guess?”

“You win,” said Jimmy, shaking the fellow’s hand. “I want a ride and I
want it bad.”

“You can get it,” said the rum runner. “I’ve been out studying the lake
for the last half hour. The waves is dyin’ down fast. I’ve got a boat
that’ll make it easy. Once we get in the lee of the island, there won’t
be nothin’ to it—absolutely nothin’.”

“How soon can we start?”

“Right off. Come on.”

The bootlegger’s power boat proved to be a tremendously sturdy craft,
with high prow, a deep cabin roofed over, and the tiniest of cockpits in
the stern, where there was also an engine that appeared to be of great
power. Jimmy and the owner climbed aboard. The latter turned on an
electric light.

“Put this on,” he said, handing Jimmy a lifebelt. Then he drew on
another himself.

He started his motor and let it run quietly a few moments to heat up.
Then he opened the throttle to test it. The engine answered with a roar
as powerful as that of Jimmy’s plane. The ship strained at her hawsers.

“Now, Kid, you go inside the cabin and sit down. You’re likely to get
hurt if you don’t. If it gets too rough for you, just lay right down in
a bunk. Don’t take no chances on breakin’ an arm or somethin’.”

Jimmy obeyed. The rum runner threw off his lines. He opened his
throttle. The ship left her little harbor. In a moment she was tossing
wildly on the waves of the open lake. The owner gave his engine more
gas. The craft forged ahead. Jimmy had never had such a ride. Like a
chip in a whirlpool the little boat was thrown about. Now it leaped high
upward. Now it dropped downward with a suggestiveness that almost made
Jimmy sick. Now it struck a huge wave, that came crashing back over it,
and the impact made the sturdy craft tremble and quiver. But all the
time it bored straight through the sea, its motor roaring, its propeller
whirling wildly as the stern was thrown up out of the water. At times it
plunged headlong down the slope of a great wave, only to go crashing
into the following crest. It shook and shivered. It groaned and creaked.
But not for one instant did the motor falter or its deep-throated roar
subside.

Almost before he knew it, Jimmy found himself in calmer water. The boat
still rose and fell. It still rocked and swayed. But there was a
perceptible difference in its motions. They were less violent. The sea
was not so turbulent. The craft wallowed less in the waves. And the
farther they went the smoother their passage continued to grow.

Jimmy rightly guessed that the boat was in the lee of the island. It
was, in fact, driving into a little cove or bay, well protected, on the
leeward side of the island. When Jimmy looked out and saw land to right
and left of him he was amazed. They had made the trip to the island in
astonishingly little time. Despite wind and wave, the rum runner’s
powerful boat had crossed the three miles of water with great speed. Now
the craft ran swiftly up the little bay and slid to a grating stop at a
little landing at the very end of the cove.

“Come on,” said the rum runner, making his boat fast. “I’ll take you
over to the wreck.”

Rapidly he led the way across the island, which just here was hardly a
mile wide. Then the two made their way out to the end of a long point of
land, on the tip of which lay the stranded vessel. It was driven far up
on the sands. Only a few hundred feet of water separated it from the
shore. But those few hundred feet were frightful to behold. On this
windward side of the island the sea was terrible. Huge waves came
roaring in from the open lake, to crash against the helpless ship and go
thundering completely over it. Jimmy looked at the scene with an awe
that bordered on terror. Never before had he beheld such an exhibition
of the fury of wind and wave.

Near by was a cottage. Lights still shone in the windows.

“The folks in that house ought to be able to tell us something about the
wreck,” shouted Jimmy to his companion. “Let’s go talk to them.”

They walked to the cottage and knocked at the door. It was opened
promptly and they stepped inside. A great fire was blazing in the
hearth. Before it sat a man half dressed. Articles of clothing were
hanging before the blaze. The man seemed distressed.

Jimmy introduced himself to the cottager. The man recalled him at once
as the flier who had brought help from the city during the winter.

“What brings you here now? Is there anything I can do for you?” asked
the islander.

“I came to get the story of this stranded vessel. Perhaps you can tell
me something about it.”

“I can,” said the cottager, “but this man can tell you far more. He is
the mate of the ship. He was swept overboard and was all but drowned
before we got him ashore. He can tell you everything.”

Jimmy sat down and began to talk to him. Reluctantly at first, then
eagerly as he found relief in conversation, the man related his story:
how the ship had put out from port at the first possible moment with a
cargo of freight and a considerable passenger list; how progress had
been incredibly slow because of the heavy ice; how the storm had caught
them only a few miles off shore; how the steamer’s propeller had been
broken by ice; and how she had then drifted helplessly before the wind,
finally to crash on the beach before them, with the loss of many lives,
and the probable loss of many more. For it was impossible to get to the
ship with the sea as it was, and the vessel was breaking up. It was only
a question of hours until it would go to pieces. Of all those washed
overboard—probably a score or more—the mate was the only one who had
reached the shore alive.

For an hour Jimmy talked with the downcast sailor. He plied the man with
a hundred questions. He got every detail of the trip, from the start to
the present moment. And he secured many names of passengers and crew.
Then thanking the sailor and the cottager, he took his leave,
accompanied by his rum-running friend.

“Have you got all the facts you want?” asked the latter.

“I’ve got all I have time to get now. I must put what I have on the
wire. Later I can get more details and in the morning some pictures.”

They hurried to the boat, boarded it, and crossed to the mainland,
running before wind and wave. Their speed amazed Jimmy. They made the
crossing in no time at all. Jimmy rushed to the telegraph office, which
he found open and waiting for him, with an extra operator who had been
ordered on duty especially to forward Jimmy’s story. Jimmy wrote a few
lines and handed them to the operator. Then, with the telegraph key
clicking in his ear, he wrote and wrote, tearing off sheet after sheet
from his pad and handing each sheet to the operator as fast as it was
written. When he laid the last sheet before the operator he glanced at
the clock. It was half past two. Jimmy smiled with happiness. He had
“caught” the city edition.

As Jimmy and his new friend came out of the telegraph office they heard
the hum of a plane overhead. Down came a ship, circling, and settling
cautiously lower. Then it dropped a flare, turned its landing lights on,
and glided safely to earth in a big field. Two men got out of it—the
pilot and a passenger. They hurried over to Jimmy and the rum runner. In
the dark Jimmy did not recognize them.

“Is there any way we can get to the island, where that ship is wrecked?”
demanded one of them. “We’ll pay well to get there.”

Jimmy bristled with anger as he heard the voice. It was Rand’s. Jimmy’s
rum-running friend turned to him. “What about it? Shall I take them
over?”

“Not if you’re a friend of mine,” said Jimmy. “This fellow is my worst
enemy. He has played me no end of dirty tricks, and I think he played me
one this very night.”

“Then I don’t take him,” said the bootlegger. “Let him get to the island
the best way he can.”

They turned away from the newcomers. Rand was swearing furiously. But
Jimmy paid no attention to him and presently was beyond the sound of his
voice. Briefly he told his friend of the difficulties he had had with
Rand. “I’m just as sure as I can be that now I know who sent that second
telegram here that pulled me down in the bog and put my ship out of
commission. I don’t know what I am going to do, for I had expected to
fly out to the ship and get some photographs at sunrise and then rush
them to New York. The local correspondents can finish up the story.”

“Don’t you worry about no pictures,” said the rum runner. “I got my
airplane all fixed up—new motor and everything. She’s right at hand,
and come daybreak we’ll go git them pictures and then start for New
York. I got business down that way and I’ll be glad to make the trip.
You done me a fine service once and I ain’t never goin’ to forget it.”



                              CHAPTER XVII

                        Jimmy Triumphs Over Rand


When Jimmy and his lawless friend from the border reached New York late
the next morning with the first photographs of the wreck to arrive in
that city and with some additional facts about the wreck, the rum runner
wanted to say good-bye at once, but Jimmy would not consent to this. He
insisted that they go see the managing editor. Finally the bootlegger,
whose name was LaRoche, agreed, and early that afternoon the two met
again at the _Morning Press_ building. They were at once admitted to the
managing editor’s office.

“Well, Jimmy, you seem to have had another interesting adventure,” said
Mr. Johnson, as he welcomed his subordinate. “I’m mighty glad you got
out of it safe and sound.”

Jimmy introduced LaRoche to Mr. Johnson, then said: “You speak of my
having another adventure, Mr. Johnson. What do you refer to?”

“Why, to your trip out to the island through the storm last night. I
judge that was an experience you won’t soon forget.”

“For me it was an adventure,” said Jimmy, “though to Mr. LaRoche it was
a very ordinary experience, I judge. I shall not soon forget it. Nor
shall I forget the other adventure I had.”

“The other adventure! You speak in riddles, Jimmy.”

Jimmy told his chief about the beacon in the bog, about his landing in a
swamp and being hopelessly disabled, and about the two telegrams
received by the postmaster of Smithville.

While Jimmy was talking he could not fail to notice the countenance of
his chief. The most extraordinary expressions followed one another on
the managing editor’s face. Interest, amazement, concern, and finally an
expression of angry determination were all momentarily portrayed on Mr.
Johnson’s expressive countenance.

“Now I understand everything,” said he.

Jimmy waited for enlightenment.

“While you have been gathering a story of heroism and death in the
north,” said the managing editor, “I have been picking up one of
cowardice and treachery here in New York. I didn’t fully understand what
it all meant until I heard what you have just told me. Now I comprehend
it all. Your story and mine make a beautiful mosaic. They dovetail
together into a completed tale. Would you like to hear _my_ end of that
tale?”

Jimmy was all eagerness. “I can’t imagine what you have in mind,” said
Jimmy, “but of course I want to hear about it.”

“Very well, here it is. Your friend, Mr. LaRoche, will be interested,
too. He has had some small part in the story, too.”

Both the managing editor’s hearers looked their astonishment.

“When you set out for Smithville last night, Jimmy,” began the managing
editor, “we did everything we could possibly do at this end to make your
flight both safe and successful. I sent you reluctantly. I knew flying
conditions could not be any too good in a region where a great steamer
had just been blown ashore. The fact is, I was a little
conscience-smitten, I guess. Your narrow escape at Mingoville has been
constantly in my mind. But I allowed you to go—yes, I even urged you to
go—and after you had taken off I began to worry about you and so I
quite naturally left nothing undone to insure the safety of your trip.”

Both Jimmy and his companion were completely mystified. They sat in
silent expectation, waiting for what was to follow.

“First of all,” continued Mr. Johnson, “I sent Johnnie Lee over to your
hangar. There was nothing in particular for him to do except to be there
in case you should send back any radio messages as you flew. You see, I
have learned about your Wireless Patrol and how skilful all you boys are
with the wireless. So it occurred to me that Johnnie might be able to
handle a radio conversation better than almost anybody else on the
staff. Johnnie went over to the flying field immediately.”

The managing editor paused as though to arrange his thoughts. After a
moment he continued. “Johnnie seems to be very wide awake. He evidently
nosed around the field and soon learned that the _Despatch_ man was
having trouble to get his plane into the air. The _Despatch_ no doubt
received the flash about the wreck of the lake steamer at the same time
we got it. Its plane should have taken the air as quickly as you got
aloft with our ship, Jimmy. But something went wrong with it. An hour
after you had departed, the pilot and his mechanics were still working
desperately to get the ship into shape to fly. Johnnie didn’t know what
was wrong, and of course he didn’t make inquiries in a rival’s hangar.
But he did discover that the reporter who was to be flown in the plane
was the fellow he had seen at the coal mine disaster at Krebs. He knew
that the fellow had played you some dirty tricks, and he decided he
would keep an eye on him.”

“You bet Johnnie would,” interrupted Jimmy. “He’s a real friend.”

“Well,” continued the managing editor, “this chap Johnnie was watching.
Rand presently went to the office in his hangar. Johnnie strolled over
that way and peeped in. Rand was standing by a closet in the rear of the
office. The door was open only part way, but Johnnie could see that Rand
was talking into a telephone receiver that stood on a shelf in this
closet. This seemed queer to Johnnie, because there on the desk was the
regular instrument. Johnnie tiptoed close to a window, which was open a
crack for ventilation. He was in the dark and could not be seen. He
heard Rand say something about ‘skis on a plane’ and ‘flying farther
north from there.’ Johnnie of course couldn’t make anything out of that,
and quite naturally he never connected the message with your flight.”

Jimmy drew a long breath. “I understand the whole story now,” he said.

“Not quite, Jimmy. Let me go on. Rand got off eventually and the force
at Rand’s hangar went home. Johnnie came back to our hangar. But there
wasn’t a thing to do, aside from making frequent inquiries at the radio
office, and he got to wondering about that queer telephone he had seen
Rand use. So he picked up a flash-light, slipped into Rand’s office,
which was unlocked, and went to the closet. It was locked. Johnnie had
his keys and with one of them was able after a little effort to unlock
the closet. There was the telephone, on a separate wire, which came up
through the floor. You know how ramshackle those hangars are. Well,
Johnnie was able to trace that wire. And where do you think it ran?”

“I don’t know,” said Jimmy.

“It was spliced to our own telephone wire. In short, Rand had tapped the
wire in our hangar, so he could overhear our conversations.”

“Quite evident,” said Jimmy. “But what I don’t understand is why Rand
was _tallying_ on our wire. That would give him away, sure.”

“I couldn’t have understood it either, had it not been that I had
occasion to talk to a Western Union man. I had already arranged to have
the wire at Smithville opened for you, Jimmy, but about three hours
after you took off I had to call the telegraph people again. And it was
only by the merest chance that the matter was mentioned then. The fellow
I was talking with remarked that he had just come down from Canada and
that unless my reporter was going pretty far north, he would have
trouble landing on skis. I didn’t know what he meant. That brought out
the fact that a second telegram had been sent about the matter of a
landing ground at Smithville. I knew you had no skis on your plane now
and I said there must be a mistake about the message. The telegraph
official assured me that you had sent a second message from Long Island.
When I checked up on the time the message was sent, I saw right away
what had happened. Some one had sent a message in your name. We traced
the call and it came over our wire.”

The managing editor paused. “Please go on,” said Jimmy, who was sitting
tensely on the edge of his chair.

“Well, I got in touch with Johnnie over at the field. He had just
ferreted out the secret telephone wire. It was easy enough then to put
two and two together. But the thing that worried me was the plight you
were in, Jimmy. I knew that unless you had had a mishap on the way, you
were already at Smithville. Whatever was to happen had already happened.
I got a connection on the telephone with the postmaster up there—the
fellow you said you knew—and he said you had gone out on the lake with
Mr. LaRoche here, and that nobody in the town expected to see you come
back alive. So you can understand how anxious I was and how tremendously
pleased I was when your story began to come in. By the way, Jimmy, what
about your plane? What is to be done about it?”

“Oh, I have already arranged about that. The plane isn’t really hurt
any. The propeller is gone, and maybe the undercarriage is damaged some.
But the ship itself is all right. I left directions for the plane to be
pulled out on firm land and cleaned thoroughly. They are to wire me as
soon as this is done and tell me if anything is needed. Then I shall go
up there with my mechanic and put on a new prop and make any other
repairs necessary. I don’t think the job will amount to much.”

“You were mighty lucky, Jimmy, and we were all tremendously relieved
when we found you were safe. Of course we are pleased about the story.
We scooped the town, as I suppose you already know. But that was a small
matter alongside of your safety.”

“What I want to know,” said Jimmy, trying to change the subject, “is
what to do about Rand. He is a poor loser. Every time I beat him he
tries some underhand work. What am I to do about it? I could beat him
up, and I once threatened to do it; but that would not stop him from
attempting these dirty tricks.”

“Jimmy,” said Mr. Johnson, “you are not to do anything about Rand. I
will attend to that. In fact, I have already attended to it. Here is a
letter I have written to him. In it I have told him that we have
absolute proof of his dirty work that might well have cost you your life
at Smithville. What he did will without doubt constitute a crime in the
eyes of the law. I have told him as much. I have also told him that
unless he resigns from the _Despatch_, gets out of newspaper work
entirely, and promises never again to attempt in any way to interfere
with you, I shall hale him into court and stop at nothing until I see
him behind prison bars.”

“Do you think he will resign?”

“Jimmy, if this case ever went to court, and we spread on the records
all we know, not only about this case but about other dastardly things
he has done, Rand would be so discredited that no editor would ever
again hire him, and he might find it difficult to get a job of any sort
whatever. I’m mightily mistaken about Rand if he doesn’t quit cold when
he gets my letter. But if he doesn’t, I shall proceed against him at
once.”

Jimmy left the office both happy and sorry. He was glad he was to be
free from the competition of such a man as Rand. He was sorry that
through him misfortune came upon another—even Rand. He said as much to
LaRoche.

“Forget, Kid,” replied the rum runner. “You’re a square shooter clear
through. Otherwise I wouldn’t never have had nothin’ to do with you. But
this other fellow is only a rattlesnake. You hadn’t nothing to do with
his downfall. He brought that on himself. And if it hadn’t come now,
through you, it would have come later through some one else.”

Jimmy walked with LaRoche to the latter’s headquarters in a tough
riverfront hotel. “You’ve been a real friend to me,” he said. “I
appreciate it, I don’t know how to thank you.”

“I don’t want no thanks. You’ve been my friend. Don’t you suppose I like
the friendship of a kid as white as you are? When you get in trouble
again, let me know. You can always count on Henri LaRoche.”

The rum runner held out his hand. Jimmy shook it warmly. “Good-bye and
good luck to you,” he said.

At the end of the week Jimmy sauntered into the office to get his pay.
There was a notice conspicuously posted on the bulletin board. He
stopped to read it. Then a great smile came over his countenance, for
this is what he read:

                            Staff Promotions

    Johnnie Lee and Jimmy Donnelly, for excellent work in connection
    with the coverage of the steamship disaster in Lake Ontario,
    will each receive a bonus of $50, together with an increase in
    salary, same to be effective at once.

                                                       Tom Johnson
                                                    Managing Editor.





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