Front matter (continued 2)

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.