Front matter (continued 4)

“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.