After a short interval the sun disappeared even for these high flyers and the stars gradually began to dot the blue heavens overhead.
“If you don’t mind Perk,” the head pilot was saying, as he turned on his cabin light, “I’d like you to take her over for a spell. Somehow I’m anxious to go over those clippings and make a start at laying out our plan of campaign. We’ve got nothing as yet to go by except what those newspaper boys gathered up so as to spin their fairy yarns—later we’re bound to strike pay dirt on our own account, and can do a little building with a foundation of real stuff, not speculation and romance behind it.”
That suited Perk to a fraction, for truth to tell he was floundering in a bog himself, not knowing how they were to get down to “hard pan” and be able to lay out their course with some show of reason. He had become quite adept at the old dodge of “leave it to George” and filled with confidence in his chum’s ability to handle any sort of situation, he believed he displayed more or less wisdom in not attempting to wrestle with mysteries beyond his limited capacity.
For a long time Jack read on, tore up a number of the slips of newspaper stuff, laid others aside as if for a second application, made a number of notes on a little pad he kept handy and seemed so much in earnest that Perk kept tabs of his actions with glistening eyes. In his mind Jack already must have “struck oil” and doubtless arrived at some specious solution of the riddle that had the entire country guessing—what had happened to Buddy Warner, the best liked air-mail pilot in the whole region west of the Mississippi—where had he crashed—was he still alive or had he followed the long line of famous flyers who had “gone west” after attempting to put through some dazzling exploit that would have brought immortal fame if only it had succeeded?
All this while the plane roared on, slipping through space at the rate of something close to a hundred and twenty miles an hour for this was an occasion when speed meant everything. Perk too rejoiced in handling the throttle of an up-to-date ship that put it all over the ancient type of plane which he had been wont to employ when going forth so flippantly to offer battle to those pestering Hun pilots when the war was on in France.
“Hot ziggetty dog partner! You sure have had a big session with them news articles an’ I notice how you threw a heap o’ them overboard like they didn’t ’mount to a row o’ beans.”
Perk said this when he saw Jack shake his head as though he might be somewhat puzzled and needed more or less reflection so as to straighten things out.
“After all, I didn’t get even half as much genuine information from the bunch as I hoped I would,” the other told him, though there was no hint of bitter disappointment in his manner of speaking, only disgust that so much could be written, founded on such minute real facts. “These newspaper boys can spin the most gorgeous yarns on a speck of truth—it’s their business to stretch things to the breaking point you know, partner, and they sure do that. All that I discarded and threw over the side was just chaff, without a single sound kernel of wheat in it. When later on, after I’ve had time to digest things a bit when I go over what’s left, chances are there’ll be another sheaf of clippings go bad and be tossed out. Some of those stories were the bunk, made up in the reporter’s skillful brain out of nothing at all, even if interesting to the general reader. In these days the story’s the main thing editors demand.”
“Yeah! I kinder guessed that way myself,” remarked Perk, trying hard to seem disgusted, “though I own up they did make what you might call interestin’ readin’ that might pull the wool over the eyes o’ most folks. An’ what did you think was the worst story in the bunch, Jack old hoss?”
“I don’t know if you read it, Perk, for it was in a paper I bought myself and which you hadn’t seen,” Jack told him.