“Wait a minute, Buck,” said Ned. “We haven’t told you yet why we wanted to see the Herald’s managing editor about you.”
“That’s so,” said Buck, sitting down more comfortably in his chair. “Now if one of you gentlemen will hand me a fork, I’ll dispose of this mince pie while you’re spinning the yarn.”
So, while the reporter was busy making the pie disappear, Ned told him of Bob Russell’s predicament in Belgium and what they proposed to do towards a rescue.
“We want you to go with us, Buck,” said he, “just as you did the time we made the ‘twelve-hour’ London-to-New York flight two years ago with the coronation pictures for the Herald. The managing editor will surely let you go for the two or three days needful when you ask him, especially as it will enable the paper to get a representative right at the front, with no bull-headed censor to edit his ‘copy.’”
“If the boss won’t let me off, I’ll throw up the job anyway,” shouted Buck, jumping up in great excitement. “Why, Bob Russell and I are old friends, just as you are, and I don’t want to leave him in the lurch any more than you do. It’s mighty good of you to give me this chance to make one of the rescue party. Count on Buck Stewart, boys—hair, tooth and nail!”
The reporter’s enthusiasm was contagious. All three sprang to their feet, and, with exclamations of mutual pleasure, were shaking hands to seal the compact when—
“Ting-a-ling-ling! Ting-a-ling-ling!” went the telephone bell.
“Ned,” called the major, who answered the call, “it’s somebody that wants to speak with you personally—a man with a marked German accent.”
The little company around the dining table stared curiously at each other as Ned Napier took up the receiver.
“Hello! This is Mr. Napier.... Yes, I’m one of the owners of the Ocean Flyer. Who is this speaking and what do you want?”