The new sacks of supplies were dumped into the forward cockpit. Tim swung into the rear pit, ran the throttle back and forth and listened to the song of the motor. Its r.p.m.’s were a little slow but it was firing steady and true. He waggled the controls to be sure that everything responded and then slipped his goggles down over his eyes.
“Don’t take too many chances,” the managing editor yelled as he revved up the motor.
Tim waved his hand, and then pushed the throttle on full. The old skybird quivered and gathered herself for the takeoff. The wings creaked and groaned but the motor responded to its task and Tim finally lifted the old crate off the ground and soared into the east for the third time that day.
He glanced at his wrist watch. It was nearly 5 o’clock and that meant only a little more than an hour of light left in which to accomplish his task. With 100 miles to the valley and against the wind all the way, it required nearly an hour and a half for the old ship couldn’t turn a mile over eighty an hour.
Tim settled down to do some straight and careful flying. He nursed the old crate along for all it was worth and the “Hisso” hammered until he thought it would throw connecting rods all over the countryside.
For nearly an hour Tim dodged rain squalls. Then, realizing that he was getting down into the river territory, he brought the old crate closer to the ground.
As he sped along above the broken landscape, Tim craned from the cockpit, watching the ground below with eyes that smarted in the sharp backwash of the propeller.
When he found a large field, fenced in with heavy posts, he banked sharply and dropped his plane closer to the ground. Now he was roaring along not more than ten feet above the soggy, waterlogged field. It was anything but an inviting spot for a forced landing. As a matter of fact Tim knew he wouldn’t have a chance for any kind of a landing if his motor cut out on him then.
Ahead of him loomed the edge of the field with its fence. He picked out one post, which reared its head higher than the others. The flying reporter, like Don Quixote of old who had sent his horse galloping into a windmill, headed his craft for the sturdy timber.
The big test was at hand. It would require all the skill in Tim’s hands and all his nerve to accomplish it successfully. A false move and the Jenny would be a heap on the ground, his chance of relieving the situation at Auburn gone for he had staked everything, even his job, on this attempt.